"'Personal Assistant," she replied in a musing tone. "I like that much better than 'secretary'." Her tone turned businesslike. "Can I reach you at the old number?"
"Yeah," he said with relief. Maybe she didn't notice. He'd been thinking about her lately; and not just as an efficient 'administrative assistant'. "But don't forget the time difference! I just finished breakfast."
She laughed. "And my dinner just boiled over. Is there anything else I can do to help? When will you be coming back?" She sounded enthusiastic. Could it be . . . No, he decided. She just liked working with him.
"It will probably be a week or two. I've got to figure a way to sneak into the country without Homeland Security alerting the entire press corps. Maybe I'll come in through Canada or Mexico by car. Anyway, I'll keep you posted." He was surprised to find himself reluctant to hang up.
Getting back into the United States was even worse than he remembered, now that Homeland Security had everything locked down and was doing its best KGB imitation. From Manila, he flew to Hong Kong using Cebu Pacific, a small Filipino airline. From there he flew to Mexico City on Cathay Pacific, a Chinese airline that probably would not share its passenger lists with the press. The Mexican authorities seemed to be taking lessons from their northern neighbors; customs processing was a much larger inconvenience than before. After a night in a Hilton near the airport, he boarded a small turboprop executive plane bearing the name "Engineering Specialties, Inc." that carried him to a small company airstrip outside Tijuana. A large SUV with blacked-out windows and a nondescript Toyota waited for him. As the aircraft taxied to a stop near the cars, the four doors of the huge SUV flew open, and six men with AK-47's poured out, spreading out to form a twenty-foot perimeter. The driver's door of the Toyota opened more slowly, to reveal a Hispanic man in a business suit.
Frank emerged from the plane and looked around. "Buenos Dias, Hernando. What's all this?"
The man in the suit shrugged. "This is life in Tijuana now, Frank," he replied in nearly accentless English. "We kept your arrival secret, of course, but the cartels own the border cities now. I'd have brought another carload of gunmen if I hadn't thought it would be too conspicuous. Please," he added anxiously, "don't stand in the open. Kidnapping is an industry here. Please get into the car." He hustled Frank to the Toyota. Once they were safely in the car, the gunmen piled into the SUV and followed as Hernando drove the Toyota into the city.
"Okay, Frank, here it is." Hernando began. "This car was rented in your name in Puerto Vallarta this morning. Expect the U.S. Customs officer to want to see the rental agreement. In fact, expect a big hassle. The more obviously American you are, the more inconvenience. Don't be surprised if they decide to strip search you and the car. They seem determined to take over where the KGB left off. Oh, yeah. Just as a precaution, we had the car inspected and detailed to make sure there were no traces of drugs from a previous trip. A few years ago, I'd have just driven you to San Diego, but now that would just cause even more hassle."
Frank shook his head sadly. "My poor, poor America," he said softly. "What's happened to you?"
Hernando looked sympathetic, but shrugged. "The Cartels now own my Mexico, and the government now owns your America. You were wise to leave when you did. Anyway," he continued, "I understand that your inimitable Susan reserved a suite for you at the Hilton in San Diego. It's reserved under your real name, so be prepared."
Hernando pulled the Toyota to the curb and the big SUV followed. "I must leave you here, Frank. Turn right at the next corner and just fall in at the end of the line." He grinned. "Your Homeland Security has cameras watching the line. If they saw me get out, you would get the full treatment. Good luck, Frank."
Frank got out of the car and walked around to the driver's door. He shook hands with Hernando and thanked him, and then got in.
Frank later had to admit that at least part of his problem clearing U.S. Customs was his own fault.
His name was recognized when he presented his passport. The Customs agent examined it, then looked startled and called over another officer. That officer examined the passport, and then waved Frank into the 'inspection' lane. He was made to get out of the car, and while agents swarmed over it, an agent was questioning Frank.
"You've been in the Philippines for over a year?" the agent asked. Frank admitted that he had.
"And you just arrived in Mexico City yesterday?" Frank nodded.
"Yet the rental agreement shows you rented the car in Puerto Vallarta this morning," the agent persisted, "and this afternoon you're entering the U.S. by car. Care to explain that?"
Frank shrugged. "I flew into Mexico City because I had a meeting there. Then I flew to Puerto Vallarta for another meeting. I rented the car there, and here I am."
"Why not fly into the States? There's regular service from Puerto Vallarta."
Frank was getting irritated. This man knew that one of the world's wealthiest men was unlikely to be smuggling drugs; he was making a point, displaying his authority.
"I can't fly into the States any more. Too many Homeland Security agents make extra money by selling the names of interesting passengers to the press. So, I have to come in unannounced."
The agent stiffened and flushed. "We do not sell names, sir," he replied, his emphasis on the last word conveying his disgust.
Frank was still irritated. "Does that mean I may get out of here soon, or are we waiting for the reporters?" was his acid comment.
After that, he wasn't really surprised at the strip search. However, he was released only two hours later, before the reporters arrived, if, indeed they had been informed.
A man was waiting at the Hilton to return the Toyota to Puerto Vallarta, but there were no reporters. After almost two years out of the country, perhaps he was overestimating his celebrity
Frank ordered room service, since he was too tired to deal with a restaurant. He plugged in his laptop, and went to work. He cursed when he caught himself drifting off to sleep and realized it was 1 AM. He gave up and went to bed.
Once inside the U.S., Frank had much greater freedom of movement, especially since he had access to a number of corporate and private aircraft. So he was relieved when Susan called him the next morning to discuss his flight plan to Chicago, to meet with Paul.
"I had a thought last night," Frank said. "I may take a detour. See if you can get me an appointment with somebody at Space-X in Hawthorne, preferably someone in sales or engineering, that is familiar with the capabilities of their launchers."
Less than three hours later, his room phone rang. "Mr. Weatherly? This is Elon Musk. I'm afraid Space-X isn't looking for any investors at the moment."
Frank chuckled at the man's brusque manner. "And I'm not looking for investments," he replied. "I'm interested in assessing the capabilities of your launchers, especially the Falcon Heavy, in connection with a project I'm involved with."
Musk's voice turned doubtful. "I see. Of course, the Heavy isn't quite ready for deployment, yet . . ."
Frank sighed. "Neither is my project. Look, Mr. Musk, at present I am assessing the capabilities of the available systems. If you're not ready to discuss the Falcon Heavy with prospective customers, I quite understand. I'm actually on my way to Europe, to check out the Ariane 5; I had a stopover in San Diego, and thought I should consider Space-X. Thank you for taking the time to talk with me personally."
"Wait! Wait," Musk said. "I'm sorry, Mr. Weatherly, I seem to have made some invalid assumptions from hearing your name. You're in San Diego? Why don't you grab a puddle-jumper and come on up to Hawthorne Municipal Airport? I'll have someone meet you with a car. I'm afraid I won't be there personally, but one the project engineers on the Heavy project will be available to provide any information you need."