“Juan Carlos has told his guys not to shoot, and I gave Lester an old Winchester pump .22 of mine, with which he will shoot Sergei in the leg. Or legs. I figured if that proved necessary, he wouldn’t bleed to death before you got him to the States. He’s in pretty bad emotional condition.”
“Don’t tell me remorse.”
“Thinking of his wife and family in Lubyanka.”
“That’ll do it,” D’Alessandro said.
They pulled close to the U.S. Army UH-60F sitting in a remote corner of the airfield.
“Charley, I didn’t mention this before because it’s lunacy on its face. Clendennen’s got everybody running around getting a submarine ready to refuel the 60Fs he plans to send to the shoot-out at the prison.”
“If we snatch Ferris, there won’t be a need to send 60Fs to the prison,” Castillo said.
“I don’t think freeing Ferris will stop that mission. Clendennen is now in love with Gray Fox.”
“Find out where the sub will be, and when, and get me the radio call signs.”
“That may be a tall order, Charley. Naylor will want to know why I want to know. And he doesn’t know what you’re up to. Do you want him to?”
“No. Tell him nothing,” Castillo said. “But see what you can find out about the submarine, please.”
[FIVE]
KM 125.5 National Road 200
Near Huixtla
Chiapas State, Mexico
0915 22 April 2007
The small convoy that had crossed into Mexico at Tapachula a little after eight consisted of a somewhat battered Suburban, a Mercedes S550 that appeared nearly new, a Suburban in better shape, a Mercedes C230, and a Ford F-150 pickup truck.
The Policía Federal roadblock they encountered—no surprise on that stretch of road—consisted of a Suburban and a Ford F-150 pickup. It was near the crest of a small rise.
When it became visible to the passenger in the front seat of the large Mercedes, he leaned over and sounded the horn, and then motioned the driver to pass the Suburban in the lead.
The Federales would know who he was, he reasoned, and they could get through the roadblock quickly, especially if he handed to whoever was in charge a sheaf of United States hundred-dollar bills. He did not want the Federales to start asking for identification.
When he got close, he saw that the man in charge was a Policía Federal second sergeant who would, he thought, be more grateful for the little gift he was about to give him than a more senior policeman—say, a first sergeant or even a comandante—would be.
He was a little annoyed when the second sergeant didn’t immediately walk—or trot—to the Mercedes, as he expected him to do.
But finally, the second sergeant came from the barrier and walked to the Mercedes, trailed by a dozen other Federales. They walked to the vehicles behind the Mercedes and took up positions on either side of them.
“Good morning,” the passenger in the front seat of the Mercedes said.
“Would you step out of the car, please?” the second sergeant asked politely.
“What for?”
“This is a check for drugs,” the second sergeant said.
“Do I look like a drug dealer?” the man asked.
“No, sir, you don’t. This won’t take a minute, señor.”
The man got out of the front seat, forced himself to smile, and handed the second sergeant the sheaf of U.S. hundred-dollar bills.