Craig ignored the hand and got up without help. "Quite, thank you." He had disliked Rabar from the moment of introduction; and now it was in his mind that Rabar had stepped carefully away from him before the first bullet came.
As casually as he could, he walked to the aluminum ladder hung upon the helicopter's side and hauled himself up. He stopped in the hatch, dignity forgotten, startled at the disparity of the three men already in the ship.
Directly across the cabin sat a gaunt scarecrow of a man in a black priest's cassock. An oxygen mask dangled on his thin chest, suggesting a bloated crucifix. The long, swarthy face was pockmarked, dour and without animation at the moment, except for fierce black eyes that burned steadily into Craig's own. Craig thought of a condor, perched near some nearly ready meal. He was immediately ashamed of the thought.
Forward of the priest sat a brown Indian. His face mirrored dignified resignation to being carried in this hellish contraption to horrible death, or worse.
Occupying the only seat on the hatch side was a tautly uniformed man who eyed Craig coldly.
The priest spoke. His voice was deep and gently strong, caressing the Spanish syllables like a great soft bell. "We are abject, Doctor. We had tried very hard ... but there are fanatics."
"Eh?" said Craig. "Oh. Well, I am unhurt, as you can see."
"For which, thanks to the Almighty. Our humblest apologies. You speak Spanish exceptionally well, Doctor."
Wondering if there were a question behind the compliment, Craig said, "My mother was Mexican." He did not think it necessary to add that he'd grown up near the border, and had once spent two years as an exchange Professor of Physics at the Mexican university.