There were two pickup trucks parked close to the airplane. An air-conditioning unit was mounted in the back of one, with a foot-wide flexible tube feeding cold air through the door. The other held a ground power generator.
As soon as the doors of the Yukons opened, the air-conditioning hose was pulled out of the door.
Max knew his role in the departure procedure: He trotted up to the nose gear, sniffed, then raised his right rear leg.
"Does he do that often?" Tarasov asked.
"Religiously," Castillo said.
"You want to do the walk-around with me?" Tarasov said.
Castillo would have done the walk-around without an invitation-no pilot trusts any other pilot to do properly what has to be done-but he intuited Tarasov's invitation was more than courtesy, and even more that it wasn't something a pilot about to give instruction would do.
"Max, go with Sweaty," Castillo ordered in Hungarian, and the dog went to the stair door and politely waited for Svetlana to board, then leapt aboard himself, pushing Pevsner aside as he did.
Castillo's suspicion deepened when Tarasov said, "Why don't you come with us, Dmitri?" and was confirmed when they came to the rear end of the port engine, which could not be seen from inside the airplane.
"Colonel," Tarasov asked, "are you armed?"
"No," Castillo admitted. "Should I be?"
"Dmitri?"
Tom Barlow shook his head.
Tarasov squatted beside his Jeppesen case, opened it and came out with two pistols. Castillo was surprised to see that both were the officer's model-a cut-down version-of the Colt 1911A1.45 ACP semiautomatic pistol.
They held five cartridges-rather than seven rounds-in the magazines in their shortened grips. The slides and barrels had been similarly shortened. They had once been made from standard pistols by gunsmiths at the Frankford Arsenal for issue only to general officers but later became commercially available.
That's my weapon of choice, Castillo thought.
I wonder where Uncle Nicolai got them. And if by coincidence, or because he's aware that they're about the best people shooter around.
"I'm sure you know how to use one of these," Tarasov said to Charley, and handed him one of the pistols. Then he turned to Barlow. "Dmitri?"
Barlow took the extended pistol, said, "They work like the regular ones, right?" and proceeded to quickly check the pistol to see if there was a round in the chamber. There was. He ejected the magazine, then worked the action, which ejected the round in the chamber. He caught it in the air, said, "Lester showed me how to do that," put it back in the magazine, shoved the magazine back in the pistol, and worked the action. It was now ready to fire.
"Am I going to need this, Nicolai?" he asked.
"I hope not. But Alek said to give them to you, and he always has his reasons. Try not to let Svetlana know you have them."
"Why not?" Castillo challenged.
"I think Alek wants the people we're going to talk to think she's somebody's girlfriend."
"Why?" Castillo pursued.
"If somebody brings his girlfriend to a meeting with people like these, it means either that he's not afraid of them, or stupid, and these people know that whatever he is, Alek is not stupid."
"Neither is Sweaty. If she's going to play a role, she should know what's expected of her."
"You want to tell Alek that?" Tarasov asked.
"My immediate reaction to that is an angry 'Hell, yes, I'll tell him.' But since I tend to get in trouble when I react angrily, let me think about it."
"In the meantime, why don't we get aboard?" Tarasov asked. The small cabin of the jet was crowded. Castillo and Tarasov had to step carefully around Max, who was sprawled in the aisle, to get to the cockpit.
"Would you like to follow me through?" Tarasov asked when Castillo slipped into the co-pilot's seat.
"You fly, I'll watch," Castillo said.
"Good. You're cautious. Follow me through start-up, and have a look at the panel. It's a very nice little airplane. The latest Garmin, the G1000," he said, pointing at the panel. "When we're ready to go, you can have it. It handles beautifully, and will not try to get away from you, which cannot be said of the G-Three."
"And we're going GPS?" Castillo asked, nodding at the Garmin's screen.
"Very few navigation aids where we're going," the pilot said, smiling, "and we'll be flying, I hope, under the radar."
Tarasov threw the master buss switch, and then reached for the engine start control.
"Starting number one," he announced, and then turned to Charley: "Get on the radio and tell Cancun Area Control that we're going on a four-hour VFR low-level sightseeing ride, with a fuel stop at Santa Elena." [ONE] Aboard Cessna Mustang N0099S North Latitude 27.742, West Longitude 103.285 1425 7 February 2007 "You're not going to find an approach chart in there," Nicolai Tarasov said to Castillo, who had just gone into Tarasov's Jeppesen case searching for exactly that.
"I don't even see a runway on these," Castillo replied. "How do we know where to land? And how do we know there won't be boulders on it?"
"Presuming there's no water in the lake-and it usually is dry-you can land practically anywhere. Your Instructor Pilot will show you physical features used to locate the best place to land."
"And if an IP's not handy?"
"That's the idea, Colonel. If you don't know where to land, you shouldn't try. There won't be any boulders, but you're liable to find large tree trunks in your way. Your IP will show where there are no tree trunks."
"Meaning there are people here who remove them?"
Tarasov nodded, then said, "May I call you 'Charley'? Or 'Carlos'?"
"I wish you would-'Carlos'-as I ain't a colonel no more."
"Once a colonel, Carlos, always a colonel," Tarasov said. "Put it into a shallow descent on this course. Go into a low-level pass to make sure there really are no dead trees on the runway, and then you can land."
"What about the wind?"
"When they hear us coming, a wind sock will miraculously appear next to the runway."
"I gather there is no Laguna el Guaje tower?"
"That's the idea, Carlos. Since there is no tower, curious ears cannot overhear it clearing aircraft in and out of here." The "physical feature" Tarasov pointed out was a sprawling ranch house and some outlying buildings on the high terrain next to the lake.
"Immediately down the hill you should see-there it is-the wind sock," Tarasov said. "Usually there are negligible crosswinds. Just land into the wind, remembering, of course, to lower the wheels first."
"I have a tendency to forget that," Castillo said as he began a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn.
"Wheels coming down," Tarasov said a moment later, "and down and locked."
And a moment after that, Castillo greased the Cessna Mustang onto the lake bed.
"Not too bad a landing for a beginner," Tarasov said. "After another, say, twenty hours of my masterful instruction, I might be prepared to sign you off to fly this aircraft."
Castillo gave him the finger. Tarasov smiled at him.
"What now?" Castillo asked.
"Taxi back toward the house. You'll see sort of a hangar."
What Castillo saw just over a minute later was "sort of a hangar" dug into the side of the hill lining the dry lake bottom. It was invisible from the air, and to him as he landed, but now an enormous dirt-colored tarpaulin had been raised out of the way, revealing a cavelike area in which Castillo could see a Learjet.
A burly man in khakis walked out of the opening, holding wands and motioning him to taxi inside. An Uzi hung around his shoulder and when Castillo turned the nose, he could see three other men similarly dressed and armed.
"They don't look very friendly," Castillo said.
"They're not," Tarasov said.
Castillo turned the Mustang nose out and shut down the engines.
"Now what?" he asked.
"Now it gets interesting," Tarasov said as he unfastened his harness. Charley foll
owed suit, and when he stood up, saw that Max and Pevsner were standing by the door.
"Maybe you better tell Max to stay onboard," Pevsner said. "Those people are liable to shoot first and ask questions later."
The best defense is usually a good offense.
"Maybe I should get off first," Castillo said, and reached for the opening mechanism.
When the stair door dropped in place, he jumped to the ground.
The men with the Uzis moved toward the airplane.
"Good afternoon," Castillo said in Spanish. "My dog is about to get off the airplane. If anyone looks like he's even thinking about pointing a weapon at him, I'll stick it up his ass, before I kill him."
The men stopped moving toward him.
He snapped his fingers and Max jumped easily to the ground. Castillo pointed to the nose gear. Max headed for it. He would have anyway, but the men with the Uzis didn't know that, and they were as much impressed with the obedient, well-trained dog as they were with his size.
"Okay, Alek," Castillo called. "You're next. This is your show."
Janos came down the doorstairs, followed by Pevsner, then Tom Barlow, and finally Svetlana.
The men's faces made it clear that she surprised them even more than the dog.
"El Senor Garcia-Romero is presumably here?" Pevsner asked, more than a little arrogantly.
There was a faint flash from Castillo's memory bank: I know that name.
Hector Garcia-Romero headed a law firm which maintained offices in Mexico City, San Antonio, and New York.
Among its clients was Lopez Fruit and Vegetables Mexico, a wholly owned subsidiary of Castillo Agriculture, Inc., of San Antonio, Texas, whose honorary chairman of the board was Dona Alicia Castillo, whose president and chief executive officer was Fernando Lopez, Charley's cousin, and whose officers included Carlos Castillo.
This can't be my Tio Hector. What the hell would he be doing here at a thug-guarded secret airfield that might as well have a sign reading WELCOME TO DRUG CARTEL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT?
And there are probably two hundred ninety-seven thousand and six Mexicans named Garcia-Romero.
"Si, senor. In the house."
"Then what are we standing around here for?"
"Excuse me, senor, but we must check to see if you are armed."
"That's none of your business," Pevsner snapped. "Now, get on the telephone and tell Senor Garcia-Romero that I am here with a pistol in each hand."
One of the men considered that briefly, then turned, and walked quickly deeper into the cave. The remaining three men eyed everyone, except for Svetlana, warily. In Svetlana's case, the adjective was "lustfully."
In under a minute, the man who had walked away came back.
"If you will be good enough to come with me, senor?"
In the back of the cave, incongruously modern and high-tech against the gray stone into which it had been cut, was a stainless-steel-framed elevator door.
Carefully staying out of Max's way, the men ushered them onto the elevator, but did not get on it. The door closed and just as Pevsner reached for a button with an UP arrow on it, the elevator began to rise.
A Haydn string quartet came over speakers.
The door opened.
Four people were waiting for them, three of them much better dressed than the guards in the cave, but just as obviously guards. The fourth was a superbly tailored, portly, silver-haired man in his sixties.
I will be goddamned.
"Please accept my apologies for the misunderstanding down there," Hector Garcia-Romero said, and then he took a closer look at Castillo.
"Holy Mother of God, is that really you, Carlitos?"
"It's been a long time, Tio Hector," Castillo said.
"What did you call him?" Svetlana asked.
"Carlitos," Hector Garcia-Romero said. "It means 'Little Carlos.'"
"That's sweet!" Svetlana said.
"I have known him since he was this tall," Garcia-Romero said, holding his hand flat a few inches below the level of his shoulder. "You were what, Carlitos, eleven?"
"Twelve," Castillo said.
"I saw Dona Alicia ten days ago in San Antonio," Garcia-Romero said. "She said you were in Hungary with Billy Kocian."
"I was."
And now we're both in the VIP Lounge of Drug Cartel International Airport in the middle of the Mexican desert.
What the hell are you doing here, Tio Hector?
"I had no idea you knew Senor Pevsner," Garcia-Romero said.
"Likewise," Castillo said. "And I've been wondering what sort of business you do together."
"Carlitos's grandfather was one of my dearest friends," Garcia-Romero said. "If he had one flaw, it was his habit of asking indelicate questions. Carlitos has apparently inherited that, along with his more desirable character traits."
"Why don't you answer the indelicate question?" Castillo asked.
"Why don't we all go sit in the great room, have a little snack, and a little something to drink, and then we can sort this out?" Garcia-Romero said, and waved them into the house. An elaborate buffet had been laid out on an enormous low table. Silver coolers held wine, champagne, and beer bottles, and there was an array of whisky bottles at the end of the table.
Max went immediately to examine them, and with great delicacy, helped himself to a wafer topped with salami and cheese. And then helped himself to another.
"I thought Dona Alicia was exaggerating when she told me how big your dog is," Garcia-Romero said.
"And what did Dona Alicia tell you about me?" Svetlana asked.
"That Carlitos had brought a girl to the Double-Bar-C Ranch she really hoped would be the one with whom he would finally settle down and start a family."
"That's the plan," Svetlana said.
"And that's about all she told me," Garcia-Romero said.
"Hector," Pevsner said, "Svetlana and I are cousins."
"And this gentleman?" Garcia-Romero asked, indicating Tom Barlow.
"Dmitri and Svetlana are brother and sister," Pevsner said.
"And Carlitos fits in how?"
"We think of him as family," Pevsner said.
"He is family," Svetlana corrected him.
"And I have always thought of Carlitos and his cousin Fernando as my nephews," Garcia-Romero said.
"So, in a manner of speaking," Pevsner said, "we're all family."
"Above the sound of the violins softly playing 'Ave Maria,'" Castillo said, "I keep hearing a soft voice asking, 'Charley, who the hell do these two think they're fooling?'"
"Excuse me?" Garcia-Romero asked.
"You heard me, Hector," Castillo said. "How come I never saw you surrounded by thugs with Uzis before?"
"They're necessary security, Carlos," Garcia-Romero said.
"To protect you from whom?"
"You're a Mexican, a Mexican-American. You know there's a criminal element here."
"I'm a Texican, and you goddamned well know the difference between a Mexican-American and a Texican."
Garcia-Romero did not answer.
"I saw surveillance cameras in that cave downstairs," Castillo said. "What I want from you now, Tio Hector, right now, is to see the tapes of the Tupolev Tu-934A when it was here."
He could see in Garcia-Romero's eyes that that had struck a chord.
"The what?" Garcia-Romero asked.
"The Russian airplane," Castillo qualified. "And please don't tell me you don't know what I'm talking about. I've had about all the bullshit I can take."
Garcia-Romero looked at Castillo and then at Pevsner.
"You know about that? Is that why you're here?"
"Why don't you show us the tapes, Hector?" Pevsner replied.
"I was going to show them to you anyway," Garcia-Romero said.
"Mommy, I was only trying to see how many cookies were in the jar. That's the only reason I had my hand in it. I wasn't going to eat any of them. And that's the truth."
"Let's go, Hector," Castillo said.
"Where are they?"
"In the security office," Garcia-Romero said. "It's on the upper floor."
He gestured toward the center of the building, and then led everybody out of the great room into the foyer, and then up a wide, tiled stairway to an upper floor.
The security room was at the end of a corridor to the right.
Garcia-Romero didn't even try to work the handle, instead pulling down the cover of a keypad and then punching in a code. And even then he didn't try to open the door.
"I wondered what kind of an airplane that was," he said. "I'd never seen one before."
There was the sound of a bolt being drawn, and then the door was opened by a man in khakis. He had a pistol in a shoulder holster.
"We want to see the tapes of that strange airplane," Garcia-Romero said.
"Shall I bring them to the great room, Don Hector?"
"No," Castillo said. "We'll look at them here."
The man looked at Castillo in surprise, and then at Garcia-Romero for guidance.
Garcia-Romero courteously waved Svetlana ahead of him through the door, and then motioned for the others to follow.
Inside, there was a desk and chairs and a cot, and another door. That was opened only after another punching of a keypad-this one mounted in sight beside the door-and the sliding of another bolt.
Inside the interior room there was a wall holding more than a dozen monitors. A man sat at a table watching them. There was room and chairs for two more people at the table.
Castillo looked at the monitors. He was not surprised to see that it was a first-class installation, which covered just about everything in and around the house, the "airfield," and the cave. And he was pleased to see a battery of recorders; that meant that whatever had happened when the Tupolev Tu-934A had been at Drug Cartel International had been recorded and would be available.
"We want to see whatever the cameras picked up when that strange airplane was here," Garcia-Romero said. "So I suspect we had better start with the arrival of the cars from the Russian embassy."
The man who had opened the door for them went to a rack, quickly found what he was looking for, and inserted it into a slot of the desk.
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