Salty Sky (37 page)

Without Big Brother, he’d created his own marching orders. Priority one: Eliminate the three Colombians. Priority two: Do it in a manner that would keep him from going to jail. Priority three: Do it without anybody knowing he did it. Best to not have four avenging the three who were here avenging the two. He needed to make sure whatever transpired didn’t go in a report preformatted for HTML.

But he needed to fill in the
how. How
started with Cale finding the Escobars on his terms.

At this point, as usually occurred, he received help. Sheila informed him, “We know where your friends are staying.”

Again the
we
instead of an
I
in government conversations—more
Trotsky
we
than royal
we
. And this was a good employee, not a go back and fill this form out in triplicate employee.

“How did you put that together?”

“We started by finding the rental car from your description of the make, model, and color.”

Impressed, he asked, “You have that kind of information electronically?”

“Yes and no. If everybody was onboard, yes. But in this case, no. I sent human assets with badges to the local rental places. We came up with a dozen options. We then searched local hotels. Found about half our options, staked those out, and one of those turned out to be your three friends.”

Good old boring gumshoe work, sitting in a car waiting with a newspaper on your lap. You couldn’t pay Cale enough to do it, but he was glad others were willing. That Sheila organized this caused a lump of emotion to catch in his throat. She had used her autonomy for cross-purposes from the folks diagonally above her. There was career jeopardy in taking those actions. He felt worse about all his smart comments now and, at the same time, thought the disposable phone might be a bit pointless if fifteen agents had done legwork, but you never knew what broke the trail or created plausible deniability. It was probably not enough to save her job but maybe enough to keep her from being prosecuted.

She named the hotel where the Escobar men were staying. He was familiar with it. In fact, he’d left it just an hour before.

He asked, “Have you been able to figure out their schedule?”

“No. They were scheduled to check out Monday but rescheduled to check out today.”

That made sense. He had foiled their diabolical plan Sunday night, so they extended a day. Squeezing a bit of flesh between his thumb and index finger, he confirmed they didn’t achieve success Monday night either. He hoped they were patient and extended their rooms
through the weekend. Guys, if you waited twenty years in the jungle, what was an extra few days at the beach?

“Sheila. Thanks for the info. I know what you’re jeopardizing.” Then he hated to ask, so he told her, “I hate to ask, but I’m leaving on a charter in a couple hours. Return Friday. Can you let me know their location Friday?”

“No promises. But yeah, I’ll try. Have a safe trip. I’m still pushing on the other fronts.”

“I know. Thanks again for what you’re doing.”

Ashley procured the hospitality box while he was on the phone. When he rejoined her, she didn’t pry about the call. They retrieved the ice together and carried everything to the plane.

The King Air’s cabin was pretty self-explanatory, and she took the lead stocking provisions. Cale began his visual examination of the plane’s exterior. The metal rivets looked good, tires good, flaps good, and props good. He grabbed an A-frame ladder and set it up in several spots around the plane, looked for anything amiss topside, but found it all shipshape.

He ascended the steps into the cabin. The low ceiling height made him bend forward at the waist, which was less painful than bending at the knees. He squeezed past Ashley, who was doing her work on young knees, and he found the plane egregiously too wide for maximum incidental physical contact. He stepped into the cockpit and tested the instrumentation. Radio good. Flaps good. Rudder good. He continued his extended preflight check routine and found nothing the worse for wear from the wind and rain.

“Ashley, you want to check out your seat?”

“Sure.” She came forward with one of his logoed ball caps on her head. Part of the crew. She was in character. Discovering another fun side to her personality so early in their courtship was a bit titillating. Down boy.

She slid past him, choosing to have her perfectly shaped bottom face
him before stepping into her seat well. She settled in and figured out how to buckle up. He then gave her the instrumentations’ CliffsNotes.

Mid-tutorial, she asked, “Why do so many small planes crash in the water like JFK Jr.’s?”

It was a non sequitur unless you remembered this was probably her first flight on a small plane. Cale answered, “I don’t know what happened to him, but the main reason is because when you’re flying, the ocean and sky look a lot alike. If someone is flying by sight rather than by instruments and is not checking their altitude, they sometimes just cruise down into the ocean, for no reason other than they think they’re going level. They won’t even try to jerk up the controls. Amazingly, if someone was fifty feet off the water and just hit their autopilot, it would raise them up. Truthfully, if they were upside down, the autopilot would right them.”

“So do you have autopilot?”

“Yes, on this plane. Not on the helicopters I flew.” He pointed to the button. “If I have a heart attack, press this button.”

She nodded.

“We have about an hour before departure. I’m done with all my checks. What do you want to do?”

“Can we check out the other planes?”

Good girl. How did she know he wanted to check out the three jets?

They walked to each jet in turn. They circled, then lingered outside the big boy with the oval windows. They started to giggle as they’d made their circling conversation unnecessarily loud, hoping the Gulfstream’s crew would notice their interest and invite them inside for a tour. But the crew proved unwilling to notice them—which was really hard to believe, because everybody noticed Ashley. Perhaps that beautiful stewardess demanded absolute fealty from her coworkers. Also, every time-killing pilot wanted a tour, so they’d probably learned not to notice.

Ashley asked questions about the jets and prop planes. She talked
about her grandfather, who served on a carrier and always labeled the jets buzzing San Diego for her. At nine thirty, Cale told her they should use the facilities. Never looked good to a new charter customer if the pilot got up and took a whiz midflight. And the pee tube wasn’t a favorite of most lady passengers (or crew).

Ashley said, “If
our
clients show up before you’re done, I’ll show them to the plane.”

He grunted his appreciation, thinking it sounded like she thought he was going to be in there longer than to just take a whiz.

33

BEFORE REACHING THE
bathroom, Cale’s phone vibrated. Same 703 number as earlier this morning.

“Calling with good news?”

“I’ll deliver it. You judge whether it’s good or not. Your friends checked out this morning.”

“Are they being tailed?”

“Sorry, we didn’t have the resources.”

“Did you attach a birddog tracker to monitor via the computer?”

Sheila paused, and Cale remembered she did that when delivering news she didn’t want to deliver, supported by a reason she didn’t agree with. “No. That would be against the law. That would be criminal harassment of a minority group that has, to our official knowledge, not committed a crime.”

How could she deliver that line with a straight face? Of course, he couldn’t see her face, so maybe she was wincing with a crooked smile and one closed eye when she said it. Next time, they’d talk on a video feed.

Also, that logic hadn’t exactly stopped the DEA on any assignment before. You might notice ninety percent of individuals arrested for drugs were black or Hispanic. And to be factual, if Escobar wasn’t speaking, you’d have thought he was another white guy with a nice
tan. But this wasn’t really a DEA assignment, and everyone knew Escobar spoke Spanish. But Sheila could face country club prison if she was discovered and prosecuted, so he understood her reluctance.

“I don’t suppose you figure they just wanted to make me think a bit about my past sins and have now gone home?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, but I don’t think that is what either of us guesses.”

“True. Anything else?”

“They haven’t returned their rental yet. We put an asset there once we knew they checked out.”

“OK. Thanks again, Sheila.”

“No problem. If we can get them on any infraction to keep them from leaving the area, we’ll do it. I’ll call you Friday afternoon with an update.”

“Thanks.” To lighten the mood, he added, “Maybe trick me with a phone with a different area code next time.”

They finished the conversation. Cale walked into the bathroom more pleased with his behavior and less pleased with his predicament.

BEFORE ENTERING THE
small airport, Francisco spoke to his jet’s crew. He told them to stay on the plane and prepare for departure; he had a quick meeting to inspect a King Air he was considering purchasing. He expected the jet to depart within two minutes of his boarding. The ability and desire to follow precise instructions without question was something Francisco had prized above all else when he’d interviewed for these crew positions.

The three men walked into the FBO. Alberto wore a sport coat over slacks, the Cuban wore a tight polo shirt tucked into tight pants, covered with a tight-fitting sports coat, and Francisco wore a long-sleeved linen shirt over linen pants that were tailored to his frame.

Francisco had been unable to find a new guayabera in his American shopping excursions but was enjoying the new linen shirt except for the wrinkles. A tall, tanned American Athena wearing a dress and a baseball cap stood in the lobby with a smile, waiting for someone. Her long legs caught Francisco’s attention before he turned his back to her and talked with the Cuban in hushed tones. Alberto motioned that he was going to the restroom.

CALE DID HIS
business. Both legs fell asleep, and he realized he must still be a bit dehydrated from the bachelor party. He read the sports section left in the tray on the back of the stall door. Freaking baseball. He had to keep up hope. Football started soon. He washed his hands and used the folded paper towels out of the tray on the counter to dry them.

FBO bathrooms were full-service and usually spotless. This one was no exception. It was high quality and low traffic. There were shower stalls with big wooden, louvered doors; oversized fluffy towels; and often a steam room. They catered to a high-end clientele. Actually, they catered to the highest-end clientele.

Cale gurgled and spit mouthwash, dispensed sunscreen from the pump jug on the counter, and lubed up his face and ears. He usually forgot the ears. He examined himself in the mirror to make certain no white globs remained. Satisfied, he washed his hands to get the oily lotion off and dried them again. If he’d thought to put the lotion on before using the bathroom, he could have saved a hand washing and the world a paper towel. This probably wouldn’t be his biggest mistake of the day.