They spread out, poking their noses—and rifle muzzles—into every corner of the hangar. A couple of the suits came up to our car, where the glamorous Ms. Jones greeted them with a big toothy smile. I couldn’t make out what she was saying to them, but it sounded like she was speaking in Spanish.
Sam came bubbling over, practically drooling once he feasted his eyes on Jones. He didn’t notice us inside the car, behind the heavily tinted windows.
At last, the leader of the suits turned to the team of soldiers surrounding the beflagged limo and gave a curt nod. They opened the rear door and out stepped a little girl, with big dark eyes and long hair that just had to be naturally curly. She couldn’t have been more than ten years old. She smiled at the soldiers, as if she knew them by name. She was very nicely dressed in a one-piece jumpsuit of butter yellow.
She turned back and said something to someone who was still inside the limo. She reached her hand in to whoever it was. A tall, lean man of about fifty came out of the limo and stretched to his full height. He was wearing army fatigues and smoking an immense cigar.
My jaw fell open. “That’s the president of Cuba!” I gasped. “The man who took over when Castro died.”
“No,” Hector corrected me. “He’s the man who took over after the bloodbath in Havana when Castro died.”
“That must be his daughter.”
“What’re they doing here?” Hector wondered.
“Taking one of Sam’s phony rides into space,” I said. “I wonder if they know it’s a phony?”
Hector turned to face me. “Maybe it’s not.”
“Not what?”
“Not a phony,” he said grimly. “Maybe they’re going to have an accident up there. On purpose.”
It hit me like a shot of pure heroin. “They’re going to assassinate the president of Cuba!”
“And make it look like an accident.”
“Oh my god!”
The driver turned slightly to tell us, “Don’t get any crazy ideas—”
He never got any further. I jammed my thumbs into his carotids and held on. In a few seconds he was unconscious.
“Where’d you learn that?” Hector asked, his tone somewhere between amazement and admiration.
“South Philadelphia,” I answered as I yanked the nine-millimeter from the driver’s holster. “Come on.”
Hector grasped my shoulder. “You’re not going to get far in a shoot-out.”
He was right, dammit. I had to think fast. Outside, I could see Jones leading the president of Cuba and his daughter toward the plane. Half the Cuban security force walked a respectful distance behind them, the other half was deployed on either side of them.
“Most of those ground crew personnel must be security guys from the States,” Hector pointed out. “Must be enough firepower out there to start World War III.”
My eye lit on Sam. He was still standing in the sunshine of the ramp, outside the hangar, hardly more than ten meters from our car.
“Come on,” I said, leaning past the unconscious driver to pop the door lock.
I stuffed the pistol in my belly bag, keeping the bag unzippered so I could grab the gun quickly if I needed to.
Sam turned as we approached him. He looked surprised, then delighted.
“Ramona!” he said with a big grin. “I thought you two had gone back to the States.”
“Not yet,” I said grimly. “We’re taking this flight with you.”
For an instant Sam looked puzzled, but then he said, “Great. Come on, you can ride in the 747 with me.”
“You’re not going aboard the orbiter?”
“Not this flight,” Sam said easily.
Of course not, I thought. On this flight the orbiter’s really going to be released from the 747. Instead of going into space, as Sam promised, it was going to crash into the Caribbean. With the president of Cuba aboard. And his ten-year-old daughter.
“Sam, how could you do this?” I asked as we walked into the hangar.
“Listen, I was just as surprised as you would be when the State Department asked me to do it.”
“With his little daughter, too.”
We reached the ladder. “It was his daughter’s idea,” Sam said. “She wanted to take the space ride. Poppa’s only doing this to please his little girl—and for the international publicity, of course.”
With Sam leading the way we climbed up the ladder into the 747. Its interior was strictly utilitarian: no fancy decor. Most of the cavernous passenger cabin was empty. There were only seats up in the first-class section, below the cockpit. Sam, Hector and I went up the spiral stairs and entered the cockpit, where a young woman in a pilot’s uniform was already sitting in the right-hand seat.
“Can you fly this plane?” I asked Hector.
He stared at the control panels; the gauges and buttons and keypads seemed to stretch for miles. Looking out the windshield, I saw we were already so high up we might as well have been on oxygen.
“I’ve got a multiengine license,” Hector muttered.
“But can you fly this plane?” I insisted.
He nodded tightly. “I can fly anything.”
Sam put on a quizzical look. “Why should he have to fly? I’m going to pilot this mission myself and I’ve got a qualified copilot here.”
I pulled the pistol from my belly bag and pointed it at the copilot. “Get out,” I said. “Hector, you take her place.”
She stared at me, wide-eyed, frozen.
“Vamos,” Sam said, in the most un-Spanish accent I’d ever heard. The woman slipped out of the copilot’s chair.
“What’s this all about?” Sam asked, more intrigued than scared. “Why the toy cannon?”
I pointed the gun at him. “Sam, you’re going to fly this plane just the way you would for any of your tourist flights. No more and no less.”
He gave me one of his lopsided grins. “Sure. What else?”
There were two jump seats behind the pilots’ chairs. I took one and Sam’s erstwhile copilot the other. I kept the pistol in my hand as we rolled out of the hangar, lit up the engines, and taxied to the runway.
“What do you think is going on here,” Sam asked, “that makes you need a gun?”
“You know perfectly well what’s going on,” I said.
“Yeah,” he answered ruefully. “But I don’t know what you know.”
“Who’s in the orbiter’s cockpit?” I asked.
“Some guy the State Department insisted on. They wanted their own people up there with El Presidente and his daughter.”
“Do they have parachutes?”
“Parachutes? What for?”
“They’re all going down with the president and his daughter?”
“Whither he goest,” Sam replied.
We took off smoothly and headed out over the Caribbean. Is this part of the Bermuda Triangle? I asked myself. Will this fatal accident be chalked up as another mystical happening, or the work of aliens from outer space?
“How could you let them use you like this, Sam?” I blurted.
He glanced over his shoulder at me, saw how miserable I felt, and quickly turned back to the plane’s controls.
“Ramona, honey, when people that high up in the federal government want to make you jump, you really don’t have all that much of a choice.”
“You could have said no.”
“And miss the chance of a lifetime! No way!”
So despite all his blather about hating bureaucracies and wanting to help ordinary people, the little guy, against the big shots of government and industry, Sam sold out when they put the pressure on him. He probably didn’t have much of a choice, at that. Do what they tell you or you’re out of business. Maybe they threatened his life. I’d heard stories about the CIA and how they worked both sides of the street. They’d even been involved in the drug traffic, according to rumors around headquarters.