“Dmitri?”
Tom Barlow shook his head.
Tarasov squatted beside his Jeppesen case, opened it and came out with two pistols. Castillo was surprised to see that both were the officer’s model—a cut-down version—of the Colt 1911A1 .45 ACP semiautomatic pistol.
They held five cartridges—rather than seven rounds—in the magazines in their shortened grips. The slides and barrels had been similarly shortened. They had once been made from standard pistols by gunsmiths at the Frankford Arsenal for issue only to general officers but later became commercially available.
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 wh
atever 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 Cancún 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