“We’re descending into Lajes,” Mike said. “I’m going to go up and watch our landing.”
Stone followed him and they sat in the jump seats again. Through the pilots’ windows he could see an expanse of blue Atlantic, gleaming in the late-afternoon sunlight, and an island came into view. Stone spotted the long runway a few minutes out and watched the pilots as they slowed the airplane’s descent, then put in flaps and slats and lowered the landing gear. They landed smoothly and taxied off the runway, where a fuel truck was waiting for them.
“We’ll stay on the airplane,” Mike said, “to avoid having to clear local customs.”
An Air Force contingent did enter the airplane and check passports, though. An hour later they were climbing out of Lajes and heading for Gibraltar and the Mediterranean beyond. Once they were at altitude again, Stone went back to the trailer and lay down on a bunk. Shortly, he was asleep. He woke in time to get a look at Gibraltar, far below, then he had a dinner prepared by a caterer before they left Stewart, along with a glass of wine. Then he went to sleep again.
He didn’t wake up until Mike shook him.
“We’re landing in fifteen minutes,” he said.
Stone got up, washed his face and brushed his teeth, then went forward to a jump seat. The sun was up, and the airplane was descending at a much steeper angle than when they had landed in the Azores.
Mike spoke up. “We’re making a steep descent into Baghdad International, in order to give insurgents less chance of hitting us with missiles.”
“Missiles?” Stone asked. “Nobody mentioned missiles.”
“It’s less likely than it would have been a year ago, but we have to treat the place as a war zone. We won’t get off the airplane here, but I think you’ll find it interesting to watch what happens. There are two runways here, one of ten thousand feet and one of thirteen thousand. The airport is about ten miles west of the city.”
Stone couldn’t believe how steep the approach was. He tried to find the rate of descent on the instrument panel, but he was too far away to read it. He reckoned that they were falling out of the sky at the rate of at least eight or ten thousand feet a minute, with everything hanging out—landing gear, flaps, speedbrakes, spoilers, if the airplane had them. He had never seen a view of an airport out the pilot’s window like the one he could see now.
The airplane touched down, and immediately Stone was thrown against his seat belt as the engines were reversed. Shortly, they were off the runway, and Stone could see a fuel truck ahead of them, waiting. The airplane taxied up to the truck and cut its engines, as the tail ramp came down. Stone got out of his seat and followed Mike into the huge cargo bay. Immediately, forklifts began bringing in pallets of matériel. As soon as they were set down, the forklifts went back for more, and airmen secured each pallet with netting, cables, and rope. It was all incredibly efficient, and by the time the tail ramp had closed, the fuel truck was gone and the engines were starting. Stone noticed that the central area of the cargo bay, behind the Airstream, was empty. He followed Mike back to the jump seats.
“Where are we stopping for the extraction on the way back?” Stone asked Freeman.
“I don’t know,” Mike said. “Todd Bacon will tell us when we’re airborne.”
“What’s Bacon’s story?” Stone asked.
“All I can tell you is, he’s one of Lance’s people, he’s, at least, the titular CEO of Airship Transport, and he’s in charge of the extraction.”
“What’s Holly here for?” Stone asked.
“I get the impression that she’s here to watch Bacon,” Mike replied.
The airplane was already rolling down the runway, using a lot more of it than on previous takeoffs. The pilot rotated, and the airplane began to climb steeply. Stone looked out a side window and saw something flying toward them, leaving a trail of smoke. Before he could speak someone yelled, “Missile at two o’clock!”
Stone was thrown hard against his seat belt, and the airplane picked up speed and turned first right, then left.
“Clean miss!” the copilot yelled, and they began climbing again.
“Holy shit!” Stone said. “That’s the first time I’ve ever been shot at in the air!”
“Me too,” Mike said. “I think ‘holy shit’ pretty much covers it for me, as well.”
“Are we safe yet?”
“Who knows?” Mike replied.
The airplane continued its steep climb, and gradually Stone’s grip on the armrests of his seat relaxed.
Todd Bacon appeared in the cockpit. “Okay, everybody in the trailer,” he said.
TWENTY-THREE
Stone, Mike, Holly, and Todd Bacon sat in the reclining chairs, and Todd unfolded a map. The first thing that struck Stone was that it was not an aeronautical chart but a Michelin road map.
“All right,” Todd said. “We’re going to land in northern Spain to extract a longtime fugitive and return him to United States jurisdiction.”
“By extract,” Stone said, “do you mean extradite?”
“Extradition is impossible,” Todd replied.
“How come?” Mike asked.
“All right, I’ll tell you the whole story,” Todd said, “or at least as much of it as I know.”
“We’re all ears,” Mike said.
“The man’s name is Erwin Gelbhardt, born in Germany sixty-eight years ago, brought to the U.S. at age eight and later naturalized. His father was a German diplomat, and the child grew up as his father served in Egypt, Spain, Saudi Arabia and Iran, and the U.S., where he retired and remained. As a result the boy, who had already displayed an affinity for languages, picked up those four languages, as well as his native German and English. He learned French in school.”
“A bright kid,” Mike said.
“Very bright. He was educated at Choate, Yale, and Harvard Business School, graduating at each school near or at the top of his classes. After getting his MBA he took a little over a million dollars, inherited from his mother, and during the next decade, turned it into more than a hundred million dollars made from various businesses in North, South, and Central America. Wherever he did business he specialized in corrupting local officials, up to and including intelligence officials and heads of state. He had a lot of cash to throw around, since he paid little or no taxes in the United States, despite his American citizenship.
“Eventually, the IRS came after him in a big way. He was arrested as his private jet landed in Key West on a flight from Cuba, and as soon as that became known, people began to come out of the woodwork with information about other crimes he had committed in the countries where he operated. A line formed for extradition to half a dozen countries.
“He was held without bail, but during a lunch break at his trial, he went to the men’s room and vanished. No one yet knows how he got out of the courthouse. He left the country on a cargo plane headed for Algeria, and, we think, on arrival there he had extensive cosmetic surgery to alter his appearance.
“After that he went into the arms business in a big way. He had money hidden in Swiss and other banks around the world to fund his enterprise, and, operating under various names, he supplied weapons, small and large, to third-world countries and insurgencies around the globe. In recent years he adopted the name Pablo Estancia and, using his language skills, affected a Spanish accent in whatever language he spoke, which by that time numbered ten or twelve, including Chinese, Arabic, Urdu, and various Middle Eastern tribal dialects. He moved across borders with impunity with multiple passports and IDs and made himself the indispensable man with Islamic insurgencies of all stripes, including Al Qaeda and the Taliban. You have a picture of him now?”