by L. J. Martin
He's been missing for a very long time, but to make sure he's not safely at home, I call Penny. She should be getting off work about now; seven thirty PM Asuncion time is two thirty PM
Goleta time, and I imagine her class gets out of school by three. She answers.
"Mrs. Bartlett."
"Yes."
"Mike Reardon…you remember me."
"Yes. Do you have news about Toby?" she asks quickly, and I don't have to ask, so I make it nothing more than a concern call.
"No, ma'am. I just wanted to check in with you and make sure you were getting on okay."
"Are you in the area?"
"Nope. In fact I'm out of the country. I'll call again to check on you when I return."
"That's sweet of you. Are you on the track of the plane?"
"I'm still working on it. I'll call if I turn anything up."
"Thanks. Thanks so very much."
So, Toby Bartlett is among the missing. It doesn't bode well for the Bartletts.
17
Alex said it would take twenty minutes to get to the Juarez rancho, or estancia, and he's right on time to pick me up.
As we move through the suburbs, I see more and more of the agricultural aspect of the country—some tall sugar cane fields in the distance and as we near our destination, coffee bushes standing ten feet tall and bursting with red berries.
It's just a short distant north of town to the Juarez estancia and a stone gate, with a gatekeeper, who waves us through when Alex reports the name of his passenger. It's a half-mile of winding lane through ten-foot-tall coffee bushes to a stately old rambling one storey house on a low bluff overlooking Rio Paraguay, a quarter mile distant. The gatekeeper must have called ahead as Carmen is waiting at a stone walkway when I'm dropped off. She instructs Alex to return at midnight, hooks an arm through mine, and leads me up a lane rimmed with brilliant blooms that could only grow so lush in a semi-tropical climate. We arrive at an impressive five-foot-wide plank door with a pair of full size Andean flamingo carvings therein. The ten pound brass knocker is the head of a flamingo.
A half dozen folks, and two German shorthairs, are lined up to receive their American guest. Carmen leads me down the line and introduces me to her aunt, Josefa, who gleams as I hand her the large bouquet of flowers, then I shake with her Uncle Manolo and hand him the bottle of wine. He eyes it and I get the feeling he's about to shrug, but he's too polite.
I've found all Paraguayans to be polite and quiet spoken, and I'm beginning to wish I were not about to alienate more than half the country.
Carmen's cousin, whom I'm most interested to meet, is a helo pilot and I hope he's stationed at the hangars I visited earlier in the day. I'll discover that later. Micha Santos, like his uncle, has an upright military bearing and I get the impression all pilots are alike. He snaps his heels together when we shake and emanates self-confidence and the cockiness that goes along with the profession. His wife, Luisa, was once a beautiful woman, but has now the inner beauty of a woman proud of the fact that she's borne six children. She has a beautiful smile, and she, too, has little English. It seems most of my conversation, other than with Carmen, will be with her cousin Micha, which pleases me until he begins grilling me about the latest in avionics. It's a good thing I've studied the sales material from Paragon Avionics, as well as a couple of light texts on the subject and some articles Pax pulled from the web on the latest advancements, as the card we've forged declares I'm a vice-president.
I did read up on collision avoidance equipment, and manage to bullshit with the best of them on that subject. I throw out terms like TCAS, traffic alert, and collision avoidance systems; NAVSTAR, and the accuracy of the systems so now even land surveys can be accomplished via aviation; and Chelton Flight Logic, systems that can 'see' through the clouds and other adverse weather conditions to give the pilot a visual of the surface below. But I'm quickly running out of acronyms.
Even with all that bull, he has me stumped by about the second question, and eyeballs me with more than a little curiosity when most of my answers are "I'll look into that and get back to you."
Supper, proceeded by a long grace said by our host, is a long, slow six-course affair with beef, fish they call golden dorado, and some wild bird they refer to as perdiz which is a variety of partridge, and delicious. Enough food is being run from kitchen to table to feed a small country, and I'm totally stuffed by the time the men retire to a billiard room—one wall lined with fine sporting rifles and shotguns, one with pictures of Manolo and lots of what appear to be celebrities and politicians—to partake of a few snifters of fine cognac.
I finally get around to asking, "I'd love to see your equipment…your aircraft…if that's permissible?"
In typical form, he puffs his chest out and again snaps his heels together. "When?" he asks.
"As soon as possible. I have to go on to Sao Paulo from here."
He scoffs. "The Brazilians…we outfly them in every joint operation. The Argentines are some better, but the Brazilians are too many Cariocas, playboys from Rio, who want to do nothing but play, and Paulistas, from Sao Paulo, who are too anal and uptight to fly well…and all of them in the Brazilian Air Force. Their minds…the Cariocas…are on women, not aviation. And the Paulistas only care about how well their aircraft are shined and maintained."
I laugh and click glasses with him.
"Would ten AM be too early for you, Miguel?" he asks, calling me by the Spanish inclination of my name.
"No, Micha, that would be perfect."
"I'll have a car pick you up."
"That's too kind. I can take a cab."
"No, I insist. My comandante, Colonel Vargas, will be pleased to have you visit. We are very proud of our Air Force, and very interested in new developments in avionics."
"Ten, then." Again, we clink glasses. "Your Colonel's first name?"
"Emilio, but he's a very formal man. So, please, wear a tie, and never be so familiar as to call him anything other than Colonel, or Colonel Vasquez."
I nod, but I want to know who I'm dealing with, and a first name is necessary.
So, I'm in, at least as far as the helo hangar. With luck, they're proud of showing off their whole stable of aircraft, particularly their new G5.
When it's time to take my leave, Carmen walks me out, and I inform her that I won't be needing her tomorrow, at least not in the morning.
As soon as I get a good signal, I call Pax and ask him to email me info on Colonel Emilio Vargas before ten AM Paraguay time tomorrow.
I have a full dossier on Colonel Emilio Vargas and have read it by the time I'm waiting on the step for the arrival of the Air Force driver and car.
Upon reading the Colonel's background, I get the feeling that things have been going far too well and that the other shoe's about to drop. Vargas attended USC twenty five years ago, was thrown off the soccer team in his junior year after being accused of rape, but exonerated after his father hired L.A.'s best, then thrown out altogether from graduate school after being arrested for drunk driving and vehicular manslaughter—a crime many thought was murder as he knew the two young men he ran down in a parking lot. He never appeared in court and disappeared from the country, not to be seen again north of the equator. When he later showed up in Paraguay, the government refused to extradite him, as his father was a Minister of Agriculture, very high up in the government of the former dictator, Stroessner. When Stroessner was deposed in 1989 the Americans seemed to have lost interest. Vargas was no longer pursued, not that the new government would have given up one of their own.
And his reputation in Paraguay has been little better. He's a bad, bad boy. I'm wondering if it's Vargas, not General Maldonado who engineered the theft of the G5.
And if so, Vargas seems the type who wouldn't worry if a young American, Toby Bartlett, disappeared in a Paraguayan swamp.
My driver, uniformed in the dress of the Paraguayan Air Force, speaks no English, so I learn nothing on the ride to the airport.
There's a modern glass, steel, and concrete block building somewhat apart from the hangars. I'm delivered there, escorted inside by the driver, and motioned to take a seat in a waiting room. An attractive, uniformed young lady hurries away and reappears with Micha Santos at her side.
He's snappy as ever, and leads me back outside with, "I will give you the tour which will take a couple of hours, then we will join Colonel Vargas for lunch in his private dining room."
We take our time, starting with the 707 that's their Air Force One—a beautifully detailed and maintained aircraft, if old. We visit other aircraft on the tarmac, then he takes me into his bailiwick, the helicopter hangar. I linger over the avionics of every aircraft, eyeing each piece of equipment as if I know what the hell I'm talking about. I finally realize we're skipping the hangar housing what I perceived to be a G5, and inquire.
"That's Colonel Vargas's private hangar. He has personal items there, and shares it with General Maldonado."
"Aircraft?" I ask.
"Yes, it houses a fairly new G500, an Icon A5 capable of water take-off and landing, and a Citabria. It's a toy garage."
I know enough about my target to know the military version was called a G500. "A G500 is hardly a toy. Did they acquire it from the American military?"
"No. It was via some kind of legal settlement from an American company."
"Then probably better called a G5?" He doesn't respond. "Nice settlement. Good avionics, or can I do something for the colonel?"
"It has the very best."
"I'd love to see the Icon. I understand it's a fabulous little airplane and I've never had the chance to walk one. He must have purchased one of the very first off the production line. I've flown many a Citabria when I did some stunt flying. Tail draggers are fun."
He glances at his watch. "Maybe after lunch. Colonel Vargas doesn't tolerate tardiness. I didn't know you were a pilot, but I imagine it goes with the job?"
"Certainly. And a jumper, a parachutist, with over fifty to my credit." That part is true, although I'm hardly a pilot, only having had a few lessons.
He laughs as he strides out back toward the office building. "Out of a perfectly good aircraft. I've made two jumps, required, but I hope that is it for me."
By the time we get there I'd like to hang whoever invented men's neckwear, as the tie is choking me to death and my shirt is sweated through at the pits.
Thank God, the Colonel's private dining room is air conditioned, but that's not the most pleasurable part of the lunch—Vargas enters with good old Charlie Glascock close behind.
18
Isn't it great when something you want falls in your hand?
I have a picture of Glascock, but it doesn't show the red splotches on his nose and cheeks, indicating a guy who spends way too much time in a bottle, nor the sagging jowls showing he's aging before his time—I figure him in his early fifties. Nor does it show the paunch hanging over his belt. This is not a guy I'd like to have flying me around the twenty two thousand feet plus Andes.
Micha introduces us. Glascock is dismissive, and even before Micha goes on to the Colonel, says, "Our equipment is all top notch, so you're wasting your time here."
I shrug, then turn to the Colonel, who shakes politely but with little enthusiasm, and gives me a look like I might be carrying Ebola or some other dreaded disease. So much for my welcome to Paraguay.
We sit around a table large enough for eight, and I'm happy to note there's a large bouquet of jungle flowers in the center of the table, so I have to lean to the side to talk to Glascock, which is just fine as the last thing I want to do is get into an avionics discussion with him. He's an asshole, but no one said he's a stupid asshole.
I'm a little surprised when Micha translates for Colonel Vargas; as after all, he did attend USC a little over twenty years ago. I get the impression he doesn't want anyone to know how well he speaks English, so I'll be very careful about what I say around him. I think he speaks it at least as well as Micha.
I do get around to asking him, "So, I understand you have an Icon? I love the little plane, at least by its advertisements and stats. I'd love to see it and give it a walk around."
He doesn't wait for Micha, but answers. "Aw, el Icon. You like?"
"I'd love to see it, Colonel Vargas, if you'd allow it?" My most admiring tone.
"Okay," he says, turning to Micha. "No touch. Jus' look."
"Yes, sir," Micha snaps.
We make small talk and enjoy a great lunch of cold cuts and fruit, then the Colonel is called away by the same young lady who's served us. I do recognize the word telefono. He shakes as if he's not going to return.
Which gives me the opportunity to slide over enough so I can see Glascock. As we enjoy a delicious cup of strong coffee, I finally get around to asking the question that's been niggling at me.
"So, you're here on contract, I presume, as you're not in the Paraguayan Air Force?"
"I am. A very long term and very lucrative one, I'm happy to say."
"So, who's flying the right seat? Did you bring someone down?"
He actually reddens, but then quickly offers, "No, no, I have a great co-pilot picked from their people."
That's getting me nowhere, so I press, "So, where were you from in the States?"
"I came down from the L.A. area. How about you?"
"Originally from Wyoming, lately from Las Vegas."
"I thought Paragon Avionics was based in Philadelphia."
Time to think fast again. "They are, but now with the internet and FedEx, hell, you can work almost anywhere."
Micha interrupts us. "I have a young pilot to check out this afternoon. If you want to see the Icon, we must hurry."
I rise and shake hands with Glascock. If he only knew I'd like to rip his arm off and beat him to death with it! But he doesn't. His time will come, particularly if he had anything to do with Bartlett being missing, and I'm sure he was in the middle of it.
As it's a quarter mile from the office to the Icon, G5, Citabria hangar, Micha jumps into a Toyota jeep and we screech out. He even drives like a hotshot pilot.
I study the hangar as much as I can as we approach. The guards are still in place, flanking the one hundred-forty-foot-wide hangar doors. There are video surveillance cameras on the front corners of the building, but I don't see any on the back. There's no obvious alarm system so I presume they depend on human guards.
After twenty minutes admiring the Icon, I head to the G5, but am called up short by Micha. "I have got to get back," he says.
"I've got to pee like a race horse," I say. "Baños?"
"Pronto, por favor," he says.
He points to a far corner of the hangar, luckily, I hope, a back corner, as far as it can be from the wide hangar doors, and I jog over. As I hoped, it has a window…and I promptly turn the latch, leaving it easily pushed open.
I wait a reasonable time, then exit and jog back, and we hurry out to the Toyota, and on the return I notice something I haven't before.
"Are those kennels over against that hangar?" I ask, hoping I'm wrong.
"Yes, we have a pair of guard dogs."
"But they seem to be locked up."
"Only used en la noche. At night, they roam free around the hangars," he says, and I have to sigh deeply.
Fuck, guard dogs. That makes things a little tougher.
The slight five hour change in time is catching up with me, or maybe it's the cognac, so when I'm let off at the steps of Hotel La Mision, I decide to head up and take a short nap before I call Carmen.
But it's not to be.
As I pass the desk, Sancho Alfonso, the hotel manager waves me over.
"Messages?" I ask.
"No, Señor. You asked me about a gentleman named Bartlett?"
"Yes, sir," I say, hopefully.
"I am sorry to inform you…." He hands me a photo copy of a newspaper article, and as I read, continues, "When you mentioned the name…well, it came to me after I returned home. I remembe
red because my grandfather was bitten by a banana spider when I was very young, and almost died."
I cannot get enough out of the article, written in Spanish, so I'm forced to ask him to read it to me.
"I will only read the high points, if you don't mind, as I'm very busy."
"Fine."
"Señor Tobias Bartlett, an American houseguest of Colonel Emilio Vargas, Paraguayan Air Force, was bitten by a banana spider, an armadeiras as we call them, in the night while in his bed at the Colonel's estancia…how do you say, farm or ranch?…and expired at the Bautista…Baptist Hospital. He was comatose when he arrived by ambulance and pronounced dead immediately. It's strange to note that Señor Bartlett was not in possession of a passport, and migra has no record of his entering the country…and although he was a guest of Colonel Vargas, no one knew of his next of kin. An investigation is underway and his demise will be reported to the American Embassy. This is an unusual death, as only fourteen deaths from armadeiras have been recorded."
"Mother fucker," I mumble.
"Pardon?" he replies.
"What's the date of the article?"
"Two weeks ago."
I call Carmen and ask her to either pick me up or I'll try and find Alex and send him to get her. She says she'll be at the hotel in forty-five minutes, but won't be driving, will cab it, so I call Alex to pick us both up in an hour.
While I'm waiting I put in another call to Pax. "Hey, buddy, I'm still not positive about the airplane and don't know if I'll be dead sure by in the morning."
"The boys are all scheduled to fly out tomorrow, per your instructions."
"Okay, okay, the airlines will fuck us to death if we try to change. Let 'em come. I'll do my best to see what's up with serial numbers…sometime tonight."
