“Hold on. That’s another database.” It took him less than a minute. “The plane’s owned by a company registered in the Cayman Islands.”
“A dummy front?”
“No doubt. It’s going to take some time to . . . hold on a second. I’m checking its past flights. It arrived in the United States at Seattle-Tacoma International three days ago from Mexico City.”
“Then flew here yesterday,” Juan finished for him. That was their plane, and if they were heading to Mexico City it was only to refuel. “Thanks, Eric.”
Juan turned to Max. “They’re taking her to Argentina.”
NINETEEN
The horse was a big Arabian stallion with such taut muscles that veins showed in relief under its glossy skin. It was streaked in sweat and blew heavily, and yet was game to keep charging across the Argentine landscape, its hoofs pounding the ground in a thundering drumbeat. Its rider barely moved in her saddle, her slouch hat hanging off her throat by a strap.
Maxine Espinoza was a superb horsewoman, and raced for the stream five miles from the mansion as though she was gunning for the Triple Crown. She wore tan riding breeches and a man’s white oxford unbuttoned enough so that wind caressed her skin. Her boots had a worn look that bespoke of countless hours riding and an almost equal amount of time being lovingly polished.
It was that perfect moment of late afternoon, when the sun dappled the ground under the occasional tree and slanted so the grass looked like burnished gold.
Movement to her left caught her eye, and she turned quick enough to see a hawk lift off from the ground with its dinner clutched in its razor-sharp talons.
“Ha, Concorde,” she cried, and firmed her grip on the reins.
The horse seemed to love these wild rides as much as his mistress, and he lengthened his stride. They were of one mind, and existed almost as a Centaur rather than two separate beings.
Only when they neared the band of forest that lined both sides of a stream did they slow. Maxine entered the glen at an easy walk, the big stallion beneath her heaving great lungfuls of air through his flared nostrils.
She could hear the stream gurgling over rocks and songbirds in the limbs of trees. She ducked under a branch and weaved Concorde deeper into the woods. This was her sanctuary, her special place, on the sprawling estate. The clear waters of the stream would sate her horse’s thirst, and along the bank was a bed of grass where she’d slept during countless siestas.
She legged over Concorde’s back and lowered herself to the ground. She needn’t worry about him wandering off or drinking too much. He was better mannered than that. From her saddlebag she pulled a blanket of the finest Egyptian cotton. She was just moving to spread it on the grass when a figure emerged from behind a tree.
“Excuse me, señora.”
Maxine whirled, her eyes narrowing in anger at the intrusion. She recognized the man. It was Raul Jimenez, her stepson’s second-in-command. “How dare you come here? You should be on the base with the rest of the soldiers.”
“I prefer the company of women.”
She took two steps forward and slapped him. “I should tell the General of your impudence.”
“And what would you tell him about this?” He grabbed her smoothly and drew her body to his. He kissed her, and for a few seconds she resisted, but it was too much, and soon she had her hand on the back of his head as her hunger grew.
Jimenez finally pulled back. “God, I’ve missed you.”
Maxine’s reply was to kiss him again, even more passionately. Now that they were alone, all pretense of his shyness around her was gone. They gave in to their desires.
It was much later that they were lying side by side on the hastily spread blanket. She gingerly touched the burn scars on his face. They were still red and looked painful.
“You are no longer so beautiful. I think I should find myself another lover.”
“I don’t think there is another in the regiment who would dare do what we just did.”
“Are you saying I am not worth a court-martial?”
“To me, you are worth death itself, but you forget I am the bravest man in the Army,” he joked. And then a shadow passed behind his eyes.
“What is it, darling?”
“ ‘Bravest,’ I said.” His voice filled with bitterness. “It takes little bravery to gun down villagers or kidnap American women.”
“Kidnap Americans? I don’t understand.”