That's my weapon of choice, Castillo thought.
I wonder where Uncle Nicolai got them. And if by coincidence, or because he's aware that they're about the best people shooter around.
"I'm sure you know how to use one of these," Tarasov said to Charley, and handed him one of the pistols. Then he turned to Barlow. "Dmitri?"
Barlow took the extended pistol, said, "They work like the regular ones, right?" and proceeded to quickly check the pistol to see if there was a round in the chamber. There was. He ejected the magazine, then worked the action, which ejected the round in the chamber. He caught it in the air, said, "Lester showed me how to do that," put it back in the magazine, shoved the magazine back in the pistol, and worked the action. It was now ready to fire.
"Am I going to need this, Nicolai?" he asked.
"I hope not. But Alek said to give them to you, and he always has his reasons. Try not to let Svetlana know you have them."
"Why not?" Castillo challenged.
"I think Alek wants the people we're going to talk to think she's somebody's girlfriend."
"Why?" Castillo pursued.
"If somebody brings his girlfriend to a meeting with people like these, it means either that he's not afraid of them, or stupid, and these people know that whatever he is, Alek is not stupid."
"Neither is Sweaty. If she's going to play a role, she should know what's expected of her."
"You want to tell Alek that?" Tarasov asked.
"My immediate reaction to that is an angry 'Hell, 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 cockpit.
"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 Latitude 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 pass 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 ass, 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.
There was a faint flash from Castillo's memory bank: 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 hell 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?