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"I would only give this to a friend," he said. "You may therefore call me Eric."
"Thank you very much, Eric," Castillo said, putting the envelope in his inside jacket pocket. "Seymour, you can put the pliers back in the tool kit. Dentistry is apparently not going to be necessary."
"Ach Gott, Karl!" Goerner said.
"You're aware, I'm sure, Karl, that the Hungarians taught the Machiavellians all they knew about poisoning people?" Kocian asked.
"And with that in mind, Eric, what do you recommend? Gulyas lightly laced with arsenic?"
"Wiener schnitzel," Kocian said. "The Karpatia serves the best Wiener schnitzel in the world."
"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."
