Chapter Ten
Gregoire had abandoned the road for the underbrush before nearing the island airstrip, certain anyone of interest would be watching the only avenue of approach to it. Depending on the terrain, which was mostly flat island scrub brush and sand, he approached either crouched over or in a low-crawl, trying to remain unseen. He had no idea if the drug smugglers he and his team were after were still here but if they were responsible for the disappearance of Arris’ helicopter it seemed best to play it safe.
When he arrived at the airstrip, he instantly recognized the hulking Twin Commander 1000 airplane that his group had been monitoring, only now almost certainly on its return trip. He pulled out a small pen-sized telescope from his shirt pocket and scanned the area through it, noting several men milling around the plane, acting as not-so-unsuspicious guards. Gregoire smiled: the muscle never hid, the power of weaponry overcoming discretion mixed with a desire to want to instill fear in outsiders.
Gregoire looked around the rest of the airstrip for any outliers, more seasoned superiors on the edges performing over-look duties, and saw none. Still, one had to be careful. Gregoire dropped what little military kit he had carried with him, slipped his Glock 27 .40 caliber pistol under his waistband and untucked his shirt to conceal it.
He made his way around a corner of the building and approached the front of the small terminal, a dressed-up cinderblock structure with large glass windows and a lounge with comfortable furniture inside. He approached the front door, made a small show of checking his watch and scanning the area, and stood still. A car drove up the road and came to a stop near a pair of guards standing nearby; a moment later, a man disembarked the aircraft and strode over to the car.
Gregoire paused for a moment as he watched the man walk from the aircraft. There was something off about him, as if he didn’t quite belong with the others. After a moment, Gregoire realized the man was dressed differently, the man’s clothes an amalgamation of Western and Arabic, a white-and-brown checkered scarf loose around his neck. Gregoire noticed a scabbard attached to the man’s waist from which protruded what appeared to be a conductor’s baton. Gregoire’s eyes flitted across the others and none of them matched the man’s dress style. Weird, Gregoire thought.
“So, Ahmet, how did it go?” a man inside the car asked, in Arabic.
“Without a hitch, so far as we can tell,” Ahmet said, also in Arabic.
Gregoire listened intently while pretending to check his watch and look around as if he were confused. Gregoire was fluent in Arabic, French, English and Spanish, though he never let on to this to those who did not already know. The two guards standing near the car were both now glancing frequently at Gregoire. His time was running out.
“I heard there was a problem,” the man in the car said.
“The helicopter?” Ahmet asked. “Not a problem. Jose said Pablo spotted men with binoculars in the cargo bay watching their boat, so they shot it down.”
“I heard the missile didn’t explode,” the man in the car said. “That’s a problem.”
Ahmet shrugged. “It didn’t explode, but it the helicopter and it crashed into the sea; everyone on the boat saw it go down.”
“How does it not explode? We just bought those missiles,” the man in the car said.
“Yes, but Strela-3s are old,” Ahmet said. “We need Stingers if we want to be certain, the Russian stuff can be crap even if it’s new.”
“What about our other problem?”
Ahmet shrugged and made a gesture of supplication with his hands. “I’m heading out to meet them on their island later today. They say they have a way of finding him.”
“Did they say how?” the man in the car asked.
“Only that he has something of theirs that will lead them to him,” Ahmet said, “but they need one of us to cast a locator on something for it to work.”
The man from the aircraft now noticed the two guards watching Gregoire, and nodded with his head for them to check him out. Gregoire watched them approach and tried to smile in a disarming manner.
“Can we help you?” the short man with a thin moustache asked Gregoire, in Spanish.
Gregoire cocked his head to the left slightly and tapped his watch, “I’m waiting for the plane from Miami, is this the plane from Miami?” he asked, speaking French.
The two guards looked at each other in bewilderment.
Gregoire tapped his watch and then pointed at the plane, continuing in French, “I’m waiting for a friend. He’s coming in on the flight from Miami. Do you know if this is the flight from Miami?”
The man from the airplane had overheard this exchange and now approached Gregoire, stopping in front of the two guards and eyeing Gregoire up for a moment, quickly concluding the skinny black African was harmless.
“Do you speak Spanish,” Ahmet asked in Spanish.
Gregoire shrugged, raised the palms of his hands and asked in French, “Do you speak French?”
Ahmet looked briefly at the two guards, who made faces that indicated they had no idea what Gregoire was saying, and turned to him and asked in near-perfect English, “Do you speak English?”
Gregoire nodded and spoke uncertainly, “I speak, but my word list is not so big.”
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
“I wait for plane from Miami. My friend is on it. Do you know if plane here is from Miami?” Gregoire asked, slowly, and motioned toward the Twin Commander.
Ahmet shook his head. “No, this is not the plane from Miami, there are no passengers on it. No friend, not the Miami plane.”
Gregoire nodded enthusiastically and smiled broadly, “Merci, thank you.”
Gregoire turned and entered the building, knowing they would be watching him through the glass windows. He made a show of trying to locate some sort of information – paperwork, a bulletin board, anything – that might make it seem as if he were looking for an arrivals schedule before he noticed a rear exit. He walked over to it and pushed through the door.
Outside, he walked quickly into the woods, scooped up his gear and dashed for concealment. A moment later a guard rounded each corner of the building and stopped, scanning through the trees for Gregoire. They looked at each other, met by the rear door, and entered, apparently thinking he might have gone back inside. Gregoire began the slow process of backing away from the building, moving through the underbrush, constantly stopping to hide and scan to see if he were being pursued. After ten minutes, he concluded they were not following him and made his way back to the docks.
The dockworker approached him with a clipboard and a bill for the gasoline. “Find what you were looking for, sir?”
Gregoire nodded, “More or less, you could say. Thanks for the gas; I’ll be on my way in a few minutes.”
The worker nodded and walked away. Gregoire hopped into the boat and pulled out a satellite phone.
“This is Opera,” Gregoire said when connected, “I need to talk about the arrangements for the soloist.”
“A problem with the snack bowl?” was the reply.
“Yeah, he only wants red M&Ms,” Gregoire said, finishing the authentication sequence.”
“What have you got?”
“Apparently, they were shot down by the smugglers. They had some sort of MANPAD – I think he said it was an old Russian missile of some sort,” Gregoire said. “But the warhead didn’t explode, it just crashed into the helicopter and they went down in the sea. Which could mean anything, but I’m going to bet Arris was able to get it down safely.”
And if that were the case, Gregoire was certain Arris would’ve gotten himself and the agents out of the aircraft before it sank. Somewhere, out there, his friend and two DEA agents were floating, waiting for help, and Gregoire was determined to find them.