Black Ops (Presidential Agent 5)
[TWO]
Aeropuerto Internacional Jorge Newbery
Buenos Aires, Argentina
1240 29 December 2005
Castillo had taken his turn at the controls on the Vienna-Dakar leg and again on the last, short leg from Sao Paulo, Brazil, to Buenos Aires. On the latter--having relieved Jake Torine, which put him in the left seat--he had, without thinking about it, made the approach and landing.
At the end of the landing roll, he glanced at Dick Sparkman in the right seat and saw the look on his face.
"I hope you were paying attention, Captain," Castillo said straight-faced. "If after much practice and study you can make a landing like that, then there may be hope that one day you can sit in the captain's seat yourself."
Sparkman shook his head, started to say something, and stopped.
"You may speak, Captain Sparkman."
"I don't know how to say this. . . ."
"Give it a shot."
"Colonel Torine told me . . ." He paused again, then said, "How many landings have you made in a Gulfstream?"
"Not many. Torine usually takes it away from me whenever we get within fifty miles of our destination."
"How many?"
"You could count them on my fingers. With a thumb, maybe both thumbs, left over."
"Colonel, you had a gusting crosswind, thermals, everything that usually adds up to a bumpy landing--and you greased it in. Colonel Torine said you were a natural pilot. I didn't know what he meant. Now I do."
"Flattery will get you everywhere, Sparkman."
"That was more surprise, maybe even awe, than flattery, Colonel."
As Castillo taxied to the private aircraft tarmac, his pleasure at the compliment was more than a little tempered by some reflection. If all the threats to a smooth landing that Sparkman mentioned had indeed existed--and Castillo had no doubts about Sparkman's judgment as an aviator--he hadn't seen them.
Which means I hadn't been paying attention as I damned well should've been.
That sobering thought left his mind as he approached the general aviation complex. He could see their welcoming party. In addition to immigration and customs officials, and their vehicles, he saw Alfredo Munz, Alex Darby, and Tony Santini standing in front of the wheels he had asked them to bring.
All I have to do now is get everybody through customs and immigration, off the airport, and to the house in Pilar without calling to us the attention of anybody really important--say, the Buenos Aires SVR rezident or Comandante Duffy of the Gendarmeria Nacional.
How he was going to deal with Duffy--when he inevitably had to--was one of the things he had been thinking about when he had not been thinking about gusting crosswinds and thermals rising from the runway baking in the noonday sun.
"Shut it down, Sparkman. And keep everybody on the plane until I see what the hell's going on outside."
When Castillo opened the stair door, and the decreasing whine of the engines filled the cabin, he called out, "Everybody stay on the plane until I give the okay."
He went down the stair door and then across the tarmac. He saw Alex Darby, Tony Santini, and Alfredo Munz start walking on the heels of the Argentine officials who were already headed for him and the Gulfstream.
At the top of the stairs, Max shouldered Sparkman out of the way. He made his way down the stairs for his ritual visit to the nose wheel. One of his pups followed him, and then the other. Sof'ya Berezovsky went after the pups. Former Lieutenant Colonel Svetlana Alekseeva of the SVR, in her role as aunt, went after Sof'ya. Edgar Delchamps went after Colonel Alekseeva.
One of the Argentine officials, not smiling, put out his hand. "Documents, please."
"I'll have to get them," Castillo said in Spanish with a smile. He hoped that if he sounded like a Porteno he might get a smile in return.
He turned and saw for the first time that Delchamps, Svetlana, Sof'ya, and the dogs were off the airplane.