True Faith and Allegiance

52

The sleek white Hendley Associates Gulfstream G550 landed in Bucharest at nine-twenty a.m. and Captain Helen Reid taxied the aircraft to the customs ramp. Before Country could lower the hatch, however, a customs officer came over the radio and told them the inspector would follow them in his truck to their FBO, where he would do a complete physical inspection of the deplaning passengers’ luggage.

Normally when they traveled in the business jet, the men of The Campus could clear customs and immigration upon landing, with a customs official coming on board to visually inspect their luggage and documents. Then they would taxi from the customs ramp to the fixed-based operator that would store the aircraft during its time in country, and here the men on board could gather their belongings and deplane. This afforded the American operatives the opportunity to open hidden compartments on the jet and remove sensitive items like firearms and high-tech surveillance gear.

But things didn’t go well in Bucharest. The overly officious customs inspector had the pilot shut down the engine, then the four men in the back of the plane were asked to remove their luggage and come down the stairs. They were led to a table, and here the man took his time as he silently checked each piece of luggage over carefully.

The three operatives kept their cool, because they had nothing to hide. And Gavin kept his cool because he had no real suspicions that anything out of the ordinary was going on. The three operators had left their weapons on board, but they did bring out two large Pelican cases of surveillance gear for the customs inspector to gawk at. He asked them what the goods were for and Jack produced commercial invoices along with a story that they were here in town to bid on a government security contract on behalf of a company Hendley Associates had just purchased in the United States. Satisfied, and somewhat embarrassed by his lack of understanding of some of the explanation of how the items worked, the customs man just pulled a couple cameras and spotting scopes out of their foam storage slots, looked them over to match item numbers up with those on the commercial invoice, and then gave the men a curt nod, letting them know they could seal everything up.

Despite the air of gravity to the situation in the end, the official stamped the men’s passports and welcomed them to Romania.

The four Americans were met inside the FBO lounge by Felix Negrescu, a sixty-one-year-old bear of a man with a huge salt-and-pepper beard that made him look like a character from a Harry Potter novel. He welcomed them to Romania much more sincerely than the customs officer, with a wide grin and firm handshakes, and he insisted on taking more than his share of bags out of the FOB to his rented gray minivan in the parking lot.

Once they were all inside the vehicle with Negrescu behind the wheel, Chavez said, “Well, Felix, we have a problem right off the bat. Our firearms are still on that plane. We didn’t see a way to get them past customs. Any way you can help us find some small arms, just for defensive purposes?”

Felix gave a low, gravelly chuckle from behind the wheel. “Have you tried the local brew?”

Neither Chavez nor Jack knew what Felix was talking about, but Midas said, “Are you talking about the MD 2000? Yeah, that’ll work, if that’s what is easiest to get hold of.”

Felix said, “I can find you others, but those are the most plentiful. We can make one quick stop on the way to the safe house I’ve arranged and I will pick up one for each of you, along with ammo, magazines, and holsters.”

Chavez said, “I’ve never heard of the MD 2000.”

Midas said, “It’s a knock-off of the Baby Eagle. A nine-millimeter double-stack semiauto.”

Chavez nodded now. “Okay, the Israeli pistol. Does the Romanian version run?”

Midas said, “It will get the job done. Sidearm of the national army here.” He turned to Jack. “You know the weapon?”

“No, but if I can figure out which end the bullets come out of, I’ll be fine.”

Chavez said, “Don’t worry about Jack, he can shoot, and he can shoot under stress.”

“That’s good to know.”

They parked in an alcove near Bucharest North Railway Station at ten a.m. Chavez gave Felix a wad of U.S. dollars, and Felix instructed the Americans to wait in the car. Once he was out of sight Chavez said, “Mr. C. vouches for this guy, but I’m not one to sit around in a car while a dude I just met leaves my sight to talk to dudes I’ve never met about a weapons deal.”

The door of the van opened and all the men climbed out, taking up positions within view of the car on the street, but not making themselves such an easy target inside.

Their fears proved unfounded fifteen minutes later when Felix appeared at the hood of the van, carrying a backpack and scratching his beard, looking around at the street and wondering where his new friends had gone.

Chavez appeared inches behind him, startling him with his words. “Everything go okay?”

Felix jumped in surprise, and then laughed as he walked around to the driver’s side. “No problems. They even threw in this shitty backpack for free, although they didn’t cut us the best deal on the pistols. They were one thousand each, with all the trimmings.”

Chavez was unfazed. “Well, beggars can’t be choosers, and if it turns out we need them, it will have been money well spent.”

Felix passed out the pistols to Midas, Jack, and Ding. As the van rolled through central Bucharest the three men function-checked their new sidearms, loaded their primary and spare magazines, and stowed the guns in their waistbands.

While this was all going on, Gavin Biery sat in the very back and pouted.

He wanted a pistol like the other guys.