Hooker caught a ride to the eastern edge of the city with Fernando Garcia, who operated the grocery store below his apartment. There a patch of ground had been paved with tarmac to provide the small airfield that served Veracruz, mistitled Aeropuerto Grande.
Klaus Heinemann’s plane was easy to spot. The sturdy Stinson Detroiter was almost ten years old but had been lovingly maintained. The deep-red paint job with white trim was fresh. Even the rubber tires were newly blacked. The Stinson stood nine feet tall at the forward cabin and looked like a flagship among the motley collection of biplanes and relics of the war that shared the field.
Heinemann was standing on a stepladder with his sleeves rolled up. The cowling was open, and the German was leaning over the Wright J-6 engine holding a long screwdriver with the delicacy of a surgeon wielding a scalpel. Hooker walked up behind him.
“Lose something in there?”
Heinemann straightened and looked down from his perch on the ladder. “Just going over a few checkpoints. Sometimes the Mexicans are, well, not the world’s best mechanics.”
“They make the best enchiladas, though,” Hooker said.
“Undeniably.” Heinemann used a clean towel to wipe a few smudges of grease from his hands. He closed and latched the Stinson’s engine cowling and climbed down. “What brings you out here, my friend? No clients today?”
“One. Have you found anybody to replace the man who backed out of the trip to Mexico City?”
“Unfortunately, I have not. I am left with a flight-ready airplane and no place to fly.”
“Maybe I can help you out.”
“Oh?” Heinemann cocked an eyebrow.
“I have a proposition for you.”
Heinemann’s lips compressed into a thin line. “Not Quintana Roo?”
Hooker nodded.
“You actually accepted the job?”
“Yep. It depends, of course, on whether I can get a pilot to fly us down. So naturally, I thought of you, old pal.”
“Excuse me, did you say fly us?”
“Mrs. Braithwaite is going along. She insists.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Maybe, but the lady is paying in U.S. dollars, and she seems to have an unlimited supply.”
“Sorry, Hooker. Even if I wanted to go along on this insane venture, which I do not, it is impossible. Surely you must know there is no usable airfield in the entire territory of Quintana Roo.”
“Yes, I know that,” Hooker said patiently. “I wouldn’t expect you to try to land there. They have a field at Campeche and at Mérida in Yucatan. You can refuel there; then we fly over the territory and look for the wreckage of Braithwaite’s plane.”
“You do understand the difficulty of sighting wreckage from the air? Especially wreckage a year old. More especially in the jungle.”
“Hey, I never said it was going to be easy. And we get paid whether we deliver or not.”
Heinemann looked at him, shaking his head.
“We know Braithwaite took off from Panama headed for Campeche, so we’ll have a general idea of his course. I figure we can cover it in two or three days.”
“In the unlikely event that we do sight the wreckage, then what?”
“Then we go back to the nearest airfield to set your machine down, and we walk in to look for whatever is left of Nolan Braithwaite.”
“You said walk?”
“Naturally, we’ll go as far as we can by truck, or whatever transportation we can dredge up, but unless we’re awfully lucky, we’re finally going to have to do some walking.”
Heinemann laid a hand on his shoulder. “Hooker, my friend, there is apparently no way I can talk you out of this fool’s errand, but before Klaus Heinemann leaves this airplane in the care of some ignorant Indians and walks into the jungles of Quintana Roo, the sun will rise in the west.”
“Okay,” Hooker conceded, “you don’t have to walk in with us. But I need a pilot to get me close enough to start, and you’re the best one available this side of Mexico City.”
“Who is a better pilot in Mexico City?” Heinemann demanded.
Hooker grinned at him.
“Aha, you think you can trap me by appealing to my pride in my flying.”
“And your greed,” Hooker added. “Remember, Mrs. Braithwaite pays very well.”
“You are crazy, Hooker. But I am not much better. If this were not so, why would the two of us be sweating our lives away here in Veracruz, eh? Let us go and discuss arrangements with your Mrs. Braithwaite.”
Two hours later, Hooker and Heinemann were in Connie Braithwaite’s suite in the Hotel Palacio. Hooker noted a couple of changes since he had been there earlier in the day. Connie had changed into a modest, businesslike suit, and tequila had been added to the liquor supply. He lounged in one of the white overstuffed chairs and drank while Heinemann and Connie sat formally on opposite ends of the white and gold sofa.
“I’m glad you’re going to be with us, Mr. Heinemann,” Connie said.
“Only in the air,” he reminded her.
“Understood. I don’t blame you for wanting to stay with your airplane.”
“That is only part of it. I have a strong dislike for jungles where there are living things that might eat me.”
“Mr. Hooker has already given me a full rundown of the dangers.”
“I would hope so.”
“He was trying to talk me out of going.”
“Unsuccessfully, it appears.”
“Yes. I can be a very stubborn woman.”
“That can be a valuable trait … or a dangerous one.”
“Or both.” Connie dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand. “At any rate, your responsibility ends once the plane touches down. On the ground, Hooker will take over.”
“You will be in good hands,” Heinemann said.
“My secretary will be back soon,” Connie said. “I’ll have him prepare a check as an advance for your services. In the meantime, will you have a drink?”
Heinemann glanced at his watch. “It is tempting, but I should begin making the preparations. You can handle the financial arrangements through my friend Hooker.”
• • •
The German was at the bar in El Poche when Hooker walked in forty-five minutes later and handed him a check.
“How are the preparations coming along, Kraut?”
Heinemann let his pale eyebrows ride up in mock surprise. “You’re here already? I should have thought you and the lovely Mrs. Braithwaite were good for at least an hour.”
“Nothing like that is going on,” Hooker said.
“Really? Then I don’t suppose you would mind if I had a shot at the lady myself?”
“If you want to, go ahead.”
Heinemann laughed. “Just making a joke, my friend. A poor one, it would appear, but as you know, we Germans have no sense of humor.”
Hooker glared at him for a moment, then relaxed into a grin. “You can say that again. But you make good beer.”
Heinemann rolled his eyes and turned back to the bar, where a cup of Silvera’s terrible coffee was cooling.
“I’ve made up a list of supplies we’ll have to get before we leave Veracruz,” Hooker said. “I thought you’d want to go over them to check the weight and the space they’ll take up for the flight.”
Heinemann took the sheet of paper from Hooker and spread it out on the bar. He began reading methodically down the penciled list of items, using his fountain pen to make notes in a neat, angular hand.