Castillo locked eyes with him. "Then might I, sir, with all respect and humility, suggest that you begin your thorough inspection of our luggage with my briefcase?" he asked, sarcastically. "It's right there on the floor."
"What's in the briefcase?" the enormous man asked.
"My credentials," Castillo said. "I'm Supervisory Special Agent Castillo of the Secret Service."
The swarthy man considered that a moment, then said, "Get it." "That's what he is all right," the swarthy man said, visibly cowed by the credentials. But that didn't last long. "We are still going to search your luggage and the aircraft. That's regulations!"
"Search away," Castillo said. "I simply wanted to identify myself before you saw the weapons we have aboard." He turned to the immigration lieutenant. "How do we get through immigration?"
"There's a van outside that'll carry you to the commercial side of the airport."
"And bring us back?"
The lieutenant nodded.
"Ladies," Castillo said, "leave everything on board but your purses. We have to go through the immigration process. On behalf of the United States of America, I apologize for this rude reception." "Thanks for everything, Fernando," Castillo said when they were back at the Gulfstream. "When you get home, blame everything on me."
"Maria will do that anyway," Lopez said.
He picked Castillo off the ground in a bear hug.
"If you need me for anything, forget it," Lopez said.
"You got it."
"I didn't mean that, Gringo, and you know it."
"What I want you to do is make sure Abuela doesn't go anywhere near Midland."
"I will. Believe me."
"I'll find someplace else for the Munzes just as soon as I can."
Lopez nodded, shook hands with Torine, kissed the cheeks of the Munz women, then turned and climbed back in the van.
As the others went aboard the Gulfstream, Castillo watched it drive away until It was out of sight, and then, not remembering if he had seen Torinedo it or not, did the walk-around inspection of the plane, then went up the stairs into it.
He smiled at the younger Munz girl.
"Colonel Torine has said I can ride up in front if I promise not to touch anything."
She smiled back at him.
When he stepped into the cockpit, he saw that Jake Torine was strapping himself into the copilot's seat.
"I'm pleased to see that you remembered it's the pilot in command's duty to do the walk-around," Torine said. "Has anything important fallen off?" [FIVE] Double-Bar-C Ranch Near Midland, Texas 0555 10 August 2005 As Castillo applied the thrust reversers, he saw that there were two black GMC Yukon XLs parked next to the hangar. And a silver Jaguar.
Well, the Secret Service is here.
And the Jaguar, which is almost certainly Abuela's, is here because so was she when the heat got to her. She had the Lear pick her up.
When he had taxied the Gulfstream back to the hangar from the end of the runway and stopped, Torine said, "I'll shut it down, Charley. You tend to our passengers."
Castillo unstrapped himself and went to the passenger compartment, where he tripped the DOOR OPEN switch. The door began to move and a dry heat started to blow in. It had a familiar feel and smell.
Senora Munz and the younger girl, smiling, were on their feet and looking down at the older sister, who was sound asleep on one of the couches.
Well, they say a perfect landing is one that (a) you can walk away from and (b) doesn't wake the passengers.
He smiled at the younger girl.
"I'll get some ice water," he said. "You can pour it in her ear. That'll wake her up."
"Carlos, that's an awful thing to say!" a familiar voice said from the open doorway behind him, in English.
Then the voice switched to Spanish.
"I'm Alicia Castillo. This terrible young man is my grandson. Welcome to our home!"
Castillo turned. As his grandmother pushed past him to get at the Munz family, he saw a heavyset man, obviously a Secret Service agent, standing just inside the door.
The heavyset man shrugged and held up both hands.
The meaning was clear: I didn't know how to stop her.
XIII
[ONE] Lehigh Valley International Airport Allentown, Pennsylvania 1035 10 August 2005 As he taxied the Gulfstream to the Lehigh Valley Aviation Services' tarmac, Castillo saw United States Secret Service Special Agent John M. Britton-brightly attired in a pink seersucker jacket, a yellow polo shirt, light blue trousers, and highly polished tassel loafers-leaning against the front fender of one of two black Yukons whose darkened windows identified them to Castillo as almost certainly Secret Service vehicles.
With Britton were three men-more sedately dressed-who Castillo thought were probably the local Secret Service.
Castillo parked the aircraft.
"You go deal with the welcoming committee," Torine said. "I'll do the paperwork and get us some fuel. Speaking of which, you want to give me your credit card?"
Castillo unstrapped himself, worked his way out of the pilot's seat, gave Torine an American Express card, then went into the empty passenger compartment and opened the door and went down the stairs.
"Nice airplane," Britton greeted him. "This is the first time I've seen it."
"How are you, Jack?" Castillo said as they shook hands.
Britton made the introductions: "These are special agents Harry Larsen and Bob Davis, and their boss, Supervisory Special Agent Fred Swanson. They're out of Philadelphia."
"I'm an old pal of Isaacson and McGuire," Swanson said as they shook hands.
"Then I guess you heard that my Secret Service credentials are a little questionable?"
"Yeah, and I also heard getting them for you was Joel's idea," Swanson said. "So you're among friends, Colonel."
"Call me Charley," Castillo said. "I made light colonel so recently that when someone says it, I look around to see who they're talking to."
Swanson chuckled.
"And you know that Jack can hardly be called a grizzled veteran of the Secret Service?" Castillo went on.
"He told me. He also told me Joel recruited him, which makes him okay in my book-I know what Jack did in Philly, too. Isaacson told me that just when he was going to see if he would fit in the protection detail you grabbed him for whatever it is you do."
"What did he-or anybody-tell you about that?"
"Joel was pretty vague. Britton has been a clam. And when I asked McGuire, he said you were the only guy who could decide we had the Need to Know."
Castillo considered that, then nodded. "Okay. You do. The classification is Top Secret Presidential. But let's wait until we're out of here."
"Where are we headed? The farm? There's not much to see," Britton said.
"I better see what there is," Castillo said. "But first, Jake and I need a shower and a shave. And then breakfast. It's been a long flight."
"Where'd you come from?" Swanson asked.
"Buenos Aires and that's classified."
Swanson's eyebrows went up, but he didn't say anything.
"We're in the Hotel Bethlehem in Bethlehem," Britton said. "It's not the Four Seasons-no marble walls in the bathrooms-but there's plenty of hot water and towels, and a nice restaurant, and it's near where we're going."
"Fine."
"I suppose this is also classified," Britton said. "Yung called Miller from Washington, and Miller called me. Yung was in Miami about to load Lorimer's body on a plane to New Orleans. He's really anxious to talk to you."
"And vice versa," Castillo said.
"'Lorimer's body'?" Swanson parroted. "Can I ask who Yung is?"
"David Yung is an FBI agent who now works for me," Castillo said. "Jean-Paul Lorimer-an American, a UN diplomat, up to his eyeballs in the Iraq oil-for-food scam-was whacked by parties unknown at his estancia in Uruguay."
"This is starting to get interesting," Swanson said.
"The Secret Service is involved," Castillo said. "I asked Tom McGuire to send people to watch the Lorimer family, the funeral home, the funeral, etcetera, to see if they can make any of the mourners. And to keep an eye on Yung. These bastards have already tried to kidnap and/or whack him."