Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,58

of ranch-style houses.

“Going to tell me about it, René?”

“As soon as we get out of here.” A fugitive with no papers, a tourist visa on his passport, on the run. He had no way out. “There must be a small airport around here.”

“We’ll go to San Jose Airport.…”

“I told you, I can’t take chances. Immigration’s on the lookout for me. Remember the goons at the motel? They work fast.”

“Stay here,” Bob said. “Anyone can get lost in America. You can live here swallowed up for years.”

At what price? Always hiding, a sans-papiers living hand-to-mouth, joining the army of California’s illegals? “Like people of my stature don’t stick out, Bob?”

He could hear Andy saying “Find the dwarf.” Not difficult if he were standing in line at an airport, rental car agency, or train ticket office, if people even used trains here. Everyone drove.

“I need to get back to my office. In Paris.”

“Pink suits you, René,” said Bob, turning onto a multi-laned freeway.

René realized the thick pink towel was still draped over his shoulder, fragrant with onions and chopped tomato.

Ribbons of another multi-laned freeway arched over them like a maze of concrete arteries, everyone going somewhere. Pumping fast. Yellow scrub dotted by oak trees carpeted the hills that flashed by.

“I’ve only got about twenty-four hours if the security cycle’s set on the standard. Forty-eight max. Mexico’s close. I need a plane and no customs. You know people like that?”

Bob stared straight ahead, concentrating on the road.

“Then call me screwed, Bob.” René took a deep breath. “Hate to say it, but you, too—this Caddy’s hard to miss.”

Bob punched a number on the speed dial of the cell phone mounted on the blue leather dashboard.

“I may not know people like that. But I know people who do.”

“NO TIME TO act fussy, René,” Bob said in the rear of the Cessna. “Just a little cargo of bud.”

Smuggling? He felt a flutter of fear, but Bob was right. No time to worry about breaking another law. He had to get out of here. Now.

“This Bud, is that Budweiser you mean?” Didn’t Mexico brew good beer?

Bob grinned. “Herb, René. Our golden state’s largest export apart from microchips.”

And then René realized what the plastic-encased burlap sacks filling the small passenger area contained. Even in plastic, the contents reeked. “But I thought Mexico exported marijuana.”

“For the connoisseur, René. California gold rates as top quality, if we say so ourselves. Mexico’s just the distribution point.”

René peered over a sack, caught a whiff. Then another. The silver-haired pilot, who was wearing aviator shades, a khaki camouflage T-shirt, and parachute pants, grinned. “Gentlemen, fasten your body harness, sit back, and enjoy the flight. I apologize, no movie today.”

The pilot taxied the Cessna over the rutted runway somewhere in the next valley. Hills of orange poppies and oak trees disappeared into a mountain of dark green redwoods. “But for our inflight service, help yourself to Humboldt Hog. Primo harvest.”

He passed René a joint.

René’s eyes almost popped out of his head.

“Sit back and chill. I’m your captain, Phil. Delighted you’re flying with us at Milehigh. We appreciate your patronage. We know there’s a lot of other flights you could take.…”

Bob elbowed René. “You pay him now.”

René placed the bunch of bills Bob had rubber-banded together near the hi-tech control panel. It looked like a video game.

“Glad to do business, gentlemen.”

“I owe you, Bob.”

“Sure do, René. Line up four-star restaurants every night I’m over next time.”

Captain Phil turned a dial, checked a control, then reached under his cockpit seat. Pulled out a nine-millimeter handgun. “Always good to prepare, just in case.”

René swallowed. “In case of what?” he managed.

“All under control, don’t you worry.” Captain Phil grinned as they took off. “Learned in Nam that you always need to plan for the worst-case scenario.”

Right then, René knew he would die—engine trouble, a desert crash, angry drug runners who didn’t speak French. Rattlesnakes.

The plane dipped but his stomach remained in the air. Terrified, he grabbed the door. This was it—they were going down.

“Take a hit, René. You need to chill,” said Bob. “And you need to pack.” He passed him the handgun. “Keep this handy in case the second pilot gets … finicky.”

“What?”

“We take two planes to land at Santa Lucia in the southern suburb of Mexico City.” Bob sat back against a burlap sack, checked the cartridge. “A small airport used for medical transport. Then the van driver takes you to the Air France terminal. Hand the Glock to the van driver when you arrive at