few phone calls before he left, suggesting that McGarvey get a couple hours of sleep before they headed for Cuba.
“This guy who’s going to fly us over is cautious,” Martínez said. “If the Cubans catch him, he’s a dead man, so I’ll have to be convincing.”
“What’s his story?”
“He was a Cuban air force pilot, but his wife apparently was mixing with the wrong people—the anti-Castro crowd—and she was arrested and died on the way to prison. They were coming after him when he took off with his MiG-25 and flew it to Key West.”
“Ernesto Ruiz,” McGarvey said. “About twenty years ago. I remember it was a big deal because he came in so low and so fast, no one knew he was coming until he’d touched down. And the fighter was loaded with air-to-air and air-to-surface missiles.”
“And a new Russian radar jamming system that caught us by surprise. So the DI wants him in a big way. As a result, he’s become a careful man.”
“There’re a lot safer places for him to live than Key Largo.”
“That’s true, but he changed his name and appearance and runs a nice little charter service for fishermen who want to work the flats in the bay for bonefish. He told me that he likes being this near to home, and that sometimes on a day off when it’s clear, he’ll fly close enough so that he can catch a glimpse of the island. It’s enough for him.”
“What makes you think that he’ll take the risk to fly me down there?”
“If he thinks doing it will somehow stick it to the regime, he’ll jump at the chance,” Martínez said, and he smiled. “I’ll tell him about Carlos, but just leave that part to me.”
* * *
McGarvey was sitting in the dark on the balcony, looking at the running lights of a slow-moving boat out in the bay, music drifting down from the Fishtales Lounge on the top floor, people in the pool below, when someone was at the door. He got to his feet, picked up his pistol from the low table beside him, and stepped farther into the shadows.
Martínez was at the door, framed by the lights in the corridor. “It’s me,” he said softly.
“Are we good to go?” McGarvey asked, showing himself as he holstered the pistol at the small of his back.
Martínez came the rest of the way in and closed the door. “He’s gassing up and preflighting the plane right now. Were you expecting trouble?”
“I’m sure the DI would like to catch you at something. They might have followed you back here.”
Martínez laughed. “Those putos in Miami couldn’t find their asses in a lit room with instructions. You going to take your gun with you?”
“They’ll expect me to come in armed.”
“Might come in handy if something goes south. You can never tell.”
McGarvey grabbed his dark blue Windbreaker and, leaving his overnight bag behind, went with Martínez, and they drove down to the tiny village of Rock Harbor, where Bay Flats Air Tours maintained a hangar up a one-hundred-foot concrete ramp from the water’s edge on the bay side.
The plane, already on the ramp, was a sturdy short takeoff and landing de Havilland Beaver that had once been used all over the world, but especially up in Alaska, for back country flying. It could carry the pilot and up to six passengers and gear at a cruise speed of a little over 140 miles per hour, its floats equipped with wheels that allowed it to take off and touch down on land or sea. The little aircraft was all but indestructible.
Ruiz was a short slope-shouldered man with a belly, bandy legs, and thinning gray hair over thick black eyebrows and mustache. He was trundling the hangar door closed when they drove up.
“I’ve read about you in the papers,” he said, shaking McGarvey’s hand. “Pretty risky for a former DCI to be going into harm’s way.”
McGarvey instantly liked him. “That’s why I get the big bucks.”
Ruiz laughed. “They’re mostly a bunch of fine people over there saddled by a fucked-up system. But
“This guy who’s going to fly us over is cautious,” Martínez said. “If the Cubans catch him, he’s a dead man, so I’ll have to be convincing.”
“What’s his story?”
“He was a Cuban air force pilot, but his wife apparently was mixing with the wrong people—the anti-Castro crowd—and she was arrested and died on the way to prison. They were coming after him when he took off with his MiG-25 and flew it to Key West.”
“Ernesto Ruiz,” McGarvey said. “About twenty years ago. I remember it was a big deal because he came in so low and so fast, no one knew he was coming until he’d touched down. And the fighter was loaded with air-to-air and air-to-surface missiles.”
“And a new Russian radar jamming system that caught us by surprise. So the DI wants him in a big way. As a result, he’s become a careful man.”
“There’re a lot safer places for him to live than Key Largo.”
“That’s true, but he changed his name and appearance and runs a nice little charter service for fishermen who want to work the flats in the bay for bonefish. He told me that he likes being this near to home, and that sometimes on a day off when it’s clear, he’ll fly close enough so that he can catch a glimpse of the island. It’s enough for him.”
“What makes you think that he’ll take the risk to fly me down there?”
“If he thinks doing it will somehow stick it to the regime, he’ll jump at the chance,” Martínez said, and he smiled. “I’ll tell him about Carlos, but just leave that part to me.”
* * *
McGarvey was sitting in the dark on the balcony, looking at the running lights of a slow-moving boat out in the bay, music drifting down from the Fishtales Lounge on the top floor, people in the pool below, when someone was at the door. He got to his feet, picked up his pistol from the low table beside him, and stepped farther into the shadows.
Martínez was at the door, framed by the lights in the corridor. “It’s me,” he said softly.
“Are we good to go?” McGarvey asked, showing himself as he holstered the pistol at the small of his back.
Martínez came the rest of the way in and closed the door. “He’s gassing up and preflighting the plane right now. Were you expecting trouble?”
“I’m sure the DI would like to catch you at something. They might have followed you back here.”
Martínez laughed. “Those putos in Miami couldn’t find their asses in a lit room with instructions. You going to take your gun with you?”
“They’ll expect me to come in armed.”
“Might come in handy if something goes south. You can never tell.”
McGarvey grabbed his dark blue Windbreaker and, leaving his overnight bag behind, went with Martínez, and they drove down to the tiny village of Rock Harbor, where Bay Flats Air Tours maintained a hangar up a one-hundred-foot concrete ramp from the water’s edge on the bay side.
The plane, already on the ramp, was a sturdy short takeoff and landing de Havilland Beaver that had once been used all over the world, but especially up in Alaska, for back country flying. It could carry the pilot and up to six passengers and gear at a cruise speed of a little over 140 miles per hour, its floats equipped with wheels that allowed it to take off and touch down on land or sea. The little aircraft was all but indestructible.
Ruiz was a short slope-shouldered man with a belly, bandy legs, and thinning gray hair over thick black eyebrows and mustache. He was trundling the hangar door closed when they drove up.
“I’ve read about you in the papers,” he said, shaking McGarvey’s hand. “Pretty risky for a former DCI to be going into harm’s way.”
McGarvey instantly liked him. “That’s why I get the big bucks.”
Ruiz laughed. “They’re mostly a bunch of fine people over there saddled by a fucked-up system. But
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