He told Kensington to give Alex Darby, Alfredo Munz, and Tony Santini—and absolutely no one else—a heads-up that they were coming, his best guess of their ETA, and to lay on wheels at the Jorge Newbery airport to transport eight people, plus Max, to the safe house.
He asked Kensington the whereabouts of the Sienos and was disappointed to learn that they were in Asuncion, Paraguay. Susanna and Paul Sieno didn’t have an AFC radio. Castillo told Kensington to get word to them as quickly as he could that he wanted the husband and wife at the safe house as soon as possible—preferably both together, but the wife absolutely soonest.
Susanna—a trim, pale, freckled-skin redhead—and Paul—with olive skin and dark hair—were CIA agents in their thirties. They had worked before for Castillo—for the OOA—but after the last operation Castillo had returned them to the CIA. Now he needed them back, especially Susanna.
Naturally, Kensington had asked what the hell was going on.
“I’ll tell you when I see you, Bob. Right now, the fewer people who know we’re coming the better.”
Then Castillo made a final secure call on the AFC device, one to the safe house in Alexandria, Virginia. Corporal Lester Bradley answered the radio.
Castillo asked him to tell Major Dick Miller where he was headed, but again not why, and when Lester said, “Yes, sir,” Castillo gave in to an impulse.
“And tell him to get you on the next flight to Buenos Aires, Lester. Go directly from the airport to the safe house there.”
“Yes, sir,” Bradley replied with considerably more enthusiasm than he had with his previous use of the words.
Castillo took off the headset and unstrapped himself. He looked at Jake Torine, who was in the pilot’s seat.
“And was the cherub happy?” Torine asked.
Castillo gave him the finger. He pushed himself out of the co-pilot seat and went into the cabin. Sparkman then got out of his seat and went into the cockpit.
Castillo looked around the cabin.
Lora Berezovsky was sleeping on the left couch, daughter Sof’ya on the right. Both puppies were cuddled asleep with the girl. Max had begun the flight on the corridor floor next to them, but then apparently had—without disturbing either the girl or the pups—moved onto the foot of the couch, where he was curled up and asleep.
Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky was dozing in the forward-facing seat in the rear of the cabin. Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva was in the rear-facing seat by the forward bulkhead, with Edgar Delchamps in the seat facing opposite to hers. Lieutenant Colonel Alekseeva was reading
As Castillo moved into the seat Sparkman had been using—the forward-facing seat across the aisle from her—this caused him to wonder,
Jack Davidson walked up the aisle from the galley and went into the cockpit. He liked to watch the pilots— their piloting. Jack had a lot of time in the co-pilot seats of various aircraft that Castillo had flown, and he was actively working on somehow getting into flight school and staying in Special Operations at the same time. Everybody said that was just about impossible, but everybody didn’t know Davidson as well as Castillo did.
Thirty-five minutes later, the public-address system speaker beeped three times, signaling that something was to be fed to the passengers.
“Rhine Control, Gulfstream 379,” Torine’s voice came over the speaker.
“Gulfstream 379, Rhine Control. Go ahead.”
“Gulfstream 379. We need to amend our flight plan with a destination change. Our new destination is Dakar, Senegal, Identifier Golf-Oscar-Oscar-Yankee. Request present position direct Geneva. Over.”
“Ahhh, roger, Gulfstream 379. I can clear you with routing direct Geneva, but I do not have the authority to clear you beyond Rhine airspace. You must coordinate further routing with Euro-control for clearance beyond Geneva. I suggest you contact Euro-control on frequency one-three-two-decimal-eight-five-zero for further clearance. Once I have received further clearance, I will contact you on this frequency. For now you are cleared present position direct Geneva. Maintain flight level three-four-zero.”
The tone of the controller’s voice suggested he had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with such a significant change to a cleared routing.
Torine didn’t mind. What he wanted to do was at least get the Gulfstream pointed in the right direction— toward Senegal. He knew that Geneva was on the edge of Rhine Control’s airspace boundary and probably would not be cleared beyond that. Also, he knew that making such a major change in their flight plan would take some time to coordinate with air traffic control. While en route to Geneva he would have Sparkman coordinate a new routing that would take them, after Geneva, over Toulouse, France; Malaga, Spain; Casablanca, Morocco; Tenerife, in the Canary Islands; then down the Atlantic Ocean just off the west coast of Africa; and finally into Dakar, Senegal.
“Roger, Rhine,” Torine replied cheerfully. “Gulfstream 379 cleared direct Geneva. Maintain flight level three- four-zero. We will coordinate our request with Euro-control and will remain on this frequency. Thank you ever so much.”
Castillo looked back into the cabin. Berezovsky’s eyes were wide open.
Berezovsky was still awake and alert when the loudspeakers beeped three times again.
“Gulfstream 379, Rhine Control. I have your revised clearance. Advise when ready to copy.”
“Gulfstream 379 ready to copy.”
“Gulfstream 379, you are now cleared to Golf-Oscar-Oscar-Yankee. After Geneva direct Toulouse, direct Malaga.”
This time, when Castillo glanced down the aisle to see if Berezovsky was showing any reaction to hearing the air traffic control conversation, the Russian was coming down the aisle. He reached Castillo and squatted beside him.
“I presume this aircraft has GPS capability?”
Castillo nodded.
“May I see it?”
Castillo considered yelling for Davidson to open the cockpit door, then looked around the aircraft. Most everyone, including the women and child, were sleeping. He reached behind him and picked up the aircraft intercom phone.
“Jack!”
Davidson appeared in the cockpit door a moment later. He held a phone handset to his ear.
“Show the colonel where we are on the GPS,” Castillo ordered into the phone.
Davidson waved Berezovsky into the cockpit.
The Russian went up the aisle and into the cockpit.
A minute or so later, Berezovsky reappeared and approached Castillo.
“Tom, you’re just going to have to learn to trust me, ol’ buddy.”
Berezovsky didn’t reply. He simply walked back to his seat.
Castillo sensed Svetlana’s eyes on him.
“We have a training tape, a simulator, that shows that we’re approaching Sheremetyevo,” Castillo said to her, referring to the Moscow airport. “I should have had that running.”
Svetlana shook her head. But he thought he noticed a smile.
“You’re going to have to remember that he’s a senior SVR colonel,” she said.
“
