“There’s a little kitchen on the plane, with a freezer. The only thing in it right now is a bottle of beer and Colonel Torine’s Viagra.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Torine said.
“My friend Karl,” Eric Kocian said, “inasmuch as this is all going on Otto’s American Express card, you can have anything your greedy little heart desires.”
“In that case, a dozen Wiener schnitzels,” Castillo said. “Plus one for my lunch, of course. I really love Wiener schnitzel.”
XVII
[ONE]
Approaching Aeropuerto Internacional Jorge Newbery Buenos Aires, Argentina 0535 29 July 2005
Castillo was flying. The night was clear and he could see the glow of the lights of Buenos Aires as he began his descent. As he dropped lower, the lights became more distinct. What had looked like a single orange line pointing at the city became a double line, and he could see headlightsmoving along what he now recognized as Route 8 and the Acceso Norte leading from Pilar to the city.
It had been quite a trip. The Lear was fast—its long-range cruise speed was three-quarters the speed of sound—but it was not intended or designed for flying across oceans. It had been necessary to make refueling stops within the limitations of the aircraft’s range, about 1,900 nautical miles. The first leg—about 1,500 nautical miles—had been a three-and-a-half-hour flight from Budapest to Casablanca, Morocco. After refueling, they had flown 1,250 nautical miles in a bit under three hours to Dakar, Senegal, on the extreme west coast of the African continent.
From Dakar, it had been a four-hour, 1,750-nautical-mile flight, the longest leg, southwest across the Atlantic Ocean to Recife, Brazil. This had been the iffy leg. There are no alternative airfields in the Atlantic Ocean on which to land when fuel is running low. They had approached the Point of No Return with their fingers crossed, but there had been no extraordinary headwinds or other problems to slow them, and Torine, who was then flying in the left seat, had made the decision to go on. What could have been a real problem just hadn’t materialized.
Recife apparently was not accustomed to either refueling small private jets or providing food at half past two in the morning, and it had taken them an hour and a half to get both. But with that exception, they had been able to land, refuel, check the weather, and file flight plans in remarkably little time everywhere else.
From Recife they had flown south to São Paulo— 1,150 nautical miles in just under two and a half hours— and then begun the last leg, to Buenos Aires, which would be a just-over-two-hour flight covering 896 nautical miles.
Alex Pevsner’s down there, Castillo thought, and I have a gut feeling I’m going to need him. And by now, Howard Kennedy has told him that I’m not going to point him in Jean-Paul Lorimer’s direction so he can give him a beauty mark in the center of his forehead. That will be a problem, one that I’ll have to think about later. Right now I’m too tired to make difficult decisions.
Castillo pushed the TRANSMIT lever.
“Jorge Newbery, Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five. I am forty kilometers north at five thousand feet. Request approach and landing.”
“Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five,” Jorge Newbery ground control ordered, “at the end of the active, turn right, and proceed to parking area in front of the Jet-Aire hangar. Customs and immigration will meet your aircraft.”
“Seven-Five understands right at the threshold, taxi to Jet-Aire parking area,” Castillo replied. “Wait for customs and immigration.”
As he approached the Jet-Aire hangar a ground handler in white coveralls came out and, with illuminated wands, directed him to park beside an Aero Commander.
When Castillo had finished the shutdown procedures, he took a closer look at the Aero Commander. If the light, high-wing twin wasn’t derelict, it was close. The fabric-covered portions of the rear stabilizer assembly were missing or visibly decayed. The tire on the left landing gear was flat. The left engine nacelle was missing.
“I know just how that Commander feels,” Castillo said to Colonel Torine, who was in the right seat. “Old, battered, and worn out.”
Torine looked at the Aero Commander and chuckled.
“It has been a rather long ride, hasn’t it?” Torine replied, in something of an understatement, as he unfastened his harness.
“And here comes what looks like the local officialdom,” Fernando said from the aisle behind them.
Castillo saw two Ford F-150 pickup trucks with Grimes lights flashing from their roofs approaching them. Two uniformed men got out of the first, and a man in civilian clothing out of the