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When they had finished setting up the buffet, both waiters took up positions behind the tables—much like “Parade rest,” with their arms folded on the smalls of their backs— and waited to make themselves useful.
Pevsner snapped his fingers again, said, “Gracias,” and pointed toward the door. The waiters quickly scurried out.
“Now that we’re alone, Alex,” Castillo said, “are you going to tell us where the 727 is?”
“Have some eggs Benedict, Charley. There’s plenty of time.”
“No, there is not plenty of time,” Castillo snapped. “Where’s the goddamned airplane?”
The look on Howard Kennedy’s face made it clear that Pevsner was not used to being addressed in that tone of voice and that he wasn’t at all sure how Pevsner would react.
A cold look flashed across Pevsner’s face, quickly replaced by a smile.
“If you eat your eggs Benedict, my friend, I will tell you where it is not,” Pevsner said.
There was a sharp whistle, and, a moment later, Sergeant Sherman called, “Coming down!”
Everybody looked at the balcony.
An electric extension cord began to come down from the roof, followed immediately by a heavy, flat, tan rubber-covered cable.
Fernando said, “I’ll get them,” and walked quickly onto the balcony and caught the extension cord and cable.
“Plug the electric cord into the wall,” Sergeant Sherman said. “It doesn’t matter if it’s 110 or not. We have a built-in converter. I’ll plug the cable in.”
“Got it,” Fernando called back.
“We have 110-volt current,” Pevsner said.
“Alex, where is it not?” Castillo asked, coldly.
“It’s not at El Vigia,” Pevsner said. “It was, but it’s gone.”
“Where’s El Vigia?” Castillo asked, visibly surprised.
“About fifty miles south of Lake Maracaibo in Venezuela,” Pevsner said.
“What about Zandery, Suriname? You’re telling me it’s not in Suriname?”
“Where’d you get that?” Pevsner asked in surprise. “As far as I know, it’s never been in Suriname. Howard, did you tell him anything about Suriname?”
“Only that it wasn’t going there . . . Oh, that’s right. The ten-dollar-a-minute phone in the plane cut us off before I could tell you that, Charley, didn’t it?”
“Jesus Christ!” Castillo said. “We’ve been working on the premise that it went from Gambia to Suriname. Why the hell did they paint Suriname numbers on it?”
“Possibly, they’re trying to confuse you,” Pevsner said, dryly, adding flatly, “The 727 went from Gambia to El Vigia. ”
“How many fuel bladders were aboard?” Torine asked.
“Thirteen were trucked into Abéché,” Howard Kennedy answered.
“What was it doing in El Vigia? What’s in El Vigia?” Castillo asked.
“There’s a pretty good field there,” Kennedy said. “Originally built as a private field by Shell to service their oil fields in Lake Maracaibo. Nobody could use it without Shell’s permission. After the Venezuelans nationalized the oil industry, it occurred to the powers that be that having a private airfield—a no-questions-asked airfield; one that could handle large jets—could sometimes be useful. So it’s still a ‘private landing strip.’ ”
“So what’s the 727 doing there?”
Pevsner and Kennedy looked at each other.
