by L. J. Martin
On going to the desk to change some American dollars for Paraguayan guarani, I'm pleased to find I have a handful of bills in my pocket with 100,000.00 printed on them. However, since the exchange rate is 4,500 guarani to the buck, making the bills worth about twenty-two bucks, I guess it's not too impressive.
Sipping my last coffee refill, I am surprised by a gentleman in a frumpy tan seersucker suit who crosses the small dining room, extends a hand, and asks, "Mr. Reardon?"
I rise, actually a little shocked to be called by name, but I take the hand and shake, if you could call the fishy-floppy hand shakable. His hair is thin and a little wild, were it thicker he'd be an Albert Einstein look-alike. The suit is wrinkled, his tie spotted with his breakfast or last night's supper, but he has a handsome straw hat in hand, maybe an expensive Panama and it makes me jealous I wasn't in Panama City long enough to buy one. I say nothing until he asks, "May I join you?"
"Sure, why not. You know my name. Are you with the hotel?"
He sits and waves the waitress over. "Tea, milk, sugar," he asks, in English. And she hurries away.
"And you are?" I ask.
"Theo Gann, I'm the Assistant Director for International Development at the American embassy here."
"Aw, you're here to help me peddle some avionics? I was going to drop over to the embassy this morning to make a social call and see if I could enlist your help. Are you willing to help?"
"No, probably not. I know exactly who you are and we're wondering why you're here. You understand that bounty hunters have no legality anywhere outside the U.S.A.?"
"Of course. I'm not here hunting a failure-to-appear. I actually do very little of that."
He eyes me carefully, then asks, "So, why are you here?"
I have to think fast. I am not prepared to be challenged by my own embassy. "Actually, I'm a tourist."
"I doubt that," he says, again studying me through watery gray eyes.
"You may doubt it if you'd like, but I'm down here with my girlfriend who's a Paraguayan citizen."
"You arrived with Carmen Diaz, a former employee of the Paraguayan Consulate in Los Angeles. You're saying she's your girlfriend?"
"Fiancée, actually, but she doesn't want her family to know that until I've had a chance to work my way into their hearts." I'm proud of myself, thinking fast.
"You'll pardon me," he says, "but I think that's total bullshit."
"Me too. I never thought she'd consider a guy like me."
He laughs, then coughs, then says, "I don't mean that, I mean I doubt the veracity of that explanation of why you're in Paraguay."
"Your privilege. And I presume you're actually CIA?"
"No. International Development. However, you arrived with a diplomatic exclusion stamp on your passport, allowing you to pass through Homeland Security in the states and through customs here. That makes no sense to us as you're a private citizen…an American. It's not like you're a diplomatic official or federal officer. Our people worked all night putting together a dossier on you."
"Again, your privilege. My girlfriend doesn't like the hassle." I'm quiet a few seconds while we eye each other, then continue, "So, they're no longer calling you CIA guys cultural attaché…now it's International Development?"
He ignores the question. "So, did you bring anything into the country that might be against Paraguayan law?"
"I would never do such a thing," I lie, while the waitress places his tea and milk on the table.
"You know your embassy does not protect you if you break a host country's laws."
"Jeeze," I say, taking a page out of Wedgeworth's book, "I hope I don't have a traffic accident or something."
"You are a total bullshitter, Reardon. I have a half-inch thick file on you. Let's not be causing an international incident. We might just join in your prosecution, should you embarrass us here in Paraguay."
That makes me chuckle. "Mr. Gann, the State Department has long been capable of embarrassing themselves...they need no help from some poor old boy who's merely trying to make points with his future in-laws. I'd think after Bengazi you guys would keep your mouths shut—of course that was State, not CIA—so maybe your guys weren't at fault."
He takes one sip of his tea, then stands, adjusts, then tips his hat, rearranges his sagging pants under a little pot belly, and walks away. I have to smile. It's not like a CIA guy to wear a belt and suspenders. He's a real cautious type.
I can't help myself, and call after him, "Don't worry about the check, I'll get it." He glances back and I get the feeling he'd love to give me the finger, but he pushes through the door and I can feel the rush of heat from outside all the way across the room.
Why didn't I pick July, when it's winter in Paraguay?
15
I talk to the desk and get them to call me a taxi with a driver who speaks good English and can double as a guide, then make a deal with Alex Benitez. He must know all the good restaurants as he can barely fit under the wheel, but he's got a great smile, even with one missing eye tooth, and is fluent in the King's English.
It's nine AM when I climb in his cab—the South American version of a Ford—and we agree that he'll drive me anywhere up until noon for forty bucks, as long as we end up back at the hotel. Too bad I'm not heading half way across the country, but all I want is to familiarize myself with the city.
Asuncion is the capital of Paraguay, is on the west border with Argentina across Rio Paraguay. She's a city of a half million in a country of five million, and like most Central and South American cities, she's diverse. Alex tries to avoid the slums, but I insist on making a comprehensive round and a complete circle of one particular point of interest, the Silvio Pettirossi International Airport, which is located in Luque, a suburb. It was formerly Presidente Stroessner International Airport, but since the presidente, read dictator, fell out of favor and was overthrown, it was renamed for a famous Paraguayan aviator.
I ask Alex to pull up near an eight foot cyclone fence where I can see a quarter mile across the tarmac to a cluster of buildings and aircraft. It's a good thing I brought my Nikon binocs. I'm no expert, but I recognize a 707, the country's flag painted on her tail, which Alex informs me is their Air Force One. Later at the hotel, studying some pics I've taken with my iPhone, I go online and identify two old but seemingly well maintained C-47's, circa WWII; two C212 Aviocars, high wing turboprop transports that are no threat; a WFU CV240 transport with Air Force markings which, like the C-47's, should be in a museum somewhere; and several AT33A's, pure jets that were originally American Navy or Air Force trainers. These appear to have some sort of light machine guns mounted under the wings so they're a threat with a top speed of around four hundred knots. The good news, the G5 will leave them in the dust, or clouds in this instance.
Three Embraer Xavantes and three EMB 312 Tucanos are also good aircraft, probably hand-me-downs from Brazil, but they also can't keep up with Mr. Grumman's jewel. So unless there's something in the air, at another base, or in the Paraguayan Navy or Marine fleet that I don't know about, once we're in the air we're home free.
That's the good news. The bad is I don't see a G5 parked anywhere, though there are three hangars, any of which is large enough to house the target. One of them has a guard posted outside.
I email this info to Pax to pass along to Madman and Wetback; then it's time to call Carmen.
"I'm up, dressed, and ready for brunch," she says before I have a chance to ask.
"I have a cab and good driver waiting outside, if that's helpful."
"It is. I don't want to borrow my aunt or uncle's car…besides, he's at work. Let's see, rather than you coming all the way over here, how about I meet you at the Catedral Metropolitana de Asuncion…the Cathedral. Your driver will know. There's a beautiful park across from it and lots of vendors' stands."
"So, we're having lunch from the vendors' stands?"
"Ha! We're having lunch in the best restaurant in Asuncion, of course. Bolsi is not far from our mee
ting place, and you must try the surubi."
"Of course we are eating at the best place in town. You buying?"
She giggles. "Señor, it's the best restorante in Paraguay. You're in South America, where women are still women and men, thank God, are still men…and the men, who are real men, treat the ladies like ladies."
"Okay, I'm properly chastised."
"Meet you on the front steps. You should see the beautiful old church. Say forty minutes?"
"That's ten to one. I'll be there."
Alex is more than happy to finish the day out with me, for another forty bucks, and I'm pleased to have him do so, as he not only knows every major building in the city, but seems to know a little about her underbelly…like most urban cab drivers.
On the way to meet Carmen, he tells me about the rougher neighborhoods in the city, known there as barrios just as they are in Los Angeles and other southwestern cities. We're headed to one known as Cetedral, named because of the location of the Cathedral, but there's also La Encarnacion, General Diaz, San Roque, and La Charcarita, and he assures me I can find almost anything I want there. I don't mention I'd like to find a couple of RPG's and three or four AK47s or AR15s.
I'll probably have to head to the Tri-Border region for those toys, if I need them at all, but that's putting the cart before the proverbial horse. First I have to locate the target.
As she promised, she's waiting on the steps. I exit the cab, ask him to wait, and join her.
"Can we walk to the restaurant?" I ask.
"Only a few blocks, and I need the exercise."
I return to Alex and ask him to pick us up at Bolsi in an hour and a half. He salutes, and heads out to get his own lunch.
The cathedral is beautiful, like a dozen others I've seen, but I ooh and ahh and show Carmen how appreciative I am of her country. Then we head out for a brisk walk to lunch. Bolsi is in an old building on the corner of Estrella and Alberdi, with a dining area and bar up front, but she leads me to the back. For a second I fear she's headed for a patio, as I'm already sweated through, but she doesn't. Alex is already there, parked outside, windows down, taking a siesta.
Carmen never ceases to surprise me, and the maître d' runs over and embraces her with a hug and kiss on both cheeks. We're seated at the best table in the house, under the air conditioning, and she orders for both of us in Spanish so rapidly I don't get a word of it.
Surubi turns out to be a catfish from the local river, which grows as large as a man, and the helping I get would be a roast in most other places. And it's delicious. We each down two large local beers, have dessert and coffee—and I am sweating the check, which turns out to be a lousy thirty bucks each, plus the tip. I'm starting to like Paraguay. Too bad, with luck and a successful mission, they'll soon dislike me.
"So," she asks, as we finish our coffee, "you like Bolsi?"
"I like Bolsi. I like you. I like Paraguay. But I have to get to work. I need to get on the airport."
"Can't you use your new job as a Avionics salesman?" she asks, and eyes me a little coyly. She has yet to know my real mission, only that I'm retrieving something stolen. And I don't want her to know. The less she knows, the more deniability she has.
"I can, I guess. But didn't you say you have a relative in the Air Force?"
"Retired. But my cousin is still active. You're having supper at my uncle's tonight, if that's okay with you?"
"Perfect." I guess it's time to fess up. "By the way, some dickwad—"
"Dick wad?" she asks.
"Sorry, some guy from the American embassy jumped me at the hotel this morning and caught me a little unprepared, asking why I was in Paraguay."
"And?"
"And, I told him you were my fiancée and I was here to meet your family."
She laughs, to my great relief, then bites a lip and looks at me, then laughs again and asks, "So, where's my diamond?"
"It's on order, querida." I know enough Spanish to say sweetheart.
"Right, carino," she answers. "I'll hold my breath for that one."
"Besides, you're making enough to buy your own diamond."
"What kind of fiancée are you?" She laughs again, then adds, "Let's get out of here. I have to go to the carniceria for mi tia."
"Oh, God, I couldn't eat another bite."
"You'll be able to by supper time…that's ten here in Paraguay."
"Right, I forgot."
"Go back to the room and get a nap. They'll think you're a Latino, taking your siesta."
Then I have an important thought. "Will your cousin, the helo pilot, be there."
"He's invited, along with his wife and six muchachos."
"Great. Can I give you some money for the market?"
She gives me a disgusted look. "Don't start out insulting my aunt."
"Yes, ma'am. Can I have Alex drop you?"
"No, you're going the other way. Get some rest. You'll need it to stand up to your new in-laws." She's still laughing as I excuse myself.
16
I don't head for the hotel, but rather back to the airport. It's not me who gets a siesta, but Alex, who's more than willing to park where I have a view of the tarmac and hangars large enough to house the G5 and sleep while I keep an eye out, hoping the doors will open and I can see the contents. One finally does, and I see it's full of helicopters—two old Huey's from the Vietnam era, one French, a nice unit, an Alouette, I believe, and a couple of old Hughes models. Unarmed, other than the Hueys, and no threat to a fast moving G5, I'd guess.
But the guards patrolling the tarmac and the hangars are another matter. It's hard to tell at this distance, but they appear to have sidearms and are carrying Hechler and Koch's HK416s, a formidable weapon. And there are at least eight guards. There are two light vehicles, with 50 cals mounted on elevated pods and two guards inside, and they are constantly patrolling. Others are moving on foot in what seems to be a predetermined pattern. Only one hangar seems to have a pair of permanent guards posted on either side of the hangar doors.
Just as I'm about to awaken Alex to head back to the hotel, a hangar door rolls aside enough to allow a small service truck to enter, and I get a glance at a winglet, the turned up wingtip of a G5. This wing is dark blue, and the Wedgeworth plane was white, but a paint job solves that in a few heartbeats. I have lots of identifying serial numbers in my file from various airplane components, so to be absolutely sure, I have to get inside that hangar and spend some time digging around so I can be absolutely right I have the right aircraft. Stealing the wrong airplane would not only be embarrassing, but probably incarcerating, and that would be bad fun in a Paraguayan jusgados.
Of course it would be the hangar with the permanent guards posted outside.
We get back to the hotel in time for me to catch a cat nap, dress in casual attire, and head down to the hotel bar. I'm due at the Juarez residence at eight p.m. and have asked Alex to show up in time to get there promptly. There's both a flower vendor and a shop stocking wine across from the hotel, so I wander over and pick up a bunch for my hostess and find a bottle of what I'm assured is a great red. I'm not used to paying six bucks for the best bottle of wine in the house.
There are only six stools at the hotel bar, and the manager is there taking inventory and speaks excellent English, so I order a Jack neat and strike up a conversation with him while he works. Sancho Alfonso, graying at the temples, with coke bottle thick eyeglasses, is friendly enough, in a businesslike way.
"So, Señor Alfonso, you have been in hospitality a long time?"
"For many years."
"Always here in Asuncion?"
"No, I worked in Miami for a half dozen years."
"You must get many North Americans here?"
He gives me a smile. "And you must travel in Central and South America a great deal, if you're sympathetic to not presuming the term American applies only to those from the U.S.
"Some. I'm a sales rep for an avionics company."
"So, you are here meeting
with our government or military."
"I hope to."
"We had a gentleman here at the hotel for a week who was hired to fly the new government aircraft."
That perks up my ears. "Oh, I may know him."
"Señor Glascock?"
"I believe I have met him. Was he travelling with another gentleman?" So, Glascock is in with the den of thieves. I'm wondering if Toby Bartlett, the Wedgeworth co-pilot, is one of the bad guys as well.
"No, he was alone."
I yawn, as if I'm just mildly interested, then ask, "I'd like to say hello to him. You know where he can be reached?"
"No, he checked out without a forwarding address, but the military would know as he never required a cab. He was picked up by an Air Force vehicle."
"I think his partner was named…" I act as if I'm thinking. "Barnett or Bartlett?"
"No, he was alone."
I ask for my check and he says don't worry, he'll add it to my bill and I kill the Jack, leave a buck tip on the bar, and wander out front to wait for Alex and make a couple of calls. I still have forty five minutes to kill. My first call is to Pax, to inform him that I'm on the right track, to get the pilots scheduled to leave, and to get him to run down my old buddy Skip Allen, also Marine Recon. who served with the two of us and has helped me with recoveries several times. Then I ask him about his research into Henry 'Hank' Hausman. He seems impressed with the guy, so my next call is to Hank on the throwaway phone I left with him.
"You're a man of your word," he says, not bothering with hello. I guess he hasn't given the number to anyone else.
"I am, here's the deal…." I explain the job to him, and the pay, and give him Pax's number. I'll have five guys total, very competent guys, with Hank, Skip and the two pilots on their way in two days, if I don't find reason to call them off.
I really liked Penny Bartlett, Toby Bartlett's wife, whom I met in Goleta and interviewed. I'm now in great fear that Toby Bartlett was an unwilling participant in the filching of the G5, and if so, was not allowed to live, much less return home. It's amazing what fifty million dollars worth of aircraft might motivate someone to do. And I'm afraid Toby's been done.