“I see,” Sanchez said. “That all makes perfect sense. You say that Celia Valdez will be landing here in Caracas in an hour?”
“That’s right,” Jake said. “Continental flight 721 out of Houston. It’s probably coming over Aruba about now.”
“Interesting,” Sanchez said thoughtfully. “Do you have anything to declare?”
Jake shook his head. “Nothing. All we have is what we left Los Angeles with.”
“Except the plane, of course,” Sanchez said.
“Well ... yeah, except that.”
“A plane you purchased from a gentleman named Eduardo Gomez.”
“That’s correct,” Jake said.
“How well do you know Señor Gomez?” he was asked next.
“I’ve only met him once,” Jake said. “That was on my last visit to Colombia, when I went to inspect the plane before I committed to purchase. Señor Gomez made a point to meet me. We went out and had a few beers while my mechanic was inspecting the aircraft. Played some darts. He was a nice enough guy. Very down to Earth.”
“I see,” Sanchez said. “Are you aware of what Señor Gomez does for a living?”
“He told me that he was in the import and export business,” Jake said. “That he imports consumer electronics and exports coffee.”
“Si, he does those things,” Sanchez said. “But it is highly suspected that those are just covers for his real business.”
“Which is?” Jake asked.
“He is believed to be one of the biggest exporters of yeyo to the United States in South America.”
“Is that a fact?”
“It is a strong suspicion backed up by considerable evidence,” Sanchez said. “And that is why we took a particular interest when we saw your flight plan. You see, this aircraft has been flagged for the last two years.”
“Surely you do not suspect that I am in cahoots with Señor Gomez?” Jake asked.
“Now that I have talked to you and your story seems reasonable enough, no,” Sanchez replied. “I sense no deceit from you.”
“Oh ... good,” Jake said, relieved. He was, however, a little disappointed that Sanchez had not implored him to not call him Shirley.
“Nevertheless, we will give your belongings and your airplane a quick onceover, just to be sure.”
Jake waved them in the direction of the plane. “Be my guest,” he offered. After all, it wasn’t like he had much of a choice in the matter.
The onceover took about twenty minutes. Sanchez had Jake and Laura remove their suitcases from the cargo hold and open them up on the tarmac. The dog—her name was Maria—sniffed over their things for a few minutes but gave no reaction. Sanchez and the non-dog-handling agent then dug through their things for a few more minutes, seemingly disappointed when they found nothing out of the ordinary. Laura thought they did spend a little more time than necessary looking at her panties—particularly the dirty ones stored in a plastic laundry bag—but she said nothing. After that, the dog-handling agent led Maria all around the perimeter of the aircraft. She sniffed at everything and gave no reaction. She was then led inside the plane and remained there for the better part of five minutes. At last, the handler and Maria emerged. The handler held a whispered conversation in Spanish with Sanchez and that was it.
“You may put your luggage back into the plane,” Sanchez told them. “After that, you may accompany us inside the terminal and I will stamp your passports. After that, you may proceed to the general aviation terminal to arrange for temporary berthing.
“Very good,” Jake said, nodding, wondering if he was now supposed to tip them or something.
Apparently, he was not. They turned and walked back to the terminal. Jake and Laura put their suitcases back together and stowed them back in the plane. Jake closed the door back up and he and Laura went and got their passports stamped and were given their tourist cards since they would be staying less than thirty days. They were now free to move about Venezuela.
They got back in the Avanti and taxied it over to the general aviation terminal on the far side of the airport. There, Jake was able to acquire some Venezuelan currency at a rate of 207 bolivars for each US dollar. He got a thousand dollars worth and, using this currency he paid his landing fee of 10,000 bolivars and his daily tie-down fee of 5,000 bolivars. They took their luggage out of the plane and secured the aircraft with the passcode lock. They then walked back into the terminal and out the other side, where they caught a circulating shuttle van back to the international terminal, entering it from the main entrance this time.
They found a waiting area near the security checkpoints—which they had no intention of traversing—and were delighted to find that a fully functioning bar and lounge was located within it. The staff there all spoke English to varying degrees. They found seats at the bar and ordered some drinks. Jake, since he was not going to be flying or even driving in the next few days, went with a rum and coke, specifying one of the local rums. Laura ordered a glass of one of the local wines. These drinks cost another thirteen hundred bolivars, including the tip—about $6.28 in US dollars.
“You gotta love this exchange rate,” Jake said as he sipped from the potent concoction. It really was pretty good rum.
“Celia told me it’s getting worse every year,” Laura said. “She said the country seems to be heading for some kind of financial meltdown.”
“Interesting,” Jake said. “You would think a place with as much oil as Venezuela would be a little more financially secure.”
“You would think.”
“They’re a member of OPEC, for god’s sake.”
“I guess they just don’t manage money very well,” she suggested.
Continental Flight 721 landed on time. Jake and Laura finished their drinks and then headed over toward the baggage carousel assigned to it. It was nearly another forty-five minutes before passengers began to emerge from the escalator that led downward from the customs and declarations station on the second floor. And when they did begin to emerge, they did so in dribbles and drabbles. Jake expected that Celia and Suzie, who was traveling with her, would be among the first off since they were flying first class. He was wrong. They were among the last to emerge, and the moment that Celia stepped off the escalator, her carry-on bag in hand, she was mobbed by a crowd of disbelieving Venezuelans who chattered to her in Spanish and asked for autographs, ecstatic that their most famous citizen had returned home. Suzie got separated from her in all the chaos and so it was she that Jake and Laura greeted first.
“Fly Girl!” Laura greeted happily when she saw her.
“Teach!” Suzie shot right back. They came together and shared an affectionate hug.
“How was the flight?” Laura asked her when their embrace broke.
“Not bad,” she said. “I don’t get to do first class very often. I kind of enjoyed it.” She then looked over at Jake. “Jake. Good to see you again.”
“You as well,” Jake said.
To his surprise, Suzie gave him a hug too. He returned it affectionately. After all, he was now going to have an actual commercial transport pilot along for the ride with him for each hop back to San Diego. The thought was very comforting.
“How was the Avanti?” she asked him. “I can’t wait to see it. I am actually green with envy that you have one now.”
“It flew like a dream,” he told her. “I was a little nervous about taking off from eighty-four hundred feet for my first flight solo, but I hardly even noticed other than the high VR speed.”
By the time he finished his summary of the flight from Bogota (leaving out the part about the blowjob at FL-310), Celia had finally managed to free herself from the crowd and locate them. She came over and gave first Laura and then Jake big hugs.
“That was quite the welcome home,” Jake told her, nodding his head in the direction of the crowd, which was still hovering nearby.