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“Welcome to our nation’s capital, Don Juan,” Isaacson himself replied.
“We just landed at Reagan, Joel. You sent someone to meet us, right?”
“Wrong.”
“Why not?”
“I myself will greet you personally at Butler Aviation, to which ground control, I suspect, is directing you at this very moment.”
The plug in Castillo’s other ear was in fact at the moment carrying the order of Reagan ground control to take taxiway B left to Butler Aviation.
“To what do I owe the honor?” Castillo said.
“I was feeling generous,” Isaacson said, then added, “Nice airplane, Don Juan.”
If he can see the airplane, I should be able to see him.
Castillo looked out the window and saw Joel Isaacson leaning against the door of a black Yukon parked in front of the Butler Aviation fueling facility.
You’re not supposed to have vehicles—except with flashing lights, etcetera—on the tarmac.
But I suppose if you are a very senior Secret Service guy, you can park just about anyplace you damned well please.
And all Joel heard was that I was bringing some special rad
io. He doesn’t know how big or how heavy, and he wasn’t about to help drag a big heavy radio from Butler to wherever he was supposed to park the Yukon.
“Joel, this is Master Sergeant Alex Dumbrowski,” Castillo said as they all stood on the tarmac. “Sergeant, this is Mr. Isaacson of the Secret Service. He’s in charge of Secretary Hall’s security.”
The two men nodded and shook hands but said nothing.
“Where’s the radio?” Isaacson asked.
Sergeant Dumbrowski pointed at the enormous hard-sided suitcase.
“That’s all of it?” Isaacson asked, dubiously.
Sergeant Dumbrowski nodded.
Ground service people walked up, dragging a fuel hose. Fernando Lopez climbed down from the Lear.
“Fernando!” Castillo called and Fernando walked over.
Castillo introduced him to Isaacson as his cousin.
Isaacson motioned one of the fuel handlers over and handed him a credit card.
“Put that fuel and the landing fees on that,” he ordered.
“Thank you,” Castillo said.
“What the hell, it’s in government service—you can send us a bill for the charter, Mr. Lopez—and this way no one gets to see the bills.”
“You have just made our lawyers very happy,” Fernando said. “Thank you.”
Isaacson didn’t reply, turning instead to Master Sergeant Dumbrowski.
“All set up, how big is this thing?” he asked. “The antenna, I mean?”
