The Repairman- The Complete Box Set

by L. J. Martin

  I have to quarter around to approach the G5 hangar from the rear, where I believe there are no surveillance cameras and I'm out of sight of the guards stationed at the huge sliding doors. Search as I may, I see no cameras, and quickly find the baños window I've unlatched. I'm inside in a heartbeat and crack the door just enough to peer in, see no one, crack it more, and stick my head in enough to really survey the big space.

  I pause long enough to screw a suppressor on the Glock, just in case.

  The two smaller planes are between me and the G5, and I weave through them until I'm beside the beautiful aircraft. Even in the semi-darkness, it's obvious why someone would want to own, even steal, such an incredible piece of equipment. My manual says there's a serial number located on the landing gear, which, of course, is down, and I have my head up in the wheel well when I hear a door open.

  I bang my head trying to extricate myself, and it rings across the room like someone has struck a base drum. I plaster myself up against the side of a tire and hold my breath.

  How can I not be fucked, fried, and fricasseed?

  22

  It's both guards, carrying Hechler and Koch's HK416 fully automatics, and me with my lousy Glock. But they're not panning a light, or their muzzles, around the room, or turning on the main overhead lamps. They stand just inside the door and one produces a bottle that's been hidden in a trash can, and they take turns taking deep draws from it.

  I guess what sounded like a car wreck to me was not quite so loud to two drunks. Maybe they're used to the metal hangar popping and cracking with the change in temperature. They laugh, exchanging some lurid tale, then pass the bottle again, killing it, and drop it into the trash—this time, I presume it's final resting place. And then they're gone.

  Finally, I can breathe. I did not find the serial number I was looking for, so I switch on my pen light again and start back into the wheel well. Then I realize there is something I hadn't noticed. The new blue paint job only wraps partially up into the wheel well and the original white paint extends well beyond. A sloppy job these South Americans did. It makes me smile.

  I can't find the damn serial number. It's get inside the engine cowlings, or inside the plane, if I'm to find other serial numbers on my list. I have a Leatherman tool, but have no idea if it'll work in whatever fasteners they use on the engine cowlings, or even if I can lift the damn things alone, but I decide to give it a look.

  The G5 enjoys twin engines mounted aft either side of the fuselage, just ahead of the tail and high off the ground, so I'll need a ladder. It's seconds before I find a rolling twelve-foot ladder stowed up against the hangar wall, and only a minute or so before I have it plane-side and am mounting it, when the roar of electric motors stops me cold and I see the huge hangar doors beginning to part. There's no time to move the ladder—just time to haul ass and I hit the ground in a jump and take four strides. Light floods the place, and I've no place to hide.

  I'm beside the Citabria. I pop the door and cram myself low enough that I can't be seen unless someone peers in.

  I hear footfalls and pray they're not coming for a little joy ride in the stunt plane; then I hear a voice raised in anger. It's my old buddy Charlie Glascock.

  "Goddamit, Marcos, I asked you to check things out before you left. You dumb fuck, you didn't notice a fucking ladder in front of the stabilizer?"

  "It was not there when I left, Señor Glascock."

  "Right, you dumb fuck. Get the tractor and get her out. We've got to taxi over to the fucking office as the General is too lazy to drive over here. Let's go, let's go."

  "It is Rio, Señor?"

  "Yes. We're just dropping his party off, then we return as the colonel has a flight this weekend. We're headed to Lima for a week."

  "Si."

  That is bad news. I have no interest in hanging around Paraguay for a couple of weeks waiting for a shot at the G5. I've got to step it up.

  It probably takes twenty minutes before I hear the doors roll shut again and the lights dim. I got a frigging cramp, all balled up in the little Citabria, curled around the stick, and I have to walk around the two smaller planes twice to shake it off.

  Now, if only the frigging killer dogs haven't come to. I glance at my watch and realize it's been just over two hours since I watched Alex drive away.

  I hope the dogs are still out, and I hope Alex has some leeway in his fat black heart.

  I get far enough out of the lights illuminating the tarmac around the hangar taxiways and then begin a dead run for the fence, passing the sleeping dogs. As the saying goes, I let them lie. They don't twitch as I pound by. I hope I haven't killed them.

  As I'd hoped, the white cloth I tied on the fence is blowing in the wind and I find it easily. I'm out of the Air Force compound. So far, so good.

  But, as I worried, there is no cab parked nearby.

  I wait ten minutes, then decide I can walk the two or three miles to the airport terminal and catch a cab there. But finally I see lights approaching. I step back into the brush, as it's coming fast; then it slows to a crawl and almost idles along, and I realize it has Taxi Benitez painted on the driver's door. I jump out of the brush and he slams on his brakes.

  In seconds, we're rolling toward the hotel.

  "You're a rich man, Alex," I say.

  "I have lost ten pounds worrying," he says, and I can hear the stress in his voice.

  "You can spare it."

  "When do I get the rest of my money?"

  "When you deposit me back at the hotel, unless you want dollars."

  "Bueno. Bueno. Bueno. Guarani, por favor. I want nothing more to do with Norte Americanos. No offense, Señor. "

  "None taken, Alex. You did a good job. I'm going to throw in a little more, as you waited for me and I was late."

  "Bueno. Bueno. Bueno."

  I'm feeling pretty damn good. Even though I didn't get a serial number, I did determine that the plane was formerly white.

  I'm feeling pretty damn good, that is, until I walk to the desk to change my dollars for guarani and the manager, Señor Angelo, looks up, sees me, and gets very wide eyed. "Señor, the policia, the worst of them, former Pyragüés, were here, and tore your room…our room…to pieces. You owe us several hundred dollars for damages. And I must call them and inform them you've returned."

  "What the hell did they want?"

  "You, Señor. They wanted you."

  "Well, Señor Angelo, if you want your several hundred dollars, you'll not call them until I've checked the room, packed what's there, and left. Understand?"

  "I must call."

  "Fine," I wave a handful of bills at him. "No time, no dinero, amigo."

  "Go and pack. I will not call until you return."

  "You'll go with me. I'll pack. I'll pay you. I'll leave. Then you can call. Tell them I came in a rear door, unseen. "

  He nods, exits the desk, and follows me to the elevator.

  As we're waiting, I ask, "What's this Pyragüés?"

  "Secret police. They no longer call themselves that, but that's who they are. Murderers, thieves, rapers of women and children. The worst of Paraguay from the time of Stroessner. It literally means hairy footed in Guaraní. Why they are called that I have no idea…but I don't want their hairy foot on my neck."

  The room has been turned upside down, but nothing is gone. I quickly pack my bag, and we're out of there. I settle with him for the room charges, plus five hun for the damages, change a grand in dollars for Paraguayan currency, and am happy that Alex is waiting patiently for his money.

  I climb in and pay him what he's owed, plus another hundred and twenty thousand, then ask: "Okay, you sure you don't want more of Norte Americanos? Another million more, to be exact?"

  23

  I give Alex my best all American boy smile. "Hey, amigo, all you got to do is drive me and keep the policia from chucking me in some deep hole. Hell, if they catch us, I'll tell them you're just another gordo cab driver. Capisce?"

  "What is
this, capisce?"

  "Sorry, Alex, wrong language. Comprendo?"

  "Si, I understand. Another million is not enough if the policia are after you."

  "Okay, okay, how about a million and a quarter?"

  "Two million, señor, half in advance, porfavor?"

  "You're killing me here, amigo. How about a million and a half. We gotta get out of here."

  "Okay, as soon as I get my million advance."

  "Go, go, I'll count it out. You gotta take dollars."

  He starts away, but not in a hurry, turns a corner, then pulls up. "How do I know it is the right amount?"

  "Alex, it's two hundred twenty five bucks, okay?"

  "What is this 'bucks?"

  "A nickname for an American dollar."

  "What is 'nickname?"

  "Another name for something."

  "So, a bucks is a dollar and a dollar is how many guarani?"

  "Four thousand five hundred. Two hundred and twenty five dollars is a little more than a million guarani. Can we go now?"

  "Okay, but do not call me fat…gordo." He begins to idle away. We only go another block before a red light flashing, siren screaming police car roars by, followed closely by two more plain black Mercedes four door late models. It seems the Pyragüés, the hairy footed boys, travel in style.

  "Is that for you?" he asks.

  "No, no, probably some bank robber. Head out north of town."

  "Si, señor. My dollars please."

  I hand them over the seat and he stuffs them in a pocket.

  As he winds his way through town, I grab my cell and call Carmen.

  "Oh, hello Angelina," she answers, speaking English. "Sorry, I can't talk now, some gentlemen from the government are here. Can you call back in a half hour?" She's quiet for a moment, even though I say nothing, then adds, "Okay, a half hour." And hangs up. It seems the Pyragüés are very busy boys. More importantly, it seems Carmen is still on my team. I'm wondering if they're thinking it's suspicious she's speaking in English, and it seems they are, as my phone buzzes before I can get it back in my pocket, and I see it's Carmen calling—most likely some prick who's grabbed her phone. I turn it off. Thank God I don't have a personal answering message. I'd like to chuck it out the window, but it's my lifeline, other than email, to Pax and the boys on their way down.

  So I give Alex new instructions. "Stop anywhere I can buy a cell phone."

  "Si, Señor. It is late, but I know a place."

  Still, I have to worry about the Pyragüés being able to track my iPhone so I wait until he stops and go into settings and turn off everything but the vibrate. Hopefully, that will stall them, no matter how tech savvy they might be.

  After buying a throwaway phone, and as we near the Juarez estancia, I ask Alex to pull off the road and park. It's just about forty-five minutes since I last called Carmen, but I want to wait a full hour just to be safe. We sit, and Alex nervously smokes a cigarette.

  She doesn't bother with hello. "We can talk, they are gone."

  "Obviously I'm in a little trouble," I say.

  "When you are being searched for by the Special Police, formerly known as the Pyragüés, you are in more than a little trouble. They are much like your SWAT teams…but without morals or oversight."

  "Can you meet me somewhere?"

  "And where are you now?"

  I have no idea how much I can trust her, so I lie. "I'm downtown. Where can we meet?"

  "There's a park about halfway out of town coming to my uncle's. Revolución, it's called. It's nicely lighted, even this late. There's a statute of soldiers in the middle. I'll meet you there in…can you get there in twenty minutes?"

  "Sure," I say, knowing it's only a mile back from where we're parked.

  "Mike…what did you do?"

  "Trespass, is all. I didn't steal anything,"—yet, I think, but don't say—"or kill anyone, or rob a bank."

  "Twenty minutes."

  I stay a quarter mile away, watching her approach in the same car her uncle picked us up from the airport, studying the whole area with my binoculars. The park is well lit, with mercury vapor lights surrounding the entire square block and spotlights on the statue in the center. If she's being followed, they are very, very good, as I can spot no tail. If someone is hiding in the car, she's parked over a hundred yards from the statue, so they'll have to move very fast to get close to me.

  I have Alex drive me to the far side of the park, away from the main highway, and let me out. I give him instructions to wait out of easy sight but never to take his eyes off me. If he sees me break into a run toward the street, he's to pick me up and be ready to earn his million by getting away quickly.

  He agrees, but looks like he's eaten something rotten and it's about to come back up.

  She's already seated when I sidle up next to her and flop down on the wooden bench near the statues.

  To my surprise and pleasure, she throws her arms around me, settles her face into the side of my neck, and whispers, "I was so very worried about you. You won't be so handsome if the Pyragüés catch up with you."

  I shrug.

  "Please, please," she pleads, "don't take them lightly. Now, what have you done to get half the country looking for you?"

  Again, I shrug. "I trespassed on the airport property."

  "They have video of you…or they think it's you…breaking into an Air Force hangar. They found their guard dogs unconscious—"

  "They're okay, I hope?"

  "They woke up a few hours after they were discovered and are fine."

  "Good. So they are not positive it was me?"

  "Not absolutely. But the American pilot…Señor Glascock they said…he said he was sure it was you. Mike, you don't want the Pyragüés questioning you. Men have been driven mad when in their custody for a few days."

  "I get it."

  "I can help you get out of the country."

  "Did you bring the reports from the hospital?"

  "And pictures…when can you leave for the border?" She hands me a letter size yellow envelope as we talk.

  I smile. "My work's not done here. And I'll find my own way out of the country. I don't want you involved any more than you already are. I can't believe it's not you in the hands of the Pyragüés."

  "My family is fairly well known, and fairly powerful, so it would have to be very, very, very serious for them to arrest me. I've never mentioned it to you, but my former husband is a senator."

  "Aww, so he still protects you?"

  This time it's her turn to smile. "I know where all the Diaz bodies are buried…and that's not a metaphor, it's a fact. And he knows I'm not stupid enough to keep that knowledge to myself. It's in the hands of others in my family. If something happens to me, his past will be in every paper in the country, and proof of his misdeeds on the desk of every policeman."

  "Aww, so he's afraid not to protect you. Remind me to give my buddy Pax a pat on his ugly head for finding you."

  "I will, and who would ever guess that we'd end up engaged." She laughs.

  "It's been my pleasure." This time I take her cheeks between my hands and plant a big wet one right on her beautiful lips. It's all I can do not to try for a little tongue, but that might be pushing it, as I never know just how much she might be kidding, she kisses me back, then gives me that healthy laugh of hers. She's on her feet, waving over her shoulders as she heads back to uncle's car.

  "You're still on the payroll," I yell after her.

  She shouts over her shoulder, "Damn right I am. Call me if you need anything." And she's gone. I meander back to the side of the park where Alex is parked a hundred yards up a side road. He sees me coming, fires up the cab, and by the time I reach the roadside so does he.

  "Donde, Señor? Where?"

  "Let's head out of town, away from all these nasty police, and find a place where we can have a cervesa and something to eat to kill some time until we have to be back at the airport."

  "You are leaving?"

  "No,
we're picking someone up."

  "There are many police at the airport."

  "Good, then you'll drive better."

  "I drive perfect."

  "Then drive me to somewhere we can watch the stars and get a beer."

  "Then the airport?"

  "Then the airport. Then we're going to Ciudad del Este."

  That one drops his chin to his chest, then he recovers and stammers, "Ciudad del Este is five hours, five hours…if the roads are good."

  "You are going to be a very rich man by the time my work is finished."

  "Or a dead man."

  "Not on my watch, Señor, not on my watch. It's another million for tomorrow."

  "Plus petrol?" he asks.

  24

  Alex, needless to say, is a little taken aback when four big guys walk out of the terminal, each with a duffle bag half their size.

  He glares at me under chubby brows. "This is not someone, Señor, this is many someones."

  "Probably too many for one vehicle. Do you know another cabby…one we can trust?"

  "Of course, my cousin, Alfredo."

  "Alex and Alfredo, sounds like a vaudeville or SNL team."

  "Vaudeville?" he asks.

  "Call your cousin."

  I only have two weapons—not that I want to involve the pilot and co-pilot in any gunfight, but still, they have a right to defend themselves if things get rough.

  It's after midnight by the time Alfredo arrives, and I send Wetback, Madman, and Hank Hausman with him to the Crowne Plaza in central Asuncion with instructions to lay low, stay out of trouble, and under no circumstance to call attention to themselves. I know they'll be tired from traveling and tonight won't be a problem. Tomorrow is another question as it'll take Skip and me at least until tomorrow night to get to Ciudad del Este, make contact with the guys Pax has located, get some weapons so we have a fighting chance if we come up against someone determined to take us down, and get back.

  They all yawn and assure me that trouble is not on their menu, and we part company.

  Alex, Skip and I start out to cross the country to the tri-border region, where Paraguay, Argentina, and Brazil meet. It's an interesting place, at least if all I've read is true. Over twenty thousand middle eastern immigrants reside there, most from Syria and Lebanon. It's reputed to be a major fundraising area for Hezbollah, Hamas and al Qaeda with arms for drugs, and drugs for arms with the Muslims trading with secular Latin American terrorist groups like the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Columbia, Sendero Luminosos—Shining Path of Peru—and others. The CIA believes over ten billion bucks a year funnel through the area.