“Which should they use? Uruguayan or Argentine?”
“Argentines can travel back and forth to Uruguay on their national identity cards. I say use the Argentine.”
“Done,” Castillo said.
“Charley, it might be a good idea to get them U.S. visas,” Darby said.
“I see a couple of problems with that,” Castillo said after a moment.
“Such as? All I have to do is hand them to a consular officer I know and tell him to stamp them.” He paused, then explained himself: “He’s a spook-in-training, and knows what I really do for a living.”
“I think I met him yesterday,” Castillo said. “My problem is Ambassador Silvio. I don’t like going around him, and he was there when I had my little chat with Montvale.”
“Your call,” Darby said. “But visas may come in handy somewhere down the pike.”
Castillo considered that a moment.
“Alex, when this can be worked in, go see the ambassador. When all else fails, tell the truth. Hand him the passports. Say, ‘Mr. Ambassador, Castillo would like to see these fine Argentines get multiple entry visas, but only if it doesn’t put your ass in a crack.’ Or diplomatic words to that effect. If he seems to be thinking hard about it, tell him I said, ‘It’s okay. Thanks anyway.’ ”
“Done,” Darby said. “Another thing, Charley. Maybe me driving to Uruguay—I mean, taking a vehicle on the Buquebus to Montevideo—would be a good idea. I’m accredited in both places, so no luggage searches. In case you want to take weapons. . . .”
“There’re weapons in the Gulfstream,” Castillo said.
“Getting them out of the airplane in Uruguay might be a problem, and I have all we’ll need at the embassy.” He stopped and smiled. “Last week, I
There were chuckles.
“And one more thought, Charley: I take either Tom or Susan with me. There would be less chance that some zealous immigration guy who may have seen the Interpol warrants would have his attention heightened by seeing just one or the other. They’ll be presumed to be traveling together.”
“And if you drove, we’d have at least one set of wheels in Uruguay, wouldn’t we? Okay, you drive. Next question: Where do you drive? Where do Dick and I take the plane?”
Alfredo Munz walked back to the table. “Aleksandr suggests flying into San Martin de los Andes . . .” he began.
Castillo’s face and shrug showed he didn’t understand.
“. . . a small town several hours’ drive from Bariloche.”
“Can we get the Gulfstream in there?”
“Aerolineas Argentinas flies a 737 in there once a day, weather permitting. When they’re not expecting that flight, the control tower shuts down. What Aleksandr suggests—this is what he often does in the Lear—is file a flight plan to Bariloche, then land at San Martin, unload most of the passengers there, then go on to Bariloche. If any questions are asked, the pilot made a precautionary landing. Aleksandr will have people waiting in both places. Then they will drive to the house, instead of going to Llao-Llao and taking a boat from the hotel dock.”
“Okay, done. Still-open question: How do we get from where we’re going—where
“Alek suggests Punta del Este,” Munz said.
“Why?” Castillo asked. “That has to be a couple of hundred miles from the estancia.”
Munz smiled.
“Maybe he thinks you’d have some trouble landing the Gulfstream at Tacuarembo International,” he said.
“Stupid question,” Castillo said, chagrined.
“And it’s the busy season in Punta,” Munz said. “One more private jet won’t attract much attention—certainly less than at Carrasco in Montevideo.”
“After deep and profound consideration, I have decided that we’ll go to Punta del Este,” Castillo said.
He took his cellular telephone from his pocket and slid it across the table to Miller.
“Autodial five will get you the weather at Ezeiza, Dick. Get us the weather to Bariloche and Punta del Este.”
Miller opened his laptop, waited until it awoke from its sleep mode, then picked up the cell phone.
“Alek also suggests we take Lee-Watson with us,” Munz said.
“If I ask why, would my stupidity show again?”
“He has a connection with the Conrad,” Munz said. “Alek thinks you should stay there. Keep the apartments in case we need them.”
“What apartments?”
“He owns half a dozen, maybe more, luxury apartments in those high-rises along the beach. Lee-Watson manages them for him; people rent them for a week, two weeks. They’re not safe houses but could be used for that purpose. No questions would be asked if strangers show up, rent cars, etcetera.”
Castillo nodded his understanding, then asked, “So, stay at the Conrad and then drive to Shangri-La in the morning?”
Munz nodded.
“Where is Lee-Watson?”
“Having a cup of tea in the breakfast room. I didn’t think you’d want him here for this.”
“Ask him to join us, please.”
[TWO]
Aeropuerto Internacional Capitan de Corbeta Carlos A. Curbelo
Maldonado Province
Republica Oriental del Uruguay
1705 3 January 2006
The wheels hardly chirped when the Lorimer Charitable & Benevolent Fund Gulfstream III touched down on the runway.
“You must have been practicing, Charley,” First Officer Miller said to Captain Castillo over the intercom. “That wasn’t your usual let’s-bounce-three-times-down-the-runway-and-see-if-we-can-blow-a-tire landing.”
“With all the time you’ve spent flying right seat with me, First Officer, I would’ve thought by now you’d have learned that landings come to me naturally, as a by-product of my superb reflexes and, of course, genius.”
A grunt came through Castillo’s headset.
“You ain’t no genius when you’re thinking with your dick, Captain. In fact, you ain’t never been too smart in that department.”
Castillo turned to look at Miller. “If you have something to say, Gimpy, say it,” he said unpleasantly.
Miller held up both hands, suggesting it had been only an idle, general comment.
Berezovsky’s wife and little girl and Marina, their Bouvier des Flandres pup had arrived quietly at Jorge Newbery at exactly the right time. The Gulfstream had gone wheels-up five minutes later. The odds were strong that no one had seen them.
Forty minutes into the flight, Sergeant Kensington had called over the secure AFC radio and reported: “Mr.
