The Outlaws_ A Presidential Agent Novel Part 37

"You want to tell Alek that?" Tarasov asked.

"My immediate reaction to that is an angry 'h.e.l.l, 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 c.o.c.kpit.

"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 Lat.i.tude 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 pa.s.s 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 followed 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 a.s.s, 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. 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. 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 h.e.l.l 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." 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 "l.u.s.tfully."

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 b.u.t.ton 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 G.o.dd.a.m.ned.

"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 G.o.d, 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 h.e.l.l 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.