Chapter 1: Our First Stop

Bogota, Colombia

April 15, 1996

It was Tax Day in the United States of America and Jake Kingsley had left the country in the company of Jill Yamashito, his accountant, but not for reasons of evasion or exile. His taxes were already filed and paid in full, his return accepted by both the state of California and the US Internal Revenue Service, and, as far as the two of them knew, they were still in a state of grace with their monetary obligations. Instead, they were in South America for another reason; a reason that Jake was extremely enthusiastic about but that Jill, who was much more practical and niggardly with Jake’s money than Jake could ever hope to be, was quite dreading. It was time to take a look at the Avanti-180 aircraft that a gentleman named Eduardo Gomez wanted to sell.

Traveling with them was a man by the name of Travis Young. He was forty-three years old and was a supervising aircraft mechanic at the Fly Safe Aircraft Maintenance and Repair facility located at the Rocky Mountain Metropolitan Airport in Broomfield, Colorado, just outside of Denver. Fly Safe was one of only two facilities in the United States authorized by Piaggio Aerospace, the Italian manufacturer that produced Avanti aircraft, to perform B, C, or D level maintenance checks or major repairs on their products. Greenville, South Carolina, home of the North American Piaggio facility, was the other. Travis had been recruited for this mission with the assistance of Austin Grover, the pilot who had first introduced Jake to the Avanti (and had even let him take the controls for a bit). Austin had given Jake Travis’s phone number. Jake called him up and offered him a little all-inclusive paid vacation to Colombia if he would come along and examine the maintenance records of the Avanti-180 Jake was considering purchasing (as well as the actual aircraft itself). He had even offered to include Travis’s wife in the deal if she wished to come.

Travis’ wife did not wish to come, and Travis himself had been more than a little reluctant to travel to a city that was regularly reported as having one of the highest murder rates per capita in the world and was located in a country that was currently immersed in a decades-long civil war with radical communist guerrilla forces.

“We’re not going to be anywhere near any of that shit,” Jake assured him. “We’ll be in a five-star luxury hotel in the best district of the city. You’ll have your own suite, room service, all meals and drinks paid for by me. We’re not going to go trekking around in the mountains or anything like that. The only place you’ll have to go besides the hotel is this muni airport north of the city where the plane is kept.”

“I don’t know,” Travis replied, still clearly uncomfortable.

“I’ll give you five grand for the job,” Jake offered.

“Five grand? You mean ... five thousand dollars?”

“That’s right,” Jake said. “Cash money. You don’t even have to tell the IRS about it if you don’t want to. Call it a gratuity for a job well done.”

“That is a lot of money,” Travis had to admit, “but still...”

“Seventy-five hundred,” Jake said.

That did the trick. “All right,” Travis said. “I’m in.”

“Good man,” Jake told him. “Do you have your passport?”

“Uh ... no,” Travis said. “Will I need one?”

And so, after going through an expedited passport approval process paid for by Jake, Travis had been flown to Dallas-Fort Worth Airport (first-class) and put up in the airport hotel (one of the luxury suites) where Jake and Jill were already waiting for him. It was here that Jake had met the man in person for the first time. He was a friendly enough guy, though he did not seem to possess much of a sense of humor, and he seemed to be a bit of a worry-wart. He was short and stocky, balding, and had a distinct Midwest accent. He told Jake at dinner that night that he spent twelve years in the United States Navy and had served on two separate aircraft carriers (as well as several shore bases) as an aircraft mechanic, working primarily on F-18 Hornets. He, like Celia’s pilot Suzie, had been offered a healthy discharge bonus during the draw-down of forces following the 1991 Gulf War. These days, he was one of only thirty mechanics in the entirety of North America certified to work on Piaggio aircraft above the level of basic maintenance tasks.

The next morning, the three of them flew direct from DFW to El Dorado International in Bogota, Colombia aboard an American Airlines A-320—a five-and-a-half-hour flight. After clearing customs, where Travis got his very first stamp on his new passport and Jill and Jake got their very first South American stamps, they endured a terrifying thirty-minute taxi ride through the crowded, congested city streets of the capital city to the Hotel Charleston, a historic luxury lodging located on the east side of the city, nestled up against the towering Andes mountain peaks that rose another nine thousand feet into the sky.

The trio spent most of that day acclimating themselves to the high elevation of Bogota. The city sat an average of 8800 feet above sea level on a high plateau of the Andes and its air was very thin by Los Angeles, or even Denver standards. Jill made the adjustment by staying in her bed as much as possible and moving as little as she could. Travis tried this for a bit but then elected to go with Jake’s method: sitting in the bar and drinking while munching on local appetizers. It may not have been a method endorsed by the medical community for dealing with such a situation, but it did take their minds off their hypoxia.

And now, at ten o’clock in the morning of US Tax Day, it was time for them to head to Guaymaral Airport to take a look at the plane. Not wanting to put himself or his companions through the terror of another taxi ride, Jake had arranged with the concierge of the hotel to have a limousine pick them up for the forty-five-minute drive.

“How’s the breathing today?” Jake asked Jill as they settled into the back seat of the white stretch limousine in the valet area.

“It’s better,” she said with a shrug. “The headache is gone, and I only feel winded when I go up a staircase or a hill.”

“Then don’t do those things,” Jake suggested.

She gave him a sour look. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Jake turned to the mechanic, who was dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a blue button-up shirt. “How about you, Travis?” he asked. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Passed out like a light,” he said. “And I still have quite a headache, though I’m pretty sure it’s not the altitude that’s causing it, but all that guaro we had at the bar.”

“Guaro?” Jill asked.

“It’s a very popular local drink, apparently,” Jake said. “And very economical, you’ll be happy to hear. Only five thousand pesos apiece, plus tip, of course. That’s cheaper than buying an American beer or a shot of American whiskey.”

“They did go down pretty smooth,” Travis said.

“That they did,” Jake agreed. “I wonder if I can get some of that guaro shit in the states?”

“If you can, it will undoubtedly be at an extremely inflated cost,” Jill told him.

“I don’t care about that,” Jake said, telling her nothing she did not know. “Think of how cool it would be to have a party and serve some genuine South American hooch as part of the theme.”

“It would go well on taco night,” Travis suggested.

“Hell to the yeah!” Jake said, smiling. “I’ll get the Nerdlys and their internet surfing skills working on this thing as soon as I get home.”

Jill simply shook her head and opened a bottle of water to help sooth her dry throat. You just couldn’t tell Jake anything.

The limo pulled out of the hotel valet area and onto the congested boulevard. The driver, who had introduced himself as Jeronimo, spoke only limited English and Jake spoke even less Spanish, but they had managed to achieve communication on a high enough level to get across their destination and to agree on a price for the trip, the waiting time, and the return trip (ninety thousand pesos, the equivalent of about twenty-five dollars American, which even Jill had to agree was a very reasonable price). He closed the partition as soon as they started out and turned on a local talk radio station, playing it loud enough that the sound filtered through into the back. He drove aggressively, with many rapid starts, stops, changes of lanes, but nowhere near as wild as the taxi driver from the airport.

The weather was chilly and overcast, with a steady misty rain falling and obscuring their visibility to some degree. It reminded Jake of Seattle weather, both in temperature and precipitation. They passed by a plethora of high-rise hotels and office buildings and then, about twenty minutes into the trip, the urban landscape began to thin out to some degree, replaced by more hilly terrain covered in lush green vegetation. Again, the similarity to Seattle and the Pacific Northwest in general was quite apparent.

They arrived at the entrance to Guaymaral Airport. It was a moderate sized muni facility with a fair amount of traffic taxiing about or coming and going from the runways. Jake thought it would be quite challenging to take off from and/or land at the facility as there was high terrain on all sides and the elevation of the runways was just over 8300 feet above sea level. Still, the runways were nice and long, although one of them was grass instead of pavement. And, curiously, the longer of the two runways was the grass one. Interesting.

Jeronimo pulled up in front of the main airport services building—Ificio de Servicios Aeroportuarios, the sign read—and parked immediately behind a large SUV that was black in color, raised off the ground, and looked a little bit like a tank. He then jumped out and opened the rear door for his clients, allowing them to step out into the misty morning dampness.

“Gracias,” Jake told him. And then, in a mixture of pidgin English and poorly pronounced, grammatically incorrect basic Spanish, he told him they would be back in two hours or so hopefully. Jeronimo indicated his understanding and then climbed back into his vehicle to get out of the rain.

Jake led the accountant and the mechanic into the services building. Here, he found himself on the most familiar ground he had been on since leaving Texas. It looked just like any other airport office in a muni airport he had been in during his flying career. There was a desk where two employees worked. There were air charts on the wall. There were shelves that contained flight plan paperwork and tables where said paperwork could be filled out. There were vending machines lined up against one wall that sold sodas, chips, candy bars, and pre-packaged sandwiches. There was a coffee machine in the corner that smelled of burned coffee. The familiarity was comforting to Jake.

About half a dozen men of varying ages were scattered about at the charting tables. Most were working on flight plans and did not even look up when the trio entered. One, however, did not have any paperwork before him and he did look up. He was a handsome man, light skinned with light hair and a fit frame, wearing a pair of dress slacks and an expensive looking button up shirt. He appeared to be in his early thirties and his eyes showed clear recognition when he saw them. He immediately stood and approached them.

“Señor Kingsley?” he enquired politely.

“Yes, I’m Jake Kingsley,” Jake told him.

“I am Sebastian Hernandez,” he said. “Señor Gomez’s primary pilot. He asked me to meet you here and then take you to the hangar to examine the aircraft.”

Hernandez’s English was impeccable, with only the slightest hint of a Hispanic accent. This was not surprising, however, as he was a pilot and English was the international language of aviation. All commercial pilots and air traffic controllers worldwide were pretty much obligated to speak clear and concise English as a prerequisite of their respective professions.

“Nice to meet you, Sebastian,” Jake said, holding out his right hand. “Please, call me Jake.”

Hernandez shook with him, his grip firm and sure. “Very well,” he said. “Jake it is.”

Jake then introduced his small entourage. “This is Jill Yamashito, my accountant,” he said. “She’s the one who found Señor Gomez’s plane for me.”

“Señorita,” he said with a smile, taking her right hand in a much gentler fashion, holding it from the palm instead of side to side. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Jill smiled and actually blushed a little. “Me as well,” she said. “And please, call me Jill.”

“As you wish, Jill,” he said, still holding her hand. “And I am Sebastian ... at your service.”

Jill’s blush increased a little and she only reluctantly pulled her hand from the pilot’s. Jake could not help but notice the little flash of electricity that had seemed to flow between the two of them. Interesting, he thought.

“And this,” Jake said once the moment seemed to have concluded, “is Travis Young. He’s an aircraft mechanic who works at the Colorado Avanti service facility.”

“Ah yes, Señor Young,” Sebastian said. “Señor Gomez arranged to have his primary mechanic available to speak with you in the hangar. He has brought all the service and repair records from the time the aircraft was delivered until the last maintenance cycle last month for your perusal. He will also assist you in your examination of the aircraft.”

“Uh ... cool,” Travis said, shaking with him. “I look forward to meeting him. Oh ... and you can call me Travis.”

“Very good,” Sebastian said. “Now then, shall we make the walk? It is not far. And Señor Gomez is very much looking forward to meeting you, Jake.”

“Meeting me?” Jake asked, surprised. “You mean, he’s here?”

“He is,” Sebastian confirmed. “That is his SUV parked in front of your limousine. Ever since he heard that Jake Kingsley was considering buying his aircraft, he has been very excited to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh ... I see,” Jake said slowly, starting to feel a little nervous now. Though they did not know that Eduardo Gomez was a Colombian drug lord, the possibility was certainly high on the list of probabilities. What would such a man be like? A man who had possibly ordered the deaths of people? Who may very well own politicians, police officials, customs officials?

“Is that a problem, Jake?” Sebastian asked.

“No, not at all,” Jake told him. After all, there was really no alternative at this point, was there?

The hangar where Eduardo Gomez kept the Avanti, as well as his brand-new Cessna CitationJet 525, was the largest one at the facility. It was over two thousand square feet, temperature controlled, with room for both aircraft and a few cars as well. As soon as they walked in out of the drizzling rain into the building, Jake’s eyes went immediately to the Avanti, which was parked on the left side, facing outward. It was painted in a simple two-tone scheme, white on the top and the wings, candy-apple red on the bottom of the fuselage, below the windows. It had obviously been cleaned and polished for his particular viewing and it absolutely gleamed under the overhead lights.

He only had a moment to look at it, however, before his attention was pulled to the gathering of men standing around next to it. There were five of them in a cluster. Three were wearing business suits, one a pair of work overalls, and one a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting sweater. Two of the men in the suits were large men, intimidating in appearance, with expressionless faces and watchful eyes. They stood just behind the man in the jeans. The other suit was a smaller man, slight in appearance, clean shaven, including his head, and with a pair of wire glasses perched on his nose. The man in the overalls was thin and wiry and reasonably young; no more than forty by appearance. The man in the jeans was the oldest-appearing of the group. He was moderately overweight and appeared out of shape. He sported a thick, carelessly groomed mustache and at least two days’ worth of beard stubble. He had a jovial, amused expression on his face. When he saw Jake and Jill and Travis enter the building, the expression of amusement kicked up by a factor of two, at least.

The five of them walked across the concrete floor and met Jake and the others halfway across. Sebastian stepped forward and made the introductions.

“Jefe,” he greeted the man in the jeans, “may I present Señor Kingsley to you. Jake, this is Señor Gomez, the current owner of the aircraft you are interested in.”

Gomez held out his hand. And then, in a moderately accented English, he said, “Jake Kingsley! May I call you Jake?”

“Of course, Señor Gomez,” Jake replied, shaking with him.

“Call me Eddie,” Gomez said, “like a parcero! It’s an honor to make your acquaintance. My children are great admirers of your music. And I’m a fan as well, mostly of your newer, solo material.”

“Thank you ... uh ... Eddie,” Jake said, feeling decidedly strange to be calling the man that.

“And this,” Eddie said, pulling the slight member of the suit brigade forward, “is Nicolas Sanchez. Nick is my primary personal finance account manager. It is he who has been speaking to your accountant about your possible acquisition of the Avanti.”

Jake shook with him—his grip was weak and effeminate—and then introduced Jill to Nick and Eddie both.

“It’s nice to meet you, Señor Gomez,” Jill told the man. “And it’s nice to finally speak to you in person, Nick.”

“You as well,” Nick returned, his eyes looking everywhere but Jill’s face. It reminded Jake of Eric the violinist.

The rest of the introductions were made. The man in the overalls was Samuel Lopez, the primary mechanic who took care of the routine maintenance on the aircraft and who arranged for it to be delivered to Cali—where the Colombian Piaggio maintenance facility was located—when it needed its B checks or C checks. So far, according to Lopez, the plane had required no repairs that could not be done here in the hangar. Eddie introduced him to first Jake and then to Travis. Fortunately, Samuel spoke pretty good English.

The two large men in the suits were not introduced, not by name anyway. “They’re just my security staff,” Eddie said dismissively. “You know how it is. Just pretend they’re not there.”

“Will do,” Jake said, hiding his nervousness. He was pretty sure that both of the “security staff” were packing guns under their suit jackets. He had seen the bulges when they had turned their bodies to check the entrances on what seemed routine scans. And they definitely both had those little earpiece communication devices in their ears—just like those the Secret Service agents protecting Slick Willie wore. It was going to be very hard to pretend they weren’t there.

“All right then,” Eddie said. “Now that we all know each other, how about we go take a look at the plane? That’s why you’re here, right, Jake?”

“That’s right,” Jake said, his nervousness easing a bit. “I can’t wait to see it.”

“Let us wait no longer then,” Eddie said. He waved toward the aircraft.

Jake took it in once again as they walked over to it, getting a good, long look at it this time. It was a twin-engine turboprop propellor-driven aircraft, the fastest, most fuel efficient propellor-driven business-class plane in existence. It could climb at up to three thousand feet per minute to an altitude of up to forty-one thousand feet, could cruise at over three hundred knots, and had a range of more than fifteen hundred miles. The engines were mounted on the wings near the back of the aircraft and the propellors faced backwards instead of forward, making it a “pusher” not a “puller” like most prop-driven airplanes. This equaled increased cabin room and a much quieter ride. In order to offset the weight imbalance caused by mounting the primary wings, with their heavy engines and their internal fuel tanks, further aft than on a standard aircraft, the entire fuselage itself was shaped like an airfoil and actually provided a sizable portion of the lift. As a final balancing and control measure, there were two small wings attached just behind the nose, giving the front of the plane an appearance similar to a hammerhead shark. Jake had thought the nose wings looked incredibly cool ever since he had first seen them in Phoenix, but it was not until the flight to Bogota and a discussion about the aircraft with Travis did he come to understand the actual purpose of them.

“The main reason is for stall protection,” the mechanic had explained. “If you get the aircraft in a stall situation with the weight of the engines and the fuel that far aft, the nose will want to go up. You can’t recover from the stall if the nose goes up. The nose wings, however, change that equation. They’re designed in the weight/balance algorithm to support the weight of the nose and the cockpit just enough to keep it balanced in flight. If you stall, they will stop producing lift before the main wings do. That ensures that your nose will drop down as you approach stall conditions, thus allowing you to recover.”

“That makes sense,” Jake said, impressed by the man’s knowledge of and enthusiasm for the aircraft.

That enthusiasm was showing quite plainly now.

“I work on fifteen or twenty of these a year,” he said, “and I never get tired of looking at them. It’s an engineering marvel.”

“Indeed, it is,” agreed Eddie with a smile and a nod. “I fell in love with the aircraft the first time I looked at one. I knew I had to have it for myself.”

“I know what you’re saying,” Jake said, reaching out and caressing the silver five-bladed propellor on the left-hand side.

Eddie patted Jake on the back—a pat that was hard enough to qualify as a pound. “It’s a good thing to be in a position in life in which we are able to go out and get the toys we desire, isn’t it, Jake?”

Jake looked at the man and nodded meaningfully. “You got that right, Eddie,” he told him. “It’s a very good thing.”

Eddie chuckled—drug lord or not, he was a very jovial man. “It’s been a good plane,” he said. “I’ve gone on many adventures in her. I am saddened to let her go, but ... well ... the Citation is a little bigger and a little faster than the Avanti. It was time to make the change.” He looked sharply at Jake. “If I agree to sell her to you, you’ll take care of her like you would a lady? Make sure she is maintained and that you take her out on a regular basis?”

“Absolutely,” Jake promised, now caressing the empennage as they made their way around it in a circle. “She’ll be flown almost daily when I’m working, making the commute between my home in San Luis Obispo and Los Angeles and then back again at the end of the day.”

“Very nice,” Eddie said approvingly. “How long of a flight is that?”

“In this thing ... about twenty-five minutes or so each way, from wheels-up to touchdown. Of course, that is not all we will be using it for. With the speed and range of this beauty—and the fact that it has a bano—my wife and I can take weekend hops all over the western US just for the hell of it. And when we fly up to Oregon for recording sessions, we can hop up into Canada, over to Glacier Park, or go skiing at Schweitzer.”

“I didn’t know you skied, Jake,” Jill said.

“I don’t,” Jake said. “But this might be a good time to learn.”

“It is a rather expensive hobby, I understand,” said Nicolas, clear disapproval in his tone.

“I was just about to point that out,” Jill said, delighted. “What with all the equipment, travel, lodging, potential medical expenses from injury.”

“Not to mention missed productivity if one should become injured and unable to perform one’s customary duties,” added Nicolas.

“Exactly!” said Jill.

Eddie shook his head and gave a little roll of the eyes. “Accountants,” he said sadly. “It seems they are the same no matter what their nationality.”

Jake smiled. “I was just about to point that out,” he said.

They continued their trip around the plane—Jake pausing to caress the hammerhead wings at the nose—and then finally came to the door on the left side, just behind the cockpit area. Señor Gomez was not entirely sure how to open the thing, so Sebastian stepped forward and performed the action for him. A small stairway was folded down from the bottom of the door and Jake stepped inside, followed by Eddie. Everyone else stayed outside in the hangar.

It was dark in the interior, the air a little musty, but Jake could plainly see the setup. It was very similar to the aircraft he had ridden in with Austin on the trip from Phoenix to Denver, the standard business-transport arrangement. There were six luxurious seats behind the cockpit, the first two facing forward, the second two facing aft, the third two facing forward. Between the second and third sets, wooden tables could be pulled out from the walls. Behind the third set of seats was a sink and a small bar. Behind that were three more seats, all facing sideways, two on the left side, one on the right. Immediately behind that was a small door that led into the tiny bathroom. There was no cockpit door installed, so it would be easy for the pilot of the aircraft to converse with the passengers, especially those immediately behind the cockpit. The lights were all recessed. The interior color was a soft beige that was pleasant on the eyes. Like the one he had flown on before, the cockpit was equipped with computerized digital instruments with analog backups and had the Garmin integrated navigation package.

“What do you think?” asked Eddie after Jake finished the tour of the interior.

“I like it,” he told the businessman. “In fact, I love it. I want it.”

“Very good,” Eddie said, pleased. “I like a man who goes after what he wants.”

“It’s the only way to live life,” Jake replied, still looking into the cockpit and envisioning himself in that left hand seat.

“Well then,” Eddie said, “I understand that you brought your mechanic with you to examine the maintenance records and the aircraft itself, correct?”

“Yes,” Jake said. “That’s correct.”

“Well then, how about we let he and Samuel get to that? And I’m sure Sebastian will be helpful to their cause as well.”

“Sounds good,” Jake said, heading to the doorway.

“And I’m sure that Nicolas and Señorita Yamashito have their own things to discuss,” Eddie said, following behind. “We have already agreed upon a price for the aircraft, but they must start discussing things like inspections and transfer of funds and escrow accounts and all of those things that accountants like to go on about.”

“Yes,” Jake said, stepping back out into the hangar. “I’m sure they do.”

“That is likely to take a few hours, correct?” Eddie asked, casting his gaze on Jill and Nick, who were already putting their heads together over in the corner.

“At least,” Jake agreed.

“Well then, since you and I seem to be without much to do until that time, how about we pop out for a drink or two?”

“Pop out ... for a drink?” Jake asked softly.

“Right!” Eddie said. “There’s a wonderful bar just a few miles from here. I would so love to enjoy a few local brews in the company of one of the world’s most famous musicians.”

“Uh ... well...” Jake said hesitantly, not at all comfortable with this idea. This was, after all, Colombia, a country known for political kidnappings and the ransoming of the victims of this crime. And he was being invited to climb into a car alone with a man who may or may not be a Colombian drug lord.

“Is there a problem with this, Jake?” Eddie asked, his eyes probing into Jake’s.

“Uh ... well ... not really, it’s just that ... well ... I am an American and this is not America ... and I’m not sure how things work and all...”

“I assure you,” Eddie said, “you are perfectly safe in my company.”

“I’m sure I am,” Jake said, “but I don’t really have much of your money on me. Only a couple thousand pesos apart from what I have to pay the limo driver.”

“The drinks will be on me,” Eddie promised. “I insist upon it.”

“Oh ... well ... in that case...” he tried for a second to come up with another reason to refuse the invite, failed to do so, and then decided: What the hell? How often do you get a chance to have a drink with an alleged Colombian drug lord? And he’s going to buy! “I guess I will accept then.”

“Excellent,” Eddie said. He looked at the one of the members of his ‘security team’ and gave a nod. The nod was returned, and the man began to speak quietly, his hand covering his mouth. “Let’s head to the door. My vehicle will be here momentarily.”

Jake told Jill and Travis where he was going. They gave him a few concerned looks but said nothing. He then accompanied Eddie to the hangar’s man-door, where they had entered. Sure enough, the black SUV was now sitting out there, the driver standing next to the open rear door.

“After you, Jake,” Eddie invited.

“Thank you,” Jake said politely.

Still thinking this was a bad idea, he got into the back of the SUV and settled in. The back seat was huge, equipped with a bar and entertainment center. Jake could not help but notice that in addition to this the window glass seemed considerably thicker than what he was accustomed to. And when the driver closed the door after Eddie and the two security guys found their seats, it seemed he had to use a significant amount of force to do so, and the door slammed with a much louder noise than what was normal. Jake realized that the SUV was not stock, but armored, designed to be resistant to small arms fire.