“Rhine Control, Gulfstream 379,” Torine’s voice came over the speaker.
“Gulfstream 379, Rhine Control. Go ahead.”
“Gulfstream 379. We need to amend our flight plan with a destination change. Our new destination is Dakar, Senegal, Identifier Golf-Oscar-Oscar-Yankee. Request present position direct Geneva. Over.”
“Ahhh, roger, Gulfstream 379. I can clear you with routing direct Geneva, but I do not have the authority to clear you beyond Rhine airspace. You must coordinate further routing with Euro-control for clearance beyond Geneva. I suggest you contact Euro-control on frequency one-three-two-decimal-eight-five-zero for further clearance. Once I have received further clearance, I will contact you on this frequency. For now you are cleared present position direct Geneva. Maintain flight level three-four-zero.”
The tone of the controller’s voice suggested he had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with such a significant change to a cleared routing.
Torine didn’t mind. What he wanted to do was at least get the Gulfstream pointed in the right direction—toward Senegal. He knew that Geneva was on the edge of Rhine Control’s airspace boundary and probably would not be cleared beyond that. Also, he knew that making such a major change in their flight plan would take some time to coordinate with air traffic control. While en route to Geneva he would have Sparkman coordinate a new routing that would take them, after Geneva, over Toulouse, France; Malaga, Spain; Casablanca, Morocco; Tenerife, in the Canary Islands; then down the Atlantic Ocean just off the west coast of Africa; and finally into Dakar, Senegal.
“Roger, Rhine,” Torine replied cheerfully. “Gulfstream 379 cleared direct Geneva. Maintain flight level three-four-zero. We will coordinate our request with Euro-control and will remain on this frequency. Thank you ever so much.”
Castillo looked back into the cabin. Berezovsky’s eyes were wide open.
What the hell, I’m a very light sleeper myself when my ass is in a crack.
Berezovsky was still awake and alert when the loudspeakers beeped three times again.
“Gulfstream 379, Rhine Control. I have your revised clearance. Advise when ready to copy.”
“Gulfstream 379 ready to copy.”
“Gulfstream 379, you are now cleared to Golf-Oscar-Oscar-Yankee. After Geneva direct Toulouse, direct Malaga.”
This time, when Castillo glanced down the aisle to see if Berezovsky was showing any reaction to hearing the air traffic control conversation, the Russian was coming down the aisle. He reached Castillo and squatted beside him.
“I presume this aircraft has GPS capability?”
He has to ask?
Are the Russians really that backward?
Hell, he’s my age; GPS has been around our generation practically forever.
Castillo nodded.
“May I see it?”
Castillo considered yelling for Davidson to open the cockpit door, then looked around the aircraft. Most everyone, including the women and child, were sleeping. He reached behind him and picked up the aircraft intercom phone.
“Jack!”
Davidson appeared in the cockpit door a moment later. He held a phone handset to his ear.
“Show the colonel where we are on the GPS,” Castillo ordered into the phone.
Davidson waved Berezovsky into the cockpit.
The Russian went up the aisle and into the cockpit.
A minute or so later, Berezovsky reappeared and approached Castillo.
“Tom, you’re just going to have to learn to trust me, ol’ buddy.”
Berezovsky didn’t reply. He simply walked back to his seat.
Castillo sensed Svetlana’s eyes on him.
Guess she wasn’t exactly sound asleep.
“We have a training tape, a simulator, that shows that we’re approaching Sheremetyevo,” Castillo said to her, referring to the Moscow airport. “I should have had that running.”
Svetlana shook her head. But he thought he noticed a smile.
“You’re going to have to remember that he’s a senior SVR colonel,” she said.
“Was a senior colonel. Now he’s what’s called a defector.”
“And that makes me?” she asked.
“Former Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva, a much prettier defector,” he said. “Who should also learn to trust me.”
“Trust has to be earned, Colonel.” She held up the People magazine. “You read this all the time?”
“From cover to cover,” he said.
She smiled.
“Are you about to tell me the real reason—that I won’t believe—why you’re defecting?” Castillo asked.
“I told you that I’d tell you why we are—why we have—defected when the time was right. That’s not yet.”
“You promised to tell the details of the family you have in Argentina.”
“I told you that I would tell you that at the fuel stop. We’re not at the fuel stop, are we?”
“No, we’re not.”
“Where is the fuel stop?”
“Dakar, Senegal. From there we’ll go to São Paulo, Brazil, then down to Buenos Aires. If we’re lucky we should be in B.A. about five in the afternoon, which is noon in B.A. And since December is the middle of winter in Vienna, it will be the middle of summer in B.A. In other words, hot, very hot, and humid.”
There’s always a silver cloud. I’ll very probably get to see Little Red Under Britches in a swimsuit at the safe house pool.
“We’ll be flying through most of the night and most of what would be the day in Vienna. You might consider getting some sleep. That seat goes down almost flat.”
“I think I will,” she said with a smile.
“It might be easier to sleep if you took off your pistol.”
She looked at him with what could have been surprise or indignation—or both.
“That holster must be uncomfortable,” Castillo went on. “And you’re really not going to have to shoot anybody anytime soon.”
I’ll be damned; she’s actually blushing!
“Or would you rather I took the holster off?” Castillo added.
Svetlana’s eyes turned to ice.
She unfastened her seat belt, stood, then marched down the aisle to the lavatory. Ninety seconds later, she was back. Without looking at him, she dropped the holstered pistol in his lap, got back in her seat, adjusted it almost flat, then turned on her side, facing away from him, and closed her eyes.
When Castillo took the pistol from the holster he saw that Davidson had been right: It was a 1908 Colt Vest Pocket. But chambered for .32 ACP, not .25 as Jack had guessed. He carefully ejected the magazine and worked the action. A cartridge flew out. He tried but failed to catch the live round, so he went looking for it. He found it under the seat, put it into the magazine, then put the magazine back in the pistol and the pistol back in its holster.
The elastic straps were still warm from her body, and he had a quick mental image of her leaping onto the platform at the Westbahnhof.
Careful, Charley.
Little Red Under Britches is a professional. One proof of that being she carries her pistol with a round in the chamber, just like big boys do.
He put the pistol into his briefcase, lowered his seat, and promptly fell asleep.
When they landed at Yoff-Léopold Sédar Senghor International Airport in Senegal, and Max made his routine visit to the nose gear, both pups and the girl followed him. Delchamps followed the pups. Castillo had thought that the only words to really describe the pups bouncing happily after Poppa, and then trying—and failing—to emulate his raised high leg, were cute as hell.