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Asuncion, Paraguay 1830 11 September 2005 It was winter here, and night came early, making moot Castillo's worry that maybe he should have made a low-level reconnaissance anyway, even after learning the shooters had located where Timmons was being held.
I wouldn't have been able to see anything, even if I knew what I was looking for.
It had been a long flight; they had been in the air almost eight hours, with an hour and a half on the ground at the Taravell airport in Cordoba, where they'd gone through Argentine customs and immigration.
There almost had been a dogfight at Cordoba. Max had taken an instant dislike to a large black Labrador retriever-a drug sniffer for the Policia Federal-when the Lab had put his curious nose in the Commander the moment the door opened-and found himself facing a visibly belligerent Max determined to protect his airplane.
After considering his situation for perhaps twenty seconds, the Lab concluded that there was only one wise course of action to take when faced with an apparently infuriated fellow canine twice his size.
The Lab took it…and rolled over on his back, putting his paws in the air in surrender.
Max examined the Lab for a moment, gave him a final growl, then exited the aircraft and trotted-Somewhat arrogantly, Castillo thought-to the nose gear of the Commander for what had become his routine postlanding bladder voiding.
The Lab's handler was mortified. Thus Castillo was not surprised when he and his fellow officers subjected the cabin and the baggage compartment to a very thorough inspection. As they were doing it, however, Munz softly told him it was probably routine and they could expect a similar close inspection when they landed in Asuncion.
"A lot of drugs are brought across the border in light aircraft like this one," Munz said. "They don't take off or land at airports with their contraband, of course, but they sometimes-when empty-put down at airfields like this one to take on fuel or whatever. Sometimes, the sniffer dogs pick up traces of heroin or cocaine or marijuana, and that lets the police know that the aircraft is involved in the trade and they thereafter try to keep an eye on it. It's about as effective as trying to empty the River Plate with a spoon, but…"
He shrugged, and Castillo nodded.
They landed at Pettirossi International immediately after an Aerolineas Argentinas 727 set down.
"That's the last flight today from Buenos Aires," Munz said. "And it will return. What that means is we're going to have to wait until the authorities deal with both flights before they turn their sniffer dogs loose on this airplane."
"Wonderful! More delay," Castillo said, disgustedly.
Standing on the tarmac waiting for the Paraguayan officials, Castillo saw on the terminal building that it was possible to still make out the lettering of AEROPORTO PRESIDENTE GEN. STROESSNER under the fresh paint of its new name.
For some reason, the wait wasn't as long as they feared. They got lucky.
And when they finally made it through customs and were in the unsecured area of the terminal, they saw that a van with HOTEL RESORT CASINO YACHT amp; GOLF CLUB PARAGUAY painted on its side was waiting for guests.
"Alfredo, why don't you take Lester out there, get us rooms, and-without asking-see if you can't find my shooters? I'm ashamed to admit I don't have their names, which they almost certainly aren't using anyway."
When Castillo arrived with Lieutenant Lorimer, Sergeant Mullroney, and Max at the U.S. embassy at almost eight o'clock, an officious Paraguayan security guard at the well-lit gate informed Castillo and his party that the embassy had closed for the day.
"Get the Marine guard out here," Castillo ordered, angrily, in English.
As Castillo listened to the security guard speak into his radio in Spanish, he pretended not to understand the unkind things the guard said under his breath about Americans in general and this one in particular.
The Marine guard who came to the guardhouse several minutes later recognized Lorimer.
"Hello, Lieutenant," he said.
"We need to get inside."
"I can let you in, but I can't let your friends in-"
"We're American," Castillo offered.
"-without getting one of the officers to pass them in."
"Well, then, Sergeant," Castillo said. "Get an officer. Preferably Mr. Crawford."
The Marine guard now examined him more closely.
"Mr. Crawford, sir? Our commercial attache?"
"Mr. Jonathon Crawford, whatever his title," Castillo said.
