Ortega was feeling thoroughly pleased with himself, the sugar deal was virtually in his pocket. The vice-Minister sat in front of him contentedly, ten days in Varedero was just what was needed to start enjoying the money that Señor Ortega was to put into his account in the Caymans.
The vice-Minister was heartily sick of endless problems in his country, the fault was with these criminals from the south, Chechens, Georgians, Armenians all the same, born criminals even their ten year old children siphoned the gas from your car right under your nose, he had told Ortega. It is a good thing that we taught them a lesson, they should be completely wiped out, they are nothing more than a criminal race.
The leggy blond hostess offered Champagne to the Minster and his wife. He refused, preferring a good healthy shot of vodka, which was what normal men drank. The motors of the private Antonov business jet roared and they toasted to their success lifting their glass as the nose of the jet lifted into the wintry sky at Sheremetyevo Airport, Moscow.
At a height of eighty metres and a speed of 350 kilometres an hour the jet crashed back onto the runway and exploded with a ground shaking roar, exploding into a million pieces in a huge fiery ball of smoke and flames.
At the same moment an American businessman was delighted by the news he would finally be on his way home, getting out of the dammed country and its eternal shortages and corruption. The Captain of his jet had finally found three thousand litres of kerosene, which would ensure they would leave Moscow that night.
In the dense traffic leaving the airport in the direction of Moscow two Chechen airport workers rubbed their hands as they headed back home to the city suburbs in their cousins worn out Volga. They would have enough time to buy fresh meat and vodka, then enjoy the evenings traditional celebration with their families and a rare dinner of roast lamb, plenty to drink, some money for the women and children to buy presents and repair the taxi. With luck would still have a little money to send to their brothers fighting for freedom in Grozny.
They were well pleased with themselves, the American pilot had paid them royally in dollars for the kerosene they provided him with to refuel his jet with earlier that evening. They had momentarily borrowed the Antonov’s refuelling tanker for the job and after filling the American jet they topped up the tanker with plain gasoline and a little anti-freeze for good measure.
Chapter 86
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Offshore Islands Page 85
