window.
The engines spun down and stopped. Costain walked behind the wing as the pilot’s door tipped up.
“Mills! Mills!” Costain shouted, in perfect if accented English. “My friend!”
“Yves? How are you?” Mills said with some surprise.
“I’m fine. Fine. How are you?”
“Good,” Mills said, stepping onto the wing and reaching back into the plane.
The Russian put his free hand on the pistol tucked behind his belt against the small of his back. With the other he brought another touch of rum to his lips and watched the American warily from behind dark glasses.
“Are you thirsty, my friend?” Costain asked.
Mills seemed to be struggling with something, then with one final pull he heaved a large black duffel from behind the pilot’s seat and dropped it on the wing. “I am now.”
He smiled and hopped down, shouldering the duffel and giving his hand to Costain. “I never get to see you anymore. When I make the trip it’s usually that Mexican fellow of yours waiting for me.”
“Roberto,” Costain said, grasping Mills’s hand in both of his. “Like a son to me. If he could speak French I’d adopt him.”
Mills and Costain laughed raucously, like school chums reunited after too many years. The fat Russian sipped his rum and let his hand come off his pistol.
“Mills, you know my friend, do you not?”
Mills nodded and smiled at the fat Russian. He’d met him once, hadn’t heard him utter a word, and had never heard Costain mention his name.
“Come, Mills, good fellow. We will go and get you something to drink and you will tell me about this new plane I see.”
New? Mills thought. He guessed it was new to Costain. He’d already used it on four runs, and that was about his limit. Gareth would be wanting to spring for a new one soon. New look, new tail number. Easier to get in and out of ‘iffy’ fields without some gung ho local cop or customs agent asking the wrong–or the right—questions.
“That, Yves, is a brand new twenty five year-old Beech Baron,” Mills said proudly as they began to walk toward a grouping of shacks beyond the date trees. In one there would be barrels of fuel, he knew, and in another, the one in the center with Costain’s bodyguard standing outside, there would be a table. A big table. “Pressurized, electric door seal, M1 coupled, dual DG’s, and a hell of a nice interior.”
“By that you mean as few seats as possible, eh, my friend?” Costain put his arm around Mills, chuckling knowingly. “More room for other things.” He put a finger to his nose and sniffed twice in suggestion. “I am right?”
“I transport needed medical supplies from third world countries to poor souls in my country,” Mills told him with a broad smile. Sweat was beading on his forehead already. The Beech’s A/C had spoiled him. “I’m a humanitarian.”
“Of course. Of course.” Costain laughed and thumped Mills twice on the back. “Come, hurry, let’s get business done so we may relax a bit.”
Mills nodded as he walked. Behind he could hear the fat Russian’s sloppy steps in the sandy earth past the date trees. At the shack where his bodyguard waited, Costain paused outside the door and spoke to his man quietly in Russian. The bodyguard nodded and trotted off. “Raoul will be back with refreshments in a moment. Iced coffee is good?”
“Fine, Yves,” Mills said, wondering how in the hell the Frenchman had managed ice on this Godforsaken rock a thousand miles out in the Atlantic. Then again, Costain had surprised him before.
“Good. Inside. Come.”
They entered the small shack, Mills first, Costain behind him, and finally the fat Russian, who pulled the flimsy door shut behind, likely the most physical thing he’d done in a while, Mills thought. The floor was sand and there were no windows. Virgin daylight poked through several large holes rusted in the corrugated roof, which even this early was radiating heat from outside to in, setting the space to
The engines spun down and stopped. Costain walked behind the wing as the pilot’s door tipped up.
“Mills! Mills!” Costain shouted, in perfect if accented English. “My friend!”
“Yves? How are you?” Mills said with some surprise.
“I’m fine. Fine. How are you?”
“Good,” Mills said, stepping onto the wing and reaching back into the plane.
The Russian put his free hand on the pistol tucked behind his belt against the small of his back. With the other he brought another touch of rum to his lips and watched the American warily from behind dark glasses.
“Are you thirsty, my friend?” Costain asked.
Mills seemed to be struggling with something, then with one final pull he heaved a large black duffel from behind the pilot’s seat and dropped it on the wing. “I am now.”
He smiled and hopped down, shouldering the duffel and giving his hand to Costain. “I never get to see you anymore. When I make the trip it’s usually that Mexican fellow of yours waiting for me.”
“Roberto,” Costain said, grasping Mills’s hand in both of his. “Like a son to me. If he could speak French I’d adopt him.”
Mills and Costain laughed raucously, like school chums reunited after too many years. The fat Russian sipped his rum and let his hand come off his pistol.
“Mills, you know my friend, do you not?”
Mills nodded and smiled at the fat Russian. He’d met him once, hadn’t heard him utter a word, and had never heard Costain mention his name.
“Come, Mills, good fellow. We will go and get you something to drink and you will tell me about this new plane I see.”
New? Mills thought. He guessed it was new to Costain. He’d already used it on four runs, and that was about his limit. Gareth would be wanting to spring for a new one soon. New look, new tail number. Easier to get in and out of ‘iffy’ fields without some gung ho local cop or customs agent asking the wrong–or the right—questions.
“That, Yves, is a brand new twenty five year-old Beech Baron,” Mills said proudly as they began to walk toward a grouping of shacks beyond the date trees. In one there would be barrels of fuel, he knew, and in another, the one in the center with Costain’s bodyguard standing outside, there would be a table. A big table. “Pressurized, electric door seal, M1 coupled, dual DG’s, and a hell of a nice interior.”
“By that you mean as few seats as possible, eh, my friend?” Costain put his arm around Mills, chuckling knowingly. “More room for other things.” He put a finger to his nose and sniffed twice in suggestion. “I am right?”
“I transport needed medical supplies from third world countries to poor souls in my country,” Mills told him with a broad smile. Sweat was beading on his forehead already. The Beech’s A/C had spoiled him. “I’m a humanitarian.”
“Of course. Of course.” Costain laughed and thumped Mills twice on the back. “Come, hurry, let’s get business done so we may relax a bit.”
Mills nodded as he walked. Behind he could hear the fat Russian’s sloppy steps in the sandy earth past the date trees. At the shack where his bodyguard waited, Costain paused outside the door and spoke to his man quietly in Russian. The bodyguard nodded and trotted off. “Raoul will be back with refreshments in a moment. Iced coffee is good?”
“Fine, Yves,” Mills said, wondering how in the hell the Frenchman had managed ice on this Godforsaken rock a thousand miles out in the Atlantic. Then again, Costain had surprised him before.
“Good. Inside. Come.”
They entered the small shack, Mills first, Costain behind him, and finally the fat Russian, who pulled the flimsy door shut behind, likely the most physical thing he’d done in a while, Mills thought. The floor was sand and there were no windows. Virgin daylight poked through several large holes rusted in the corrugated roof, which even this early was radiating heat from outside to in, setting the space to
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