by Matthew Hall
‘That’ll fool them,’ Fallon joked.
Black shrugged. ‘Best we can do.’ He checked his watch. It was ten forty-five a.m. Time they were in the air. ‘Someone get Buganov.’
Fallon did the honours and Riley went with him to find the bathroom, leaving Black a moment alone. Bracing himself for bad news, he took the opportunity to call Towers.
‘Leo, I was about to call you. Still on the ground?’
‘Give it thirty minutes and we should be in the air. Any more on Cordero?’
‘Nothing. He didn’t make it to the Embassy, which I’m reading as a bad sign. If they’ve caught him, it won’t be long before they have your name and your pilot’s. You can’t file a flight plan, Leo. Not under these circumstances. There’s a military base at La Esmeralda less than a hundred miles from Platanal. They’ll be waiting for you on the runway if they don’t shoot you down first.’ Towers paused. The usual gung-ho spirit was completely absent from his voice. ‘You know, I wouldn’t normally say this, but I’m not sure you’ve got the resources to see this through.’
‘Any more men and equipment would only make us more conspicuous.’
‘I don’t mean those kind, Leo … Perhaps you ought to withdraw? Head for Guyana and think again.’
‘Isn’t it a bit late for second thoughts?’ There was no answer. ‘Are you instructing me to abort, Freddy?’
After a further pause Towers said, ‘Only you can make that call. I need you to weigh the risks. Carefully.’
‘Consider them weighed. See you in a week or two.’
He ended the call and switched off the phone. Towers could keep any more bad news to himself.
Fallon emerged from the house with Riley and Buganov, who had dressed in a worn pair of blue slacks and a crumpled white shirt with short sleeves and matching blue epaulettes. He had made an attempt to shave but had cut himself in two places. Bloody scraps of tissue paper clung to his upper lip and neck. In his right hand he was holding a carrier bag containing clinking bottles.
Buganov stopped at the open rear of the van and waited, muttering profanities under his breath while Black and the others climbed in and worked their way round to their hiding place behind the crates.
‘OK,’ Black called out, signalling they were ready to move.
‘Sukiny deti.’ Sons of bitches. Buganov pulled down the shutter, belched up the gas from his breakfast and made his way to the cab.
Black, Riley and Fallon were jammed into a twelve-inch gap between crates stacked floor to ceiling and the front wall of the van. Buganov drove with no thought to their comfort, slewing round corners and lurching violently each time he came to a stop or pulled away.
‘He’s driving like he’s drunk already,’ Riley said from somewhere to Black’s left.
‘Don’t suppose he’s ever sober,’ Fallon said. ‘And I doubt you’d want him any other way.’
It was a thankfully short distance from Buganov’s home to the nearby airport. Black pictured the satellite map he’d studied on his phone. An access road led around the side of the passenger terminal to an entrance several hundred yards further along, which served both a flying school and a number of airfreight businesses. He had found details of several reputable cargo operators on the internet but Buganov had no website or even directory listing. Black guessed that all his work came by word of mouth or was subcontracted by the other firms. Sorties out into the bush paid for in cash or in kind.
They had been moving for less than ten minutes when the van slowed.
‘We’re coming to the gate,’ Buganov called out, his voice travelling through the thin aluminium panel separating them from the cab.
They came to a stop. There were footsteps outside on the tarmac. Buganov exchanged greetings in Spanish with a security guard and they chatted good-naturedly, like two guys at the bar. In the midst of the conversation Black heard Buganov mention ‘Puerto Carreño’, which he knew to be a port town on the Orinoco River, just inside the Colombian border. The two men continued to talk. Black felt his muscles start to cramp. The corners of the crates were digging into his flesh. He was aware that nearly twenty minutes had passed since he had spoken with Towers, every one of them another opportunity for Cordero to disclose Buganov’s name to whichever official might now be confronting him in a locked interrogation room. A simple phone call and Buganov would be grounded. And even if he did make it into the air, Venezuela had a very efficient air force.
That was the next problem on the agenda.
Finally, Buganov and his friend at the gate parted company. The van jerked forward and proceeded straight ahead for a short while before turning right, then right again.
‘You wait,’ Buganov said.
He left them sweltering for a full fifteen minutes. They endured the ordeal in silence, each retreating by instinct into the inner space in which they could detach from the discomfort of their physical bodies and step outside time.
The now familiar sound of Buganov’s feet dragging heavily across the ground signalled his eventual return. He stopped at the rear of the van and threw up the shutter, flooding the interior with light and a welcome draught of air.
‘Two of you into the plane. The other one is maintenance crew. You help me fix the hoses.’
‘That had better be me,’ Riley said. ‘My old man was a mechanic. Grew up balls-deep in engine oil.’
They inched out from around the crates and saw that the rear of the van was backed up towards a midsize twin-prop aircraft, which was parked at the side of a large hangar out of sight from the airport’s entrance. Black dimly recognized it as a De Havilland Caribou. He was no aviation expert but he had a pretty good idea that the Caribou had ceased production in the 1960s although he recalled having flown in one in East Timor back in ’99.
‘Beautiful, isn’t she?’ Buganov said, reading Black’s unease. He was holding a toolbox and a high-vis waistcoat. ‘I bought her in ’98, when my old Antonov was grounded. Do you know how I got the Antonov?’
‘I have no idea,’ Black said, jumping down on to the tarmac.
‘Every month I was flying supplies to Cuba from Vladivostok. That traitorous dog Yeltsin gave the order to stop. I made my final flight and never returned. I threw myself on the mercy of true comrades and they welcomed me like a brother. They gave me a regular route from Havana to Caracas, then I was invited to work here. Venezuela is a proud country, Mr Black. Faithful to the cause. Loyal to its friends.’
Black could smell the rum on Buganov’s breath. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He climbed through the open cargo-bay door into the back of the Caribou, Fallon coming after him.
‘Jesus. What a wreck.’ Fallon joined him on the worn flip-down seats bolted to the aircraft’s hull.
The interior of the Caribou was like a window into the past. The hull’s inner frame was constructed from aluminium struts that had begun to fur with age. Heavy canvas drapes were stretched between them and secured with lengths of fraying rope. The cargo-bay floor was decked with pitted and scarred sheets of plywood. The cockpit, which was open to the rest of the aircraft, had no modern instruments, just two control columns whose handles were worn to the bare metal, and a basic radio, the handset of which was dangling from the overhead unit by a length of cloth-covered cable.
‘All right, girls?’ Riley’s grinning face appeared through the cargo-bay door. He was wearing the fluorescent waistcoat Buganov had given him bearing the words EQUIPO DE MANTENIMIENTO. Maintenance crew.
Buganov followed him up the steps lugging the toolbox. He pointed to some crudely drilled finger holes in a section of the plywood floor. ‘There. Take it up.’
Riley raised the inspection hatch and set it aside, exposing an unpromising tangle of wires and hydraulic hoses. Buganov sank stiffly to his knees and began, bad-temperedly, to sort through them.
Fallon looked away, shaking his head.
Black watched with morbid fascination as Riley and Buganov sifted through the aircraft’s guts. Eventually they l
ocated the leaking hoses and with the aid of a torch Riley crawled into the space beneath the floor armed with Jubilee clips and rolls of silver duct tape. Buganov barked unhelpful instructions from above while he made the crude repair: ‘Make sure to wrap them tight, but don’t strangle with the clips. You split the hoses we all die. Not good.’
Black checked his watch. Another hour had slipped past. If only they could get into the air, he could manage the situation. Every second they remained on the ground they were vulnerable.
‘That’s it, boys. Let’s load her up.’ Riley re-emerged from the hatch, his hands and cheeks smeared with filthy hydraulic fluid.
‘Will they hold?’ Fallon said.
‘I wouldn’t bet your house on it.’ Riley smirked, sensing that he had found Fallon’s weak spot.
They loaded quickly and in silence, forming a three-man human chain while Buganov went through his preflight checks and started the engines. All the while, Black kept his eyes on him, ready to step in the second he reached for the radio. When the moment arrived, Black slipped into the co-pilot’s seat and caught hold of Buganov’s wrist as he brought the handset to his mouth.
‘It’s important you don’t log a flight plan to Platanal. Puerto Carreño is fine.’
Buganov’s black eyes slanted towards him.
‘You can’t fly incognito, Mr Black. The Colombian drug runners try that – the air force shoots them down.’
‘I understand. Puerto Carreño. OK?’
‘And then?’
‘We have a technical issue. An electrical failure.’
‘This was not part of our arrangement.’
‘What are you going to do – turn us over to the authorities?’
Buganov glared at him with fresh hatred.
‘Would it help if I told you we are here in a noble cause?’
Buganov jerked his wrist free and spoke into the handset. Black listened carefully. The Russian did as he was told.
Riley called out from the back. ‘All set, boss.’ They had loaded the crates containing their kit and had stacked a further dozen empty ones on top. All were roped tight against the hull. He pulled the cargo-bay door shut and fastened it.
‘One more thing before we go, Gregori – may I call you that?’ Black said, buckling into the co-pilot’s seat.
Buganov dipped his chin in Black’s direction, his features set in a hostile scowl.
‘Any chance of an upgrade?’
‘Mudak!’ Asshole.
Buganov released the brakes and started to taxi towards the head of the runway, where they came to a halt. He exchanged messages with the tower and was cleared for takeoff. He pulled back on the throttle. The Caribou’s twin engines stuttered, caught, then picked up revs and rose to a deafening pitch. They lurched forward and accelerated into a heat haze that turned the runway ahead of them into a blur. The airframe rattled and shook like an old-fashioned train carriage careering to its doom. For several anxious seconds it seemed they had reached peak velocity yet still lacked the power to make it off the ground.
The end of the runway raced towards them.
Buganov glanced at his airspeed indicator and gently eased back the stick. The nose lifted, the plane’s wings bit into the thick tropical air and they started to climb. They continued upwards in a straight line to 1,000 feet, then banked sharply to the right, turning through ninety degrees to head due south.
Black looked right out of the cockpit window at his side and saw a white vehicle with strobing blue lights heading at speed along the airport approach road. It continued on to the entrance through which they had passed little more than an hour before.
He assumed that Cordero had run out of luck.
Which meant that so had they.
47
They had been airborne for a little under ten minutes when the call came over the radio. Black saw Buganov’s forehead crease with concern as he spoke in Spanish to the control tower. He heard him repeat his destination, Puerto Carreño, several times, then insist, ‘No, no, sólo. Sólo yo. Como siempre.’ No, no, alone. Only me. As usual.
Black shot him a glance, warning him to stay cool. Buganov glowered back at him.
Another voice came over the radio. This one more insistent. A police officer, no doubt, or worse. Buganov repeated his claim to be alone with an admirable air of exasperation, adding words to the effect – as far as Black could glean – that the chance of some paid passengers would be a fine thing; he hadn’t even had any offers from criminals wanting him to fly over the Colombian border lately.
‘Informe a la policía en Puerto Carreño.’
‘No hay problema. Como desee.’ He hung the handset back on its hook, his jaw set in anger. ‘The police are looking for three Englishmen. They’ve ordered me to report to the police at Puerto Carreño.’ He reached into the carrier bag at the side of his seat, brought out a bottle, uncorked it with his teeth and took a large mouthful.
Black glanced over his shoulder at the others. Fallon’s face was pale. He was eyeing Buganov as if he might just knock his lights out.
Black snatched the bottle from his hand and tossed it over his shoulder. It smashed into fragments on the cargo-bay floor. ‘Enough.’
Buganov gripped the control stick with white knuckles, his face hardened into an expression of defiance. ‘Fuck you.’
‘Your friend, Mr Cordero,’ Black said. ‘Does he send you other customers?’
Buganov gave a dismissive shrug of his shoulders.
‘Or is it another kind of cargo? Do you fly up to the Virgin Islands, Panama perhaps, offload a few crates of pineapples and hand over a bag to a man in a suit?’
Buganov continued to sulk.
‘It’s a shame for men like you,’ Black said, ‘people who believed in something, only for men like Cordero to sell you out. Not what you’d call very fraternal.’
‘You watch your mouth, Mr Black. Maybe we’ll have an accident.’
‘He’s betrayed you, Gregori. I’m sorry about that. But we have a plan for this contingency. An expensive one, but for us, not for you.’
Buganov’s eyes slid right at the mention of money.
‘I’m afraid it’s rather drastic – it involves you not returning home. After we put down in Platanal you fly on north-east to Georgetown, Guyana. I’ll give you the address of the British Embassy and a phone number to call right away. You’ll speak to my colleague in London, Colonel Towers. He’ll arrange a regular payment, enough for you to live comfortably. A pension courtesy of the British government.’
‘Pension?’
‘It probably won’t be more than forty thousand dollars a year, I’m afraid.’
‘US dollars?’
‘Whatever currency you choose.’
‘US dollars is fine … Forty thousand …? Every year?’
‘Yes, for life. Can you live with that?’
Buganov gave another shrug, making an admirable job of hiding his elation.
‘I’m grateful, Gregori. And sorry to put you to this trouble.’ Black sat back in his seat, resisting the temptation to glance back at the others to gauge their reactions. He felt a small measure of remorse at having fed their pilot such an appealing lie, but survival came first. It left them with the problem of their return trip but whatever way you cut it Buganov would be out of the picture. They would just have to find a way.
Move forward. Don’t look back. Stay alive.
It was what they had been trained to do.
They headed almost due south towards Puerto Carreño, which lay 300 miles distant. Platanal was a further 570 miles and three hours’ flying time to the south-east. Buganov made his move after 150 miles when they were skirting the Aguaro-Guariquito National Park. Slowly, he began to lose height, then veered to the right, then to the left, then right again, laying down an erratic track on any radar that was recording his movements. Steep, wooded hills came into view. Buganov continued on a downwards trajectory that, if he were to have continued on it, would have seen them s
mashing into the ground in approximately two minutes’ time.
He reached for his radio and made contact with the nearest airfield at the provincial city of San Fernando de Apure. He communicated with the tower, evidently telling them he was having problems with his electrical and navigation systems. He requested a bearing that would send them in the direction of the airfield. A female voice responded with details of his position and the correct course.
Buganov thanked her but remained on the same course.
Seconds later the voice returned. Was he OK? What was the problem?
Buganov said something about his ‘Presión hidráulica’ and added an accumulating list of other faults in a tone of mounting alarm.
The local air traffic controller fired back with an urgent instruction to ‘Ganar altitud!’
‘Mierda! Mierda!’ Buganov responded. Shit! Shit!
He reached up to the radio unit and switched it off.
Black braced himself. The mountainside was coming up fast. ‘It has to look convincing,’ Buganov said.
The wall of green increased in size until it was filling the entire windshield. Black swallowed, fighting the urge to grab hold of the co-pilot’s control column.
Buganov wore a big yellow-toothed grin, enjoying his passengers’ discomfort. ‘Hold tight.’
He stamped on the rudder pedal and at the same time turned his control column sharply to the left. Black felt his stomach being hurled towards his boots as Buganov threw the groaning plane through a steep, banking turn. Now it was the ground confronting them. Black heard what sounded like a moan coming from the seats behind as Buganov maintained his rapid descent to below 1,000 feet. Just as Black began to consider the possibility that their pilot had no intention of pulling up, Buganov yanked hard on the stick, causing Black’s stomach to hurtle in the opposite direction.
Buganov laughed as he levelled out at what felt like only tens of feet above the forest canopy. ‘Rest in peace, gentlemen. According to the radar screen, we are all officially dead men.’