“You’re not going to like it, Fernando,” Castillo said. “Is he in Midland now, do you think?”
“He was yesterday,” Fernando said. “I saw him in the Petroleum Club. He asked me if I still played poker and I had to tell him no because Maria and Abuela and the Munzes were with me. The Friday-night three-card stud games of fame and legend are still going.”
“He’ll be there—at the Petroleum Club—tonight?”
“You going to tell me why you want to know?”
“Not over the phone. I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“And when will that be?”
“As soon as I make one more telephone call, I’m headed for the airport. It’s about three hours in the air. Figure another hour and a half to go wheels-up. It’s now ten. Knock an hour off because of the time zones. We should be there sometime before three.”
“Midland-Odessa or here?”
“Midland. We’re going from there to Buenos Aires, and I can’t do the customs stuff from the strip at the Double-Bar-C.”
“Who’s we?”
“Yung, a guy named Delchamps, a guy named Doherty—an FBI big shot—Miller, and me.”
“Plus Jake Torine. It’ll be a little crowded, but it’ll be all right.”
“Jake’s not coming, and we may not be staying overnight.”
“First things first. Yes, you are staying overnight. Abuela will expect you to spend the night. Jesus, you just don’t give a damn about people’s feelings, do you, Carlos?”
“Okay. We’ll spend the night.”
“If Jake’s not coming, who’s flying the Gulfstream?”
“Miller will work the radios,” Castillo said after a just-perceptible hesitation.
“Sure. Why not? You’ve been flying that Gulfstream for, what, ten whole days now? And really racked up a lot of time. Maybe ten, even twelve, hours. And shot maybe six landings. You’re out of your mind, you know that?”
“I can fly the Gulfstream,” Castillo said.
“There are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old bold pilots. You ever hear that?”
“I can fly it. It practically flies itself.”
“I was about to say it’s been nice knowing you, but that wouldn’t be entirely true.”
“So I don’t suppose you’re going to meet me at Midland-Odessa?” Castillo asked, but, before Lopez had a chance to reply, went on: “No, actually have the senior Secret Service agent meet us. I have to talk to him and I’d rather do that at the airport.”
“Your wish is my command, Carlos. See you sometime this afternoon.”
The connection went dead.
He called me Carlos again. He called me Carlos three times. He must be really pissed at me.
And, unfortunately, with good reason.
He got another dial tone, and then, reading them from Alex Darby’s cellular, carefully punched in a long series of numbers.
“¿Hola?”
“Hello, Alek,” Castillo said, in Russian.