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1425 7 February 2007
“You’re not going to find an approach chart in there,” Nicolai Tarasov said to Castillo, who had just gone into Tarasov’s Jeppesen case searching for exactly that.
“I don’t even see a runway on these,” Castillo replied. “How do we know where to land? And how do we know there won’t be boulders on it?”
“Presuming there’s no water in the lake—and it usually is dry—you can land practically anywhere. Your Instructor Pilot will show you physical features used to locate the best place to land.”
“And if an IP’s not handy?”
“That’s the idea, Colonel. If you don’t know where to land, you shouldn’t try. There won’t be any boulders, but you’re liable to find large tree trunks in your way. Your IP will show where there are no tree trunks.”
“Meaning there are people here who remove them?”
Tarasov nodded, then said, “May I call you ‘Charley’? Or ‘Carlos’?”
“I wish you would—‘Carlos’—as I ain’t a colonel no more.”
“Once a colonel, Carlos, always a colonel,” Tarasov said. “Put it into a shallow descent on this course. Go into a low-level pass to make sure there really are no dead trees on the runway, and then you can land.”
“What about the wind?”
“When they hear us coming, a wind sock will miraculously appear next to the runway.”
“I gather there is no Laguna el Guaje tower?”
“That’s the idea, Carlos. Since there is no tower, curious ears cannot overhear it clearing aircraft in and out of here.”
The “physical feature” Tarasov pointed out was a sprawling ranch house and some outlying buildings on the high terrain next to the lake.
“Immediately down the hill you should see—there it is—the wind sock,” Tarasov said. “Usually there are negligible crosswinds. Just land into the wind, remembering, of course, to lower the wheels first.”
“I have a tendency to forget that,” Castillo said as he began a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn.
“Wheels coming down,” Tarasov said a moment later, “and down and locked.”
And a moment after that, Castillo greased the Cessna Mustang onto the lake bed.
“Not too bad a landing for a beginner,” Tarasov said. “After another, say, twenty hours of my masterful instruction, I might be prepared to sign you off to fly this aircraft.”
Castillo gave him the finger. Tarasov smiled at him.
“What now?” Castillo asked.
“Taxi back toward the house. You’ll see sort of a hangar.”
What Castillo saw just over a minute later was “sort of a hangar” dug into the side of the hill lining the dry lake bottom. It was invisible from the air, and to him as he landed, but now an enormous dirt-colored tarpaulin had been raised out of the way, revealing a cavelike area in which Castillo could see a Learjet.
A burly man in khakis walked out of the opening, holding wands and motioning him to taxi inside. An Uzi hung around his shoulder and when Castillo turned the nose, he could see three other men similarly dressed and armed.
“They don’t look very friendly,” Castillo said.
“They’re not,” Tarasov said.
Castillo turned the Mustang nose out and shut down the engines.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Now it gets interesting,” Tarasov said as he unfastened his harness. Charley followed suit, and when he stood up, saw that Max and Pevsner were standing by the door.
