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Feeling more than a little smug, he pressed the cabin speaker button.
“Welcome to Grapefruit International Airport. Please remain in your seats with your chastity belts fastened until we reach the terminal. We hope you have enjoyed your flight, and the next time you’re running from the CIA that you will choose High Roller Airlines again.”
“You are insane,” his co-pilot said, but she was smiling. Then she gestured, as he turned the Mustang around, out the windows, at rows of grapefruit trees lining the runway as far as the eye could see. “That’s all grapefruit?”
“That’s all grapefruit.”
He taxied about halfway back down the runway, and then turned the nose toward the closed door of a hangar, and then shut the engines down.
“Carlitos,” Svetlana said, her voice tinged with concern. When he looked at her, she pointed out the window.
Three very large, very swarthy men, each bearing a shotgun, had come around the side of the hangar and were approaching the airplane.
Castillo waved cheerfully at them, and after a moment, as they recognized him, they smiled and waved back.
“I better get off first,” Castillo said. “Otherwise Max will probably get shot by people I’ve known since I was twelve.”
He unstrapped himself quickly, rose from his seat, stepped into the cabin, and began to open the stair door.
“I trust the colonel is aware there are some armed, possibly unfriendly, indigenous personnel out there?” Uncle Remus asked.
The stair door opened and Castillo quickly went down it. Max leapt from the airplane, showed the men his teeth, and headed for the nose wheel.
The larger of the men tossed his shotgun to one of the others, spread his arms, and wrapped them around Castillo.
“Doña Alicia will be so happy, Carlos,” he said.
“She’s here?”
I should have considered that possibility. But it’s too late now.
“Fernando brought her down yesterday. Doña Alicia said it was freezing in San Antonio,” he said. And then added quietly: “I don’t know about the dog, but I like your lady friend.”
“Sweaty, say hello to Pablo,” Castillo said. “We grew up together. The others are Manuel and Juan.”
When all the introductions had been made, Pablo said, “Carlos, why don’t you take one of the Suburbans and go up to the house? Just as soon as we push the plane inside, we’ll bring your luggage.”
“There’s two cardboard boxes in the back,” Castillo said, and then indicated with his hands the size. “Bring one of them, please?”
It was a ten-minute drive from the airstrip to the house, down a gravel road that led between the apparently endless grapefruit trees and over two more ridge lines.
No one was on the verandah of the sprawling, red-tile-roofed building to greet them, which Castillo considered surprising.
Castillo got from behind the wheel of the Suburban, waved for the others to follow him, walked across the verandah, pushed open the door, and bellowed, “Abuela, your favorite grandson is here; you can send the fat and ugly one back to the village.”
The door to the living room opened, and Randolph Richardson III walked into the foyer and said, “Good afternoon, sir. I’m very glad to see you.” Then he spotted Svetlana. “And you, too, ma’am.”
Castillo’s heart jumped into his throat. He was literally struck dumb and knew that all that would come out of his mouth if he tried to speak would be a croak.
Svetlana walked quickly to the boy.
“Are you kissing old Russian women this week, Randy?”
She went to the boy, put her arms around him, and kissed his cheek. He stiffened and seemed uncomfortable, but didn’t try to free himself.
“What?” Svetlana asked. “I kiss you and you don’t kiss me?”
After a moment, he raised his head and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
