The Hunters (Presidential Agent 3)

When he applied the handkerchief as a pressure bandage to his hand, he saw there were at least a half dozen holes in the glass and metal of the Blazer.

IX

[ONE]

Aeropuerto Internacional Jorge Newbery

Buenos Aires, Argentina

0720 8 August 2005

Castillo had flown in the right seat on the last leg from Recife, Brazil, with Torine in the left seat. But as they had approached Jorge Newbery, Torine had said, “If you have your ego under control, First Officer, you may land the aircraft.”

And then, when they had shut down the Gulfstream on the tarmac in front of the JetAire hangar, Torine had two more comments.

“You came in a little long, Charley.”

“I know.”

“The less the gross weight, the harder these are to get on the ground.”

“I’ll remember.”

Torine handed him the plastic envelope holding the aircraft documents.

“Dealing with the local authorities is beneath the dignity of the captain,” Torine said.

“Yes, sir,” Castillo said.

When he came down the stair door, Castillo saw that in addition to the Argentine customs and immigration authorities a Mercedes Traffik van also was there to meet the Gulfstream.

The driver was leaning against the van. Castillo recognized him. He was a CIA agent named Paul Sieno. He had met him the morning they had found J. Winslow Masterson’s body. And when he looked closer at the van, he saw another man he recognized, Ricardo Solez, of the Drug Enforcement Administration.

Jesus, I hope Fernando doesn’t take one look at him, get carried away, and pick Ricardo up in a bear hug!

Sieno walked over and in heavily accented English said, “We are from the estancia, señor, when you have finished with these officers.”

“Thank you,” Castillo said and turned to the Argentine officials. “Where would you like us to put our luggage for exam—”

Max came bounding down—more accurately, over—the steps in the stair door and headed for the nose gear, where he raised his leg.

The Argentine customs officer smiled.

“That won’t be necessary, sir. If we can go aboard, we’ll deal with the passports.”

“You are very kind,” Castillo said.

He went quickly back into the fuselage.

“Passports, please, everybody,” he called. “And then please board the van, which will take us to the estancia.”

Eric Kocian’s bushy white eyebrow rose at that, but he said nothing. He handed the immigration officer his passport as if it identified him as the personal representative of, if not God, then at least the pope.

“Welcome to Argentina, señor,” the immigration officer said.

Five minutes later, everyone was in the van and had left the airport.

Where’s this estancia we’re going?” Castillo asked Sieno when it seemed to him the van was not headed for any of the highways leading to the countryside.