Guenther Largos Diaz nodded and clicked his heels, folding his arms together and waiting for his death as others would for a glass of champagne. Remo was impressed by this dark-haired man of calm and grace. "Where's my plane out?" he asked. "You certainly don't look like the type who would bother to lie."
"But my time is up, sir. I don't even have the pleasure of your name."
"Remo. How many minutes do you want for the plane?"
"A lifetime," answered Diaz. The pilot peered around from behind him and then quickly looked back to the controls when he saw the thin man with the thick wrists smiling back at him. What was so chilling to the pilot was not the dark-haired, high-cheekboned handsomeness of the man standing in so much blood, it was the casual, almost friendly way the man looked at him with those dark eyes that seemed oblivious of the carnage.
And especially the answer he gave when Mr. Diaz asked for a lifetime.
"Don't worry. Whenever you give me that plane and pilot out of here, it will be your lifetime."
Diaz laughed. The pilot looked to his copilot. Men worked for this ruler of an illegal empire out of respect almost as much as money. But this was more than Mr. Diaz's legendary courage. This was sheer folly. The pilot cringed when he thought of the strange way the bodies had been strewn around the cabin. He looked straight ahead at the landing strip, as his stomach screamed for him to run and his legs sent up signals that they would refuse to move in such a dangerous situation.
And Mr. Diaz was still laughing.
"I like the way you do things. I will tell you what, my friend. We will talk while I arrange another plane. We must bring one in. I never allow two of my planes to be in the same airport at the same time."
"Why's that?" asked Remo. "In case someone rides in on the top of one, tears it up, and needs another to get out?"
Diaz laughed.
"No. You see, one way to ensure the loyalty of your people is to keep them out of contact with others. Contact creates danger. Come, we will get out of this bloody mess and get some fresh air, a shower, dinner while the plane is on its way from another base of mine. And then, if you must, kill away. Agreed?"
Remo shrugged. It was better than walking through jungles. Diaz was a lion among his sheep. While his soldiers and bodyguards and ground personnel cringed or kept sweaty palms near their weapons, Diaz coolly ordered another jet into the airport.
And then he ordered a repast set before them, great shiny mounds of delicacies set on white Irish linen in the still; pure air at the foot of the Andes.
Amid shellfish, meats, and champagne, Remo ate only a few grains of rice.
"Are you afraid of being poisoned?" asked Diaz.
"All of that's poison," said Remo. "You eat that junk and you need to burn up oxygen just to get it into your system, and then your system closes down."
"Ah, so you have special eating techniques."
"No. I just don't kill myself with my mouth. How long is that jet going to take?"
"Shortly, shortly," said Diaz. He lifted a glass of champagne and savored it a moment. "You work for the government, I take it, the American government. That is why you want to stop an evil man like myself."
"You got it, Diaz."
"Call me Guenther, Remo," said Diaz with a gentle gesture of a palm. The smile never left his eyes, as though he was as amused by his death as threatened by it. "You know I am not the big shot who escapes. I am more a very rich middleman."
"Yeah? Who're the big shots?"
"Certain very rich and established banks. They are the ones who make my dollars usable."
"You mean certain banks in Miami?"
"Small-time. I mean a very big bank in Boston, owned by an old, establishment family which regularly allows us to bring the money back into America and buy very safe American property, and very safe American stocks, and very safe American havens for the American dollar. And yet, who ever hears of them?"
"Your water's good, too."
"I take it you don't care about that?"
"Matter of fact, I do. Very much. It's in my bones. I hate to see the big shots get away with it."
"I thought that might be the case," Diaz raised a finger. The smile now disappeared from his eyes. His voice was low and intense. He spoke slowly. "I will make you this deal. I will give you the big shots."
"And let you go?"
"Would you?"
"Probably not."
"Then considering that life is but one day after another, why don't I offer you this. Let me live as long as I give you the big shots in your own country. Unless of course you are here just to kill Latinos. In which case, I will finish my champagne, and you may finish me. The plane will be over the mountains shortly."
Remo thought about the deal. Somehow, this cool, cunning man had found the one price Remo might accept. "Can you get me a phone link-up to the States?"
"Of course, I have everything your Central Intelligence Agency has in the way of electronics."
"It's a very private call, so you'll have to keep your distance. "
"Any call can be listened to without standing nearby, you know," said Diaz.
"Yeah I know," said Remo. "But it's form."
The telephone Diaz gave him was hardly bigger than a coffee cup. It was shiny aluminum and had a speaker at the bottom and a receiver at the top, and a dial pad.
"That is about as safe as you can get, but I wouldn't guarantee anything," said Diaz. "No matter how it is scrambled, someone will pick up the message."
"Will they be able to read it?"
"Probably not. But they will know it has been sent."
"That's good enough," said Remo.
"It may not be for your organization."
"I don't know what is good enough for them," said Remo. He called for another glass of water as he dialed. There was no such thing as pure water. All water really carried elements of something else. But when you got it from the runoffs of the snows of the Andes you did not get the chemical wastes of poisonous factories which was known as pollution.
As soon as the phone rang, another strange ringing occurred. And a computer voice said:
"This is an open line. Use another. Use another. Use another. "
"No," said Remo.