He wanted a drink. A cold beer would cut the dust out of his throat and help him sleep. The Scotch on the plane had been an anomaly and a mistake. He normally drank only beer, specifically Brazilian beer, and hoped there would be a cold one in the minibar. He threw his coat over a chair and peered inside.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” a voice said behind him.
He swirled around. The stewardess from the flight stood in the door to the bedroom with a bottle of Brahma beer in one hand, a chilled glass in the other. The tall brunette was completely nude.
Jorge gaped at her. Things were indeed going his way again. She’d seen him coming up the path to the bungalow and had prepared a welcome for him. Obviously, she’d done her homework, even down to his preference in beer. He wondered what else she knew about his preferences. He had ignored her on the flight from Montevideo, and she had taken the challenge. Women could stand anything except being ignored. His eyes took in her small round breasts, her slim waist, the V-line of her crotch, and he broke into a smile. She would not be ignored tonight. With the discovery of the ship, he could loosen up. The helicopters were being prepared. There was nothing for him to do now but relax and get some much-needed sleep. And what better way. No sleeping pill could compete with the effect of being completely drained by a woman. He felt a stirring begin in his loins that had been missing since Rafael Ayala had burst into his office. His normally deep hunger for sex returned with an intensity that startled him. He was absorbed by the whiteness of her skin, silhouetted by the soft light coming from the room behind her. He tugged at his tie, not taking his eyes from her, and slowly slid it from around his neck.
“Here. Let me do that.”
Jorge stood completely still as she walked slowly toward him. Tall, about five feet ten, she seemed perfectly proportioned in her bare feet. In the dim light, her straight brown hair looked black. Parted in the middle, it fell gracefully to her shoulders before curving slightly outward. Her hair was dark and shiny, ravenlike, yet her eyes were blue. Jorge guessed she might be Argentinean. Her lips had a wet, soft look and her chin had the faintest hint of a cleft. Her breasts moved only slightly as she walked toward him. A thin gold chain around her waist shimmered across her navel. Her dark patch of pubic hair was carefully trimmed, surrounded with a faint stubble. Her hands were large, almost masculine, with deep red polish on finely manicured nails.
She poured the beer gently down the side of the glass and raised it to his lips. Without taking his eyes from her, Jorge took the glass and drained it. A trickle of beer ran down his chin. Raising up on her toes, she licked the single drop of beer from his chin with a swipe of her tongue. The sensation was delicate, fleeting, like the lick from a kitten. With a sly grin, she began unbuttoning his shirt. Jorge tossed the glass across the room where it smashed in a corner. She slowly worked her way down the row of buttons, glancing coyly up at him, the tip of her tongue slipping into the corner of her mouth. Jorge concentrated on the movement of her tongue as she concentrated on each button. She pulled off his shirt and tugged at his belt buckle. Jorge stepped out of his pants and kicked them across the room. Gliding her thumbs smoothly into his shorts, she slipped them down, releasing him. She eased down to her knees and took him gently in her mouth. Jorge gasped and fell back against the coolness of the minibar, holding her head in his hands. He moaned and stroked her hair.
After an indiscernible amount of time, when he thought he could hold back no longer, he pulled her to her feet and carried her over to the table. Laying her back, he lifted her legs and entered her. She rolled her head from side to side and moaned, hooking her ankles over his shoulders. He watched her naked body spread before him, feet up, legs open, the most vulnerable position for a woman. He’d had them all. The impossibly beautiful, the merely attractive, the plain. He marveled at how much women looked alike with their feet in the air.
Although he’d never loved any woman - he’d gotten married only because the Don had required it of all senior officers - he enjoyed giving women pleasure. He stood, grinding into her pelvis, making full clitoral contact, watching her eyes roll back in her head, pleased with the sounds of her. She was under his control now, humping, shrieking, gasping. He felt her shudder to a rapid-fire series of climaxes, and he stopped. He stood regaining his composure. Now it was his turn. Time for his pleasure. He watched himself enter her. Some ancient part of his brain took over, and he gave himself up to it, hunching, thrusting, copulating like an animal, the pink flesh of her vagina dragging against his swollen cock. She twisted on the table, emitting little squeaks of pain. The primitive thrill of human domination rippled through him. He was lost now, driving relentlessly to his own release. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a phone ringing. He felt himself erupt with jarring spasms that seemed to go on forever, mercifully releasing him. He fell across her and lay there, gasping, exhausted, cursing the telephone. Ten rings, eleven, the phone was relentless. He slipped out of her and staggered across the room. He flung himself on the couch, grappling for the handset. “What the hell is it?” he croaked into the telephone.
“Jorge, is that you?” he heard Don Gallardo say.
Jorge lay gasping for breath, trying to compose himself. Don Gallardo was a family man who disapproved of his peccadilloes. “Godfather,” he managed.
“What’s going on there? Are you okay?”
“Fine, fine.” Jorge held his hand over the receiver, breathing hard. “Give me a minute. I just woke up.”
“We don’t have a minute. All hell is breaking loose in Montevideo,” Don Gallardo said. “The lending consortium is outraged with what happened to Quintero. They’re demanding payment now, refusing to negotiate any further. What the hell were you thinking?”
Jorge stiffened at the inference that killing Quintero had been his idea alone. Don Gallardo had given him the number to call, in case it was needed.
“I didn’t have any choice. The arrogant pig was trying to make an end run for all our real-estate holdings. I thought it would slow the others down.”
“It’s had the opposite effect. They’ve got a Federal judge to declare the loan in default under some obscure ‘special- circumstances’ law and are filing to take possession.”
“Let them file. We’ve found the ship. I was going to call you in the morning.”
“That’s excellent. Where?”
“Within twenty kilometers of the coordinates Admiral Cuartas gave us. The helicopters are warming up now. They fly at first light.”
“Where is the American destroyer?”
“Nowhere in sight of the freighter. The storm has blown them apart. We’ll have a straight shot in and out.”
“And the weather?”
“The storm seems to have changed direction. According to our pilots, the weather is relatively clear in the vicinity of the ship.”
“And the replacement crew?”
“They’re here now. Just arrived a few hours ago. All licensed merchant marine officers and seamen.”
“The frigate Admiral Cuartas dispatched will be leaving in a few hours. I don’t want that freighter to be anywhere in sight when it arrives.”
“We’ll be steaming for the coast by the time they get there. They’ll never even see us. If they do, we’ll be under way in international waters under a Panamanian flag.”
“Excellent.”
“Can you delay the foreclosure long enough for us to get the cash delivered?”
“We’re working on it. We’ve got a judge of our own in Uruguay. We can delay it for a day or so, but not indefinitely.”
“That’s all we’ll need,” Jorge said. “You have my personal assurance.”
There was a pause. Don Gallardo sounded almost apologetic. “I’m sorry to get you out of bed in the middle of the night. You’ve done an excellent job. Now get some sleep. I want you to be fresh when you take control of the ship. I don’t want any more mistakes.”
Jorge hung up the phone and lay back on the couch, relieved that y
et another fire had been put out, pleased with his ability to handle whatever came his way. Sleep began to overtake him. The flight attendant crept over and knelt beside him. She laid her head on his chest and gently caressed his groin. He lay quietly, stroking her hair, wanting to sleep. She twisted the damp hair on his chest around her finger and gently ran her tongue around his nipples. He felt himself begin to rise. He opened his eyes and saw her mount him, easing herself gently down, taking all of him. He closed his eyes and drifted off, half-asleep, half-awake, enjoying the femaleness of her above him. Looking up, he saw her arch her back and throw her head back as she rode him like a horse, her pelvis gliding smoothly back and forth. He closed his eyes and drifted in and out of consciousness, losing all track of time. At some point, he wasn’t sure when, he felt himself come. Slowly, easily, he felt the seminal fluid leave him, oozing out as if in a wet dream he’d had as a boy, releasing him. He drifted off into the blackest sleep he’d ever known.
The hammering on the door woke him. Jorge jerked up and looked around. He was covered with a gray blanket. The brunette was gone. He looked at his watch and flinched. He’d overslept, something he never did. He swaddled the blanket around him and staggered toward the door. He noticed the security chain dangling free. Where had the brunette gone? He put it back in place and opened the door the length of the chain. “What the hell is it?” He peered through the space, blinking into the predawn light. His eyes focused on the shiny brass of an Army officer, backed up by a cluster of green uniforms and rifles.
“Jorge Cordoba?”
“What do you want?”
“You’re under arrest.”
“What?”
“Open the door.”
Jorge slid the security chain free. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Major Portillo, Peruvian Army,” the officer said, pushing his way past him. Jorge looked out the door and squinted his eyes at the far end of the field. The helicopters were still sitting under the canopy. No one was in sight.
Jorge felt the rage well up within him. “You’ve picked one hell of a time for your semiannual shakedown.” He slammed the door in the face of the soldiers.
Major Portillo cocked his head. “Are you accusing me of taking bribes? That is a serious accusation.”
“You stupid son of a bitch,” Jorge said, trembling. “You’re going to kill the goose that laid the golden egg.”
“There is no need for such clichéd theatrics,” Major Portillo said. He stood smiling at Jorge.
“Those helicopters should have taken off at dawn.”
“All flights from Campanilla have been grounded until further notice.”
“Now you listen to me, and you listen carefully,” Jorge said, clutching the blanket around him. “If those helicopters don’t take off - right now - you’re a dead man. Your family’s dead. Everyone you know is dead. I’ll personally see to it.”
“You’re in no position to be making threats,” the major said. His smile faded into a grim, determined look. “You Colombian thugs think you can come down here and intimidate us?”
Jorge stared at him with a sick feeling. “Let me get some clothes on. We can talk.”
“You’ll do your talking with Colonel Suarez. Get dressed.”
“Where are we going?”
“Punta Arenas.”
Jorge felt a wave of panic sweep over him. The outcome of the talks was foreordained. It would involve several hours of negotiations, the price would go up, and the flights would be permitted again. But by then, the window of opportunity to take the freighter would be closed, either by the weather, the Colombian frigate, or both. He had to do something.
“Look. It’s worth $1 million U.S. cash to get one of those helicopters off the ground. Now.”
Major Portillo broke into a bemused smile. “And why would one helicopter be so important?” His expression changed to one of pure greed. “What’s on it?”
Jorge shook his head. “No questions. One helicopter, 1 million. That’s all you need to know.”
Major Portillo leaned back against the minibar, snapping his riding crop against his boot. “A most interesting proposition, but being a loyal follower of Colonel Suarez, I, of course, could not accept.”
“If you’re worried about the colonel, this side agreement would be between you and me. He doesn’t need to know.”
“He would find out.”
“I can guarantee you he won’t.”
Major Portillo tugged at an ear lobe. “And this amount would be paid how?”
“Any way you want. All cash, wire transfer to a Swiss bank, investment-grade Colombian emeralds, diamonds, anything you say.”
The major sat quietly staring at Jorge, reading him. “There is a very high rate of inflation in my country. One million doesn’t go far.”
“Two million.”
Major Portillo’s eyes sparkled. “I really would like to see what is on that helicopter. Perhaps we should go look.”
“There’s nothing on the goddamn helicopter, you greedy bastard,” Jorge shouted.
Major Portillo came upright. “I think we shall impound all the helicopters and see.”
“No,” Jorge said. “You can’t do that.”
“We can do anything we like.”
The realization that the Major was right swept over Jorge. It wasn’t his game. He took a deep breath and walked toward the bathroom. “Then do it. You will find nothing on the helicopters, we will be out of business, and you will be out $2 million. Not to mention your head when Colonel Suarez finds out it was your stupidity that shut us down.”
Major Portillo stared at him.
Jorge paused at the bathroom door. “Let’s see,” he said. “Six flights out a day, times $5,000, times seven days a week equals roughly . . . $10, $11 million a year, doesn’t it? The colonel has a big payroll to meet. He might not like it if-”
“Even if I agree to let one helicopter fly, we would still have to meet with Colonel Suarez.”
“Fine,” Jorge said. “We’ll take all day. Have a nice conversation.”
“And our side agreement will be confidential?”
“What agreement?” Jorge said. He looked at his watch. “By noon today, you will be the beneficiary of an anonymous donor. A wire transfer to a secret numbered account at the Swiss bank of your choice.
Major Portillo swallowed and ran his tongue over his lips. “In my name?”
“No names. You’ll be given a number. Two million, tax-free.” Jorge looked at his watch. “This offer expires in one minute.” He watched him squirming. He had him.
“Done.”
Jorge scooped up his clothes and darted into the bathroom. “I want the pilots, mechanics, and security people released. Also Enrique Lopez. Immediately.”
“It shall be done.”
Jorge emerged from the bathroom, hair disheveled, tucking his shirt in his trousers. He could smell the brunette, rising up from his crotch. He needed a shower, but there was no time. He wondered briefly where she was. The thought crossed his mind that they had used her to keep him occupied while they quietly took control of the camp. He never overslept; perhaps she’d put something in his beer. He’d find out and deal with her later. He opened the door, and the soldiers jumped to attention.
Major Portillo barked some commands and the troops scattered. Jorge headed for the helicopters. By the time he got there, the pilots, crew, and maintenance men were drifting toward him from various holding locations, rubbing their wrists, blinking up into the flood lights. “You, there,” Jorge shouted to a tall man in his thirties with a pencil-thin mustache. He had the swaggering air all pilots seemed to have. “I want this helicopter in the air immediately.”
“Anything you say, pal. You’re writing the checks.”
Jorge blinked. “Are you an American?”
The tall man grinned. “Chief Warrant Officer Michael Gaines, late of the U.S. Army, at your service.” He nodded toward the Peruvian soldiers and chuckled. “Th
ese boys think they know how to play rough. Guys like these wouldn’t last five minutes in my old outfit.”
“What are you doing here?”
“The Army and I had a little disagreement about what I could smoke and what I couldn’t,” Gaines said. “Besides, I didn’t like getting my ass shot at for 1,200 bucks a month. You guys pay a little better.”
Jorge stared at him. “Do you understand what this assignment is?”
“Sure. Set her down on an old freighter, then push her over the side. Piece of cake. Shame to lose such a beautiful ship, though.” He nodded at the Blackhawk. “Preflight’s completed. Get your troops loaded. All we need is a weather update, and we’re outta here.” He turned and walked toward the Command Center.
Jorge looked around. Enrique Lopez, the acting director of security, was walking briskly toward him from the Command Center, coming past the pilot.
Jorge met him. “Where’s the other flight crew?”
“Why?”
“We can’t use this guy,” he said.
“Why? What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s an American.”
“They both are.”
Jorge stared at him. “You must be joking.”
“Who else did you think we’d get to fly Blackhawk helicopters? What’s the problem?”
“When he figures out what this assignment is, he may not like it.”
“It doesn’t matter whether he likes it or not. When the helicopter goes over the side, he’ll be in it.”
They turned and saw the pilot come out of the Command Center. He sauntered toward them, dangling his helmet by his side, shaking his head.
“What is it?”
“Tropical Cyclone Bruce has just shifted again. It’s heading for exactly the spot we’re flying into. Bullets I can face. But I ain’t flying into that. We ain’t going anywhere for a while.”
Point of Honor Page 20
