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“Well, I’m sure Sergeant Major Davidson will be happy to see that it’s pressed and that you’re at Pope at twelve hundred, won’t you, Jack?”
“My pleasure, sir,” Sergeant Major Davidson said.
VII
[ONE]
Ferihegy International Airport
Budapest, Hungary
1655 6 August 2005
Hungary is not a member of the European Union. It was therefore necessary for Otto Görner and Karl W. von und zu Gossinger to pass through immigration and customs when the Eurojet Taxi deposited them before the small civil-aviation building.
But it was just the briefest of formalities. Not only were their passports quickly stamped by the officer who came aboard the twin-engine jet aircraft but he volunteered the information, “Your driver is waiting, Úr Görner.”
Then he left without even looking at the luggage the pilot and copilot had carried down the stair door.
“Thanks for the ride and the cockpit tour,” Castillo said, in English, offering his hand to the pilot.
“My pleasure, Colonel,” the pilot replied, also in English—American English.
“Maybe we can do it again.”
“Any time. You’ve got our number.”
There had been no other passengers on the flight from Leipzig, which made Castillo wonder if that was coincidence or whether the Cessna Citation III had been sent to pick him up because there would be no smaller aircraft available for some time and Montvale had ordered them to put him at the head of the line.
Just after they had gone wheels-up, he had made his way to the cockpit and asked, in English, “How’s chances of sitting in the right seat and having you explain the panel to me?”
The copilot had exchanged glances with the pilot, who nodded, and then wordlessly got up.
“Thanks,” Castillo said to the pilot as he sat down and strapped himself in.
“Anything special you want to see, Colonel?” the pilot had asked, in English, making it clear that there was no reason to pretend he was anything but an employee of the agency or that Castillo was a German businessman named Gossinger availing himself of Eurojet Taxi’s services.
“How long do you think it would take to show a pilot—several hundred hours in smaller business jets—enough to make him safe to sit in the right seat?”
“These are nice airplanes,” the pilot said. “They come in a little hot, and sometimes, close to max gross, they take a long time to get off the ground, but aside from that they’re not hard to fly. How long it would take would depend on the IP and the student. But not long.”
“I’d really be grateful to be able to sit here and watch until you get it on the ground in Budapest. Is that possible?”
“You know how to work the radios?” the pilot asked and when Castillo nodded the pilot motioned for him to pick up the copilot’s headset and, when Castillo had them on, pointed out on the GPS screen where they were—over the Dresden–Nürnberg Autobahn, near Chemnitz.
I think Montvale will learn that I wanted to sit in the cockpit, but I don’t think he’ll think it’s anything but my boyish enthusiasm for everything connected with flying.
“Good afternoon, Úr Görner,” Sándor Tor greeted them inside the civil-aviation building. “The car’s right outside.”
“Sándor, this is Herr von und zu Gossinger,” Görner said. “And this, Úr von und zu Gossinger, is Sándor Tor, who was supposed to keep Kocian from falling over his goddamned dog and down the stairs.”
“Úr Görner…” Tor began, painfully embarrassed.
“And also, incidentally, to telephone me immediately, at any time, if anything at all out of the ordinary happened to Úr Kocian.”
“Úr Görner…” Tor began again, only to be interrupted again by Görner.
“Why don’t we wait until we’re on our way to the hospital?” Görner said. “Then you can tell us everything.”
