We’re flying over Uzbekistan, just a few hundred miles from our destination, when Esguerra comes into the pilot’s cabin.
Hearing the door open, I turn to face him. “We’re on track to get there in about an hour and a half,” I say, preempting his question. “There is some ice on the landing strip, so they’re de-icing it for us right now. The helicopters are already fueled up and ready to go.”
We need those helicopters to get to the Pamir Mountains, where we suspect the terrorist hideout to be.
“Excellent,” Esguerra says, his blue eyes gleaming. “Any unusual activities in that area?”
I shake my head. “No, everything is quiet.”
“Good.” He enters the cabin and sits down in the copilot’s seat. “How was the Russian girl last night?” he asks, buckling his seatbelt.
I feel a momentary stab of
