Jason was uneasy enough in fixed-wing aircraft; flying in helicopters downright frightened him. In the first place, rising into the air without wings seemed an unnatural act, against the laws of nature. Like the American League’s DH rule. Next, he had apprehensions about the safety of choppers: If the engine quit, he would be aboard an airborne crowbar. Finally, the things flitted back and forth beneath the tops of buildings at altitudes only the heartiest of birds would chance.
All his qualms had been explained away quite logically by persons far more knowledgeable on the subject than he, but he was just as nervous as ever. Fear, he told himself, is an illogical emotion.
He felt it just the same.
The Bell 47J Ranger on the tarmac of the general aviation airport offered little comfort. With a single pilot seat up front and a three-passenger bench behind, the aircraft was almost as old as the DC-3s at San Juan’s commercial field. The tropical sun had bleached its paint into chalk and the Plexiglas had cracked in a number of spots.
It was, however, the only helicopter immediately available for rental.
The only comfort Jason felt was the weight of his Glock in the small of his back. The weapon had been delivered in parts in multiple packages by UPS that morning, within fifteen minutes of the time given to Judith when she had shipped them and a couple of other items before departing from Washington. His National Security Agency permit would have satisfied the TSA people, but producing it would have surely attracted unwanted attention. The pistol would not make the helicopter flight less harrowing; but, should he survive it, he would feel a great deal more secure.
The pilot, every bit as old as his ship, helped Judith into the rear seat. “Any particular part of the city you want to see?”
She gave the preplanned spiel. “Just a general view. The beach, the fort, the old town.”
What they really wanted to see was Calle Luna 23, but prolonged hovering over a specific building was likely to alert its occupants.
Jason climbed aboard, strapped himself in, and pulled a newly purchased pair of binoculars from its case. “I’d like a long look at the old fort.”
Only a few blocks from the subject of their attention.
The engine made grinding noises as twin blades rotated slowly overhead. Jason felt a momentary and irrational hope the thing would not start, hope that evaporated in a cloud of blue smoke and the roar of a piston engine. Suddenly, sickeningly, the ground dropped away, along with Jason’s stomach.
After “taxiing” a few feet above the airport’s single runway, Jason heard the tower’s permission for departure through the ill-fitting headset, the sole means of communication because of the racket created by the turning blades.
Another reason to despise whirlybirds.
At no more than a few hundred feet, the aircraft’s shadow was soon skimming along the golden crescent of Condado. With no small feeling of consternation, Jason noted the upper floors of a number of mega-hotels were looking down on him. The pilot called out names of the various structures, the El San Juan, the Caribe Hilton, Conrad San Juan. Jason tried to concentrate on orienting himself. The updrafts that bounced the chopper like a small boat in a rough sea did not make the task any easier.
Leaving the beach, the helicopter headed for Felipe del Morro, the fortress brooding on its promontory above the mouth of the harbor. Through the headset, Judith gave instructions to the pilot, who maneuvered while she took pictures. On the other side of the aircraft, Jason used the binoculars to study the houses whose flat roofs were the top of the old town’s wall. Counting from the intersection, he quickly located Number 23. Chairs, lounges, even a small inflatable wading pool or two demonstrated that the inhabitants of adjacent dwellings used their roofs as an extra room. Number 23 was bereft of amenities. Most houses boasted an array of potted plants, no small number of which appeared to be marijuana, discreetly pulled back from the edge and prying eyes from the street. The local residents, it seemed, were ardent agriculturists.
No living thing graced the roof of Number 23.
There was, however, a forest of antennae, dishes, and devices whose purposes Jason could only guess at. More than enough electronics to satisfy the most avid ham radio operator or satellite-TV fan.
The air-conditioning units for many of the houses were also on the roofs, in addition to small structures housing the head of the stairs leading up from below.
The supposition strengthened when the helicopter made a couple of passes over the old city, low enough for Jason to see that several of these little shacks had their doors open, exposing steps. A young woman wearing only the bottom of her bikini waved gaily as the chopper passed overhead.
Once on the ground, Jason and Judith took a cab back to the hotel. Both examined the doors to their respective rooms before entering. The telltales they had left showed no signs of tampering. They packed what little they had removed from their single bags, mostly toilet articles. They had defeated an assassination attempt the night before; to remain in the same place would be foolhardy.
Jason noted with some amusement the attention the desk clerk paid Judith as they checked out.
“You have paid for two nights, ma’am.”
“I’m aware of that,” Jason responded.
The man’s eyes never quit feeding off Judith. “Was there something unsatisfactory?”
“No. A sudden emergency,” Jason responded.
“We will credit your American Express.”
“My American Express,” Jason said. “The rooms were on my American Express, Not Dr. Ferris’s.”
For the first time, the man seemed to take note of Jason’s existence. “That is what I said, Mr. Peters.”
A short cab ride deposited them in one of Old San Juan’s many plazas. Jason paid the driver and watched the taxi depart. Once it was out of sight, Jason and Judith rolled their bags over uneven sidewalks.
“How am I doing?” she asked.
Jason, his mind on the next phase of his plan was barely aware she had spoken to him. “Pardon?”
“How am I doing?”
He stopped, facing her. “Doing?”
She stopped, leaning on her roll-aboard. “Doing. You know, how am I doing as a spy, secret agent, or whatever you call yourself? What would you give me as a grade?”
“A-plus.”
Her eyebrows went up in surprise. “Really? That good?”
Jason began walking again. “In this business, there are only two grades: A-plus and F. If you’re alive, you get an A-plus.”
What he didn’t say was the final exam was still pending.
Without further conversation, they trudged uphill to a small hotel. On his arrival yesterday, Jason had seen it from the cab’s window. Men and women in the uniforms of airline flight crew had been arriving. A layover base suggested the place was clean, cheap, and comparatively anonymous.
With a little luck, the guys from GrünWelt wouldn’t know they had left the El Convento. In the meantime, he and Judith had some shopping to do.