"Better than in Vienna?"
"Actually, you can get better Hungarische gulyas in Vienna than you can here," Kocian said. "Things are not always what they seem, Karl. Do you know what the people in Hamburg call what you call a frankfurter?"
Castillo shook his head, then asked, "A frankfurter?"
"Right. And what do the people in Frankfurt call what you and the Hamburgers call a frankfurter?"
"Don't tell me-a hamburger?"
"A sausage," Kocian said. "And what do the Hamburgers call chopped and fried beef?"
"I know they don't call it a frankfurter."
"They call it fried chopped beef unless they don't fry it, and instead serve it raw, in which case it becomes steak tartar."
"Actually, Eric, I have a real fondness for Wiener schnitzel. Do you suppose you could have the kitchen make up a dozen of them, and wrap them in foil so that we can take them with us on the plane?"
"Won't they go bad?"
"There's a little kitchen on the plane, with a freezer. The only thing in it right now is a bottle of beer and Colonel Torine's Viagra."
"Oh, Jesus Christ!" Torine said.
"My friend Karl," Eric Kocian said, "inasmuch as this is all going on Otto's American Express card, you can have anything your greedy little heart desires."
"In that case, a dozen Wiener schnitzels," Castillo said. "Plus one for my lunch, of course. I really love Wiener schnitzel."
XVII
[ONE] Approaching Aeropuerto Internacional Jorge Newbery Buenos Aires, Argentina 0535 29 July 2005 Castillo was flying. The night was clear and he could see the glow of the lights of Buenos Aires as he began his descent. As he dropped lower, the lights became more distinct. What had looked like a single orange line pointing at the city became a double line, and he could see headlightsmoving along what he now recognized as Route 8 and the Acceso Norte leading from Pilar to the city.
It had been quite a trip. The Lear was fast-its long-range cruise speed was three-quarters the speed of sound-but it was not intended or designed for flying across oceans. It had been necessary to make refueling stops within the limitations of the aircraft's range, about 1,900 nautical miles. The first leg-about 1,500 nautical miles-had been a three-and-a-half-hour flight from Budapest to Casablanca, Morocco. After refueling, they had flown 1,250 nautical miles in a bit under three hours to Dakar, Senegal, on the extreme west coast of the African continent.
From Dakar, it had been a four-hour, 1,750-nautical-mile flight, the longest leg, southwest across the Atlantic Ocean to Recife, Brazil. This had been the iffy leg. There are no alternative airfields in the Atlantic Ocean on which to land when fuel is running low. They had approached the Point of No Return with their fingers crossed, but there had been no extraordinary headwinds or other problems to slow them, and Torine, who was then flying in the left seat, had made the decision to go on. What could have been a real problem just hadn't materialized.
Recife apparently was not accustomed to either refueling small private jets or providing food at half past two in the morning, and it had taken them an hour and a half to get both. But with that exception, they had been able to land, refuel, check the weather, and file flight plans in remarkably little time everywhere else.
From Recife they had flown south to Sao Paulo- 1,150 nautical miles in just under two and a half hours- and then begun the last leg, to Buenos Aires, which would be a just-over-two-hour flight covering 896 nautical miles.
Alex Pevsner's down there, Castillo thought, and I have a gut feeling I'm going to need him. And by now, Howard Kennedy has told him that I'm not going to point him in Jean-Paul Lorimer's direction so he can give him a beauty mark in the center of his forehead. That will be a problem, one that I'll have to think about later. Right now I'm too tired to make difficult decisions.
Castillo pushed the TRANSMIT lever.
"Jorge Newbery, Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five. I am forty kilometers north at five thousand feet. Request approach and landing." "Lear Five-Zero-Seven-Five," Jorge Newbery ground control ordered, "at the end of the active, turn right, and proceed to parking area in front of the Jet-Aire hangar. Customs and immigration will meet your aircraft."
"Seven-Five understands right at the threshold, taxi to Jet-Aire parking area," Castillo replied. "Wait for customs and immigration."
As he approached the Jet-Aire hangar a ground handler in white coveralls came out and, with illuminated wands, directed him to park beside an Aero Commander.
When Castillo had finished the shutdown procedures, he took a closer look at the Aero Commander. If the light, high-wing twin wasn't derelict, it was close. The fabric-covered portions of the rear stabilizer assembly were missing or visibly decayed. The tire on the left landing gear was flat. The left engine nacelle was missing.
"I know just how that Commander feels," Castillo said to Colonel Torine, who was in the right seat. "Old, battered, and worn out."
Torine looked at the Aero Commander and chuckled.
"It has been a rather long ride, hasn't it?" Torine replied, in something of an understatement, as he unfastened his harness.
"And here comes what looks like the local officialdom," Fernando said from the aisle behind them.
Castillo saw two Ford F-150 pickup trucks with Grimes lights flashing from their roofs approaching them. Two uniformed men got out of the first, and a man in civilian clothing out of the second.
"The civilian is SIDE," Castillo said. "I don't know his name, but I saw him somewhere."
He unfastened his harness and stood.
When Castillo went down the stairs to the tarmac, he saw both that the SIDE agent's eyebrows had risen when he saw him, and that he immediately had taken out a cellular telephone.
Well, this time I'm arriving as C. G. Castillo, carrying a brand-new passport with no stamps on it at all.
When the SIDE agent came to the Lear, he gave no sign that he had recognized Castillo, even after he had examined his passport. The customs and immigration procedures were polite but thorough. The aircraft and their luggage were submitted to testing for drugs and explosives, which might or might not have been standard procedure for civil aircraft arriving from outside the country. Castillo was glad that he hadn't brought any weapons from Fort Bragg.
No questions were raised about Kranz's "satellite telephone antenna," which might or might not have been because Castillo had asked them if it would be safe to leave it on the aircraft while they were in Buenos Aires. Neither did the "laptop"-which actually controlled the radio and held the encryption system-cause any unusual interest. It had been designed to look like a typical laptop computer.
The customs officer did, however, unfold the aluminum foil in which the Wiener schnitzel in the freezer was wrapped. It might have been idle curiosity or he might have been looking for a package of cocaine.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Wiener schnitzel," Castillo told him. "Sort of a veal milanesa."
And if you hadn't gone in there and found it, I probably would have forgotten it, and with the juice turned off, when I finally remembered it, it would have been rotten Wiener schnitzel.
"I think I'd better take that with me," Castillo said as the customs officer started to put it back in the freezer. He put it into his laptop briefcase.
"Enjoy your stay in Argentina, gentlemen," the customs officer said.
"We'll certainly try," Castillo said. [TWO] El Presidente de la Rua Suite The Four Seasons Hotel Cerrito 1433 Buenos Aires, Argentina 0605 29 July 2005 A sleepy-eyed Special Agent Jack Britton answered the door in his underwear.
"That was a quick European tour," he said, offering his hand.
"The last two hotels we were in, we didn't even get to muss the beds," Castillo said. "Except Kranz, of course. He's smarter than we are. Whenever he's not eating, he's sleeping."
"I'm Kranz," Kranz said.