The Hunters Page 12

  “No. You have any checked luggage?”

  Castillo shook his head.

  Fernando’s car, a new twelve-cylinder black Mercedes-Benz S600, was in the short-term parking lot. Castillo remembered reading in a magazine that the sedan had a sticker price somewhere north of $140, 000.

  “Is this what you wanted to show me?”

  “No.”

  “Nice wheels.”

  “It’s Maria’s,” Fernando said.

  “You must have been a really bad boy.”

  “Fuck you, Gringo.”

  “What exactly did you do wrong?”

  “Well, for example, I went to Europe and South America without taking her along.”

  “She didn’t like that?”

  “No, she did not.”

  “I can’t understand that.”

  Fernando shook his head but didn’t reply.

  He then drove them around the airport to Lemes Aviation, a large business-aviation operation.

  “Don’t tell me you pranged the Lear?”

  “No. But it’s in here for a hundred-hour maintenance a lot sooner than I thought it would be.”

  “You’ll get a check, eventually, from the Secret Service. You know the deal: They chartered it.”

  “I know the deal,” Fernando said.

  He pulled the Mercedes into a parking slot at the Lemes building and they got out. But instead of going in the building, Fernando marched purposefully toward a hangar. Castillo followed him expecting to see the Lear, on which he was sure Fernando was going to show him something that had happened that was going to require expensive repair.

  The Lear wasn’t in the hangar. There were four Beech craft turboprops and one jet, a Gulfstream III.

  “What are we looking at?” Castillo asked.

  Fernando pointed to the Gulfstream.

  “Jesus, don’t tell me you bought that!”

  “I didn’t. I think maybe you should,” Fernando said.

  A smiling man wearing a leather aviator’s jacket and aviator’s sunglasses walked quickly up to them before Castillo had a chance to respond.

  “How are you, Mr. Lopez?” he asked.

  “Do you know my cousin, Charley Castillo?”

  “I have not had that privilege,” the man said. “Brewster Walsh, Mr. Castillo.”

  He enthusiastically pumped Castillo’s hand.

  “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Mr. Walsh inquired, then added, “And a steal at seven million nine ninety-nine.”

  “In other words, eight million, right?” Castillo asked, innocently.

  “Can we have a look inside?” Fernando asked.

  “It would be my pleasure,” Mr. Walsh said.

  Castillo, who was tired and wanted to get out to Hacienda San Jorge, was just about to politely decline the offer when he remembered what Fernando had said: “I didn’t. I think maybe you should.”

  He meant that. He thinks I should buy this with Lorimer’s money.

  He wouldn’t have said that unless he meant it. Jesus!

  Castillo allowed himself to be waved up the stair door. He looked into the cockpit.

  “Are you a pilot yourself, Mr. Castillo?” Mr. Walsh inquired, and, when Castillo nodded, went on, “Well, then you’ll really appreciate that panel.”

  Castillo examined the flight instruments carefully. It was a nice panel, mostly Honeywell and Collins. It wasn’t on a par with the panel in the Lear, but then the Lear was nearly brand-new and this wasn’t.

  “How old is this?” Castillo asked.

  “I’m sure you’re aware that it isn’t how old an airplane is but rather how hard it’s been ridden.”

  “Which makes it how old?”

  “Total time, just over eight thousand hours,” Mr. Walsh replied. “Just over forty-five hundred landings, which means the average flight was less than two hours. And—and—the engines were replaced at eight thousand hours and are practically brand-new.”

  “Which makes it how old by the calendar?” Castillo pursued.

  “Twenty-three years,” Mr. Walsh replied, some what reluctantly. “Hard to believe looking at it, isn’t it?”

  Yeah, it is. Jesus, it doesn’t look that old. It looks practically brand-new.

  “And there was a complete refurbishment of the interior just six months ago,” Mr. Walsh added.

  “Does ‘refurbished’ mean cleaned and shined?”

  “Everything that showed the slightest signs of wear was replaced,” Mr. Walsh said.

  Castillo looked down the luxuriously fitted-out passenger compartment. When he breathed in, he smiled at the rich smell of fine glove leather.

  “It looks new,” he admitted.

  “It has a maximum range of thirty-seven hundred nautical miles,” Mr. Walsh offered, “at four hundred fifty knots.”

  “That would get you across the Atlantic in a hurry, wouldn’t it?” Fernando asked, over Mr. Walsh’s shoulder. “I mean, if a person had some reason to go to Europe. Me, if I had my way, I’d never leave Texas, much less the good ol’ USA.”

  “Well, if you wanted to go to Europe,” Mr. Walsh said, “this little beauty would take you and twelve of your friends—and their golf clubs and their overnight bags.”

  “In case you wanted to play a quick round at St. Andrews, for example, Carlos,” Fernando said, and then looked at Mr. Walsh. “Ol’ Carlos is quite a golfer.”

  “Me, too,” Mr. Walsh said. “I just love the game.”

  “Anytime anyone’s looking for ol’ Carlos, I just tell them to check out the nearest golf club,” Fernando said.

  “What business are you in, Mr. Castillo? If you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Investments,” Castillo said.

  “Buy low and sell high, right, Carlos?” Fernando asked.

  “I try.”

  “Word of a steal like this gets around quickly,” Mr. Walsh said. “Frankly, I’ve got several people really interested.”

  “Well, Mr. Walsh, if you can get somebody to give you eight million for this old airplane I suggest you take the offer. On the other hand, if you’d be willing to shave half a million off your asking price I might be interested. With several other caveats.”

  “For example, Mr. Castillo?”

  “My golfing buddy, Jake Torine, is a much better pilot than I am. I’d have to have him check it out. He lives in Charleston.”

  “We’d be happy to have your friend fly here at our expense and give him a test hop. He’s checked out in the Gulfstream, I presume?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “But so far as lowering the price is concerned…”

  “What I meant was, you would take the airplane—and Fernando—to Charleston and let my friend fly it there,” Castillo said. “But if you can’t lower the price, I guess that doesn’t matter.”

  “Perhaps—one never knows what will happen, does one?—something could be worked out. If you’d be willing to pay the standard hourly charter rate for the G-III, for example, for the hours it took to fly to Charleston…”

  “Which is how much?”

  “Ballpark figure, about three thousand an hour.”

  “Since we’re playing what-if,” Castillo said, “what if you flew this airplane to Charleston, gave my friend a test hop, all at three thousand an hour, and what if he said the old bird was worth the money, and what if I said, ‘Okay, I’ll buy it, ’ you’d take how many hours at three thousand per it came to off your price of seven million five, right?”

  “Mr. Castillo, I’m not at all sure I can shave the price even a little, much less half a million dollars.”

  “I understand,” Castillo said. “You go ahead and sell to whoever is willing to pay that much money for a twenty-four-year-old airplane. Thanks for letting me have a look.”

  “It’s only twenty-three years old, Mr. Castillo.”

  “Okay. Twenty-three-year-old airplane.”

  “At the risk of repeating myself,” Mr. Walsh said, “one never knows what’s going to
happen. How would I get in touch with you, Mr. Castillo, if—”

  “Fernando usually knows where I’m swatting the ol’ ball around at any given time, so just call him. You have his number, right?”

  When they were on the highway to Uvalde, Fernando said, “I wonder if he’ll call today or wait until tomorrow.”

  “I hope he waits longer than that,” Castillo said. “That looks like such a good deal, I can hear Grandpa say, ‘Anytime you’re offered a really good deal you’d be a fool to turn down, take a cold shower every day for a week and then have another look, a very close look.’”

  Fernando chuckled.

  “I have something serious to say, Gringo.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I really should not be playing James Bond with you as much as I have been.”

  “And is the rest of the sentence ‘and I won’t in the future’?”

  “Hey, Gringo. You need me, I’m there. You know that. But I have Maria and the kids and Abuela to think of.”

  “Touché.”

  “All I’m saying is you now have people working for you. Please don’t call me unless you really need me.”

  “Done.”

  “And you need an airplane. Maybe not that G-III, but an airplane. A bigger one than the Lear. And not just because Maria and Abuela are not only going to smell a rat if you keep using the Lear but are going to start nosing around. Neither of us wants that.”

  “You’re right. So to hell with Grandpa’s advice. Let’s hope Smiley calls you tonight instead of tomorrow.”

  “I don’t like the way you’re agreeing with me so easily.”

  “What should I do, agree with you hardly? You’re right, Fernando, it’s as simple as that. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “You’re making me feel like a shit, you know that?”

  “What I was just thinking was how lucky I am to have you as my brother.”

  “I’m not your brother, Cuz.”

  “If you won’t tell, I won’t.”

  “What I want from you, Gringo, is your word that when you need me you’ll call me.”

  “Done.”

  “No rest for the weary,” Dick Miller now said over the phone. “You never heard that?”

  “Something specific?” Castillo asked.

  “Well, how about the secretary of the Department of Homeland Security sticking his head in the door and saying, ‘I really hate to do this to him, but I think you better get Charley on the horn and tell him to get back here as soon as he can.’”

  “Well, that’s certainly specific enough. Did he say why?”

  “No. But it may have something to do with General Naylor having called him five minutes before—they put that call on your line by mistake.”

  “I wonder what he wants?”

  “Or it may have something to do with our new liaison officer,” Miller said.

  “Our new what?”

  “Ambassador Montvale has been kind enough to assign a liaison officer to the Office of Organizational Analysis. He was here first thing this morning, just bubbling over with enthusiasm to get right to work liaising things.”

  “That’s the last thing we need! Montvale’s surrogate’s nose in our business.”

  “Or it may have something to do with what Mr. Ellsworth—our new liaison officer’s name is Truman C. Ellsworth—brought with him when he came over this morning to start liaising.”

  “Which is?”

  “This isn’t even classified. It’s just a standard interoffice memorandum from the director of National Intelligence to the chief of the Office of Organizational Analysis. It says that he thought you might be interested to know that he has learned from, quote, Central Intelligence Agency officers in Montevideo, Uruguay, and Buenos Aires, Argentina, end quote, that a man named Bertrand who was murdered in the course of a robbery in Uruguay has been tentatively identified as really being a UN diplomat named Lorimer and that Mr. Lorimer was the brother-in-law of the late J. Winslow Masterson.”

  “That’s interesting, isn’t it?” Castillo said. “Did the memo say anything about who might have robbed or murdered this man?”

  “It says that, quote, the aforementioned officers have been directed to investigate this matter and to report their findings to the undersigned, end quote.”

  Castillo considered that a minute, then asked, “What do we hear about the world of high finance?”

  “There’s been a very nervous Chinaman asking about you every hour on the hour. I think he thinks he is about to be swooped upon by the IRS and carried off to Leavenworth for having too much money in his offshore account.”

  Castillo chuckled. “Given all that, yeah, I better come back. I don’t know when I can catch a plane.”

  “If you can fit it into your busy schedule, you have a reservation on Continental 5566 departing San Antone at five forty-five. It will put you into Dulles, after only three stops and one change of planes, at half past eleven.”

  “Oh, shit!”

  “Just a little jerk on your chain, Charley. Relax. It’s nonstop. Mr. Forbison got the reservation for you.”

  “Okay. I will be sure to wake you when I come in, presuming I can get a cab at Dulles within three or four hours.”

  “You will be met by your own personal Yukon,” Miller said. “She set that up, too. Look for a heavily armed man wearing a strained smile.”

  “You can call that off. I can catch a cab.”

  “Actually, Tom McGuire told Mr. F. to set it up. Get used to it, hotshot. You now really are a hotshot.”

  “I’ll see you shortly, Dick. Thank you.”

  He broke the connection and carried the telephone to the veranda. Everyone there was waiting, patiently, sitting with a steak on a plate before him.

  “What’d Dick want?” Fernando asked.

  “Enjoy your steak. You’re going to need your strength for the trip.”

  “Fernando, you’re not going anywhere,” Maria announced, firmly.

  “You’re going to leave him here when you go home?” Castillo asked, innocently.

  “He’s not going anywhere with you, period,” Maria said.

  “Who said anything about him going anywhere with me, question mark? I was thinking of the trip between here and Casa Lopez, period. What are you talking about, question mark?”

  Fernando chuckled.

  “You’ve been zinged, my dear,” he said.

  “Jorge, comma,” Fernando M. Lopez, Jr., aged ten, asked his brother, “would you please pass the butter, question mark?”

  “No, comma, I won’t, exclamation point!” Jorge Lopez replied and giggled.

  Abuela, who had been frowning, now smiled.

  “I don’t know why I even try,” Maria said. “I should know better. I should just sit here and let Carlos make a fool of me while my husband and children laugh at me.”

  “The Gringo only makes fools of people he loves,” Fernando said.

  “Please don’t call him that,” Fernando Junior and Jorge said in unison, looking at their great-grandmother. “You know I don’t like it.”

  Immediately, Fernando Junior added, “I don’t like it, exclamation point!”

  “My father warned me I was making a mistake marrying into this family,” Maria said, but she was smiling.

  When the car came, Abuela went out to it with him.

  It was a silver Jaguar XJ8.

  “Nice wheels, Abuela,” Charley said. “New, huh?”

  “Fernando sent a Mercedes out here,” she said. “A twelve-cylinder one. Black. I made him take it back. I felt like a Mafia gangster. This one I can drive myself.”

  “Ah, the truth about how Maria came into her Mafia mobile!”

  “Well, it just made sense to let Maria have it. Otherwise, he would have lost a lot of money. You just can’t turn a new car back in.”

  “And Maria doesn’t mind feeling like a Mafia gangster?”

  “I’m glad this didn’t come up while she was here,” Abuela said. “Darling, do you
really have to tease her all the time?”

  “Hey, I saw you smiling when the boys started to speak the punctuation.”

  “They are clever, aren’t they? They remind me so much of you and Fernando.”

  “That should be a frightening prospect.”

  She didn’t respond to that.

  “That’s what you need, Carlos. Boys of your own. A nice family.”

  “I have a nice family. I just don’t have a wife.”

  “And there have been no developments along that line that you’d like to tell me about?”

  “Has Fernando been running off at the mouth again?”

  “How is the lady Secret Service agent?”

  “She has her jaws wired shut. If I can get her to agree to leave the wires in, maybe something could be worked out.”

  “I don’t think that’s funny, Carlos.”

  He looked down at his feet.

  “The wires in her jaw aren’t,” he said. “I’m sorry I said that.”

  “You should be.”

  He looked Abuela in the eyes.

  “I’m going to have to go to Europe for a couple of days. I’ll go from New York and stop off in Philadelphia to see her.”

  “Fernando said she’s very nice.”

  “She is.”

  She nodded at him, then leaned up and kissed him.

  “Via con Dios, mi amor,” she said.

  He got in the front seat with the driver.

  As the car rolled away from the sprawling, red-tile-roofed Spanish-style big house, he turned in the seat and looked out the back window. Abuela was standing where he had left her.

  She’s right. I do need boys like Fernando’s, and a wife—a family.

  He watched Abuela until the road curved and then he thought of Betty Schneider.

  Maybe the time has come. God knows I’ve never felt about any other woman the way I feel about Betty.

  IV

  [ONE]

  Washington Dulles International Airport

  Dulles, Virginia

  2340 3 August 2005

  Castillo smiled when he came out of the Jetway and entered the terminal. There waiting for him was indeed a heavily armed man wearing a strained smile. He was standing behind a wheelchair on which sat, one leg supported vertically in front of him, Major H. Richard Miller, Jr.