by Stuart Woods
“You got any idea of their destination?”
“A hotel near the beach. That’s all we know.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, access the military service record of one Hamilton Barker, retired army chief master sergeant, get his photograph and try to determine if he’s one of the four men aboard. I want you to photograph all four men when they land, and I’ll want to see those shots the minute you take them.”
“Where are you going to be?”
“I want our airplane to meet me at the Vero Beach Airport at six o’clock. I want to land ahead of the PA forty-six, and I want you to have a car there so I can run the car surveillance.”
“I’ll have him there.”
Harry gave him the scrambled cell phone number. “Use that number when I’m on the ground. You can call me on the sat phone in the airplane. Now get going!”
“Oh, Harry, I almost forgot. You got a call from Chip Beckham from the Secret Service?”
“Yeah? Does he want me to call him back?”
“He said that wouldn’t be necessary, and anyway, he’ll be traveling. He said he was going to be in Miami tonight, and he’s calling in your debt. He said you’d know what he meant. He gave me a cell phone number for you to get him on in Miami.”
Harry jotted down the number. “Thanks, Mark.” A second after he hung up, he realized what Chip’s phone call meant. “Holy shit!” he yelled.
“What?” Eddie asked.
“Check the White House Web site and get the president’s published schedule for today and tomorrow.”
“Just take a sec,” Eddie said, tapping some computer keys. “Here we are. Nothing for today or tomorrow.”
Then what was Chip going to be doing in Miami?
The young man brought Ham lunch and dinner, too. “Be ready to leave here at six-thirty,” he said. “John says wear the blue suit, shirt and tie and carry your shaving stuff and a change of clothes. Oh, and wear the disguise,” he said, then left Ham alone.
Ham checked his watch. He had just enough time to eat and dress, but no opportunity to get at his cell phone, which was still taped under the dash of the jeep, unless someone had found it.
He was worried. He had expected to leave the compound on Monday morning and to have plenty of time to call Harry or Holly. He didn’t like this at all.
He finished his dinner, then dressed in the suit and stuck the mustache and eyebrows on, the way Dave had taught him. He put the glasses in his pocket and tried on the hat. He looked like any salesman in the state of Florida, he thought.
He heard a vehicle stop outside, and Peck came to the door. “You ready?” he asked.
“Yep.” He grabbed his bag and walked out the door. John was waiting in the jeep.
“You look great, Ham,” John said.
“Thanks. I’ll drive, if you like.” He had to get near that cell phone.
“Nah, I’ll drive,” Peck replied.
Ham wanted to hit him.
Fifty-five
HOLLY, WITH DAISY, ARRIVED BREATHLESSLY AT the airport and found Harry waiting for her in the Sun Jet Aviation lounge. “I couldn’t get anybody to stay with Daisy on such short notice. What’s up?” she asked. “Where are we going?”
Harry took her suitcase and gave Daisy a pat. “They’re on the move,” he said, “and I think Ham is with them.” He headed out of the building and across the ramp toward a King Air.
“But it wasn’t supposed to go down until Monday.”
“As far as we know, it still might. John has a hotel reservation until Tuesday morning, under the name Owen, but that’s the only name we’ve got.”
“What hotel?”
“We don’t know. We just picked this up on the smoke detector bug.” He stowed her luggage on the airplane, and they got in and buckled up. Doug was already aboard. Daisy settled into the seat next to Holly as if she flew every day.
“So do we have any idea of who the target is yet?”
“No, we don’t. John has filed a flight plan for Opa-Locka airport. We’re going to beat him there and keep him under surveillance until we know what’s happening. I thought you’d like to be there.”
“You’re right,” she replied. “Thanks. Is somebody listening in on the bug?”
“Eddie’s still at the house, and the NSA is recording everything.”
The pilot started the engines and, after a couple of minutes, taxied to the runway. A moment later, they were in the air, flying down the coast.
“Has Ham used the scrambled cell phone again?” Holly asked.
“No, not a word from him.”
“Harry, why did you tell me to bring my sexiest dress?”
“There’s someone I want you to meet. It’s a surprise.”
“Harry, I’m not interested in matchmaking. It’s too soon.”
“It’s not that, Holly, it’s work. I’ll explain later.”
Peck drove the jeep out to the landing strip, where John’s airplane had already been towed out of the hangar. They began loading luggage aboard, and Ham tried to work his way into a position where he could grab the cell phone from under the dash.
“The Barrett’s rifle is in the large suitcase,” John said. “We’ve broken it down.”
“Good,” Ham said.
“Climb aboard. I want you in the copilot’s seat, next to me.”
Ham moved toward the airplane. When everyone was well away from the jeep, he stopped and felt his pockets. “I think I dropped my pen in the jeep,” he said. “I’ll just be a minute.”
“Take your time,” John replied. “I’ve got to do a preflight, anyway.” He removed a fuel cap from the airplane and began walking around the fuselage.
Ham walked quickly toward the jeep, pretending to look for the pen. He looked back at the airplane: Peck was already on board, and John was on the opposite side. Quickly, he leaned into the driver’s-side footwell, yanked the duct tape off and, with his back to the airplane, got the phone and the three batteries into a pocket. He wadded and dropped the tape, retrieved a pen from his inside pocket and walked back to the airplane, the pen in his hand.
“Find it?” Peck asked as he got aboard.
Ham held up the pen for him to see. He made his way forward, slipped into the copilot’s seat and buckled in.
John slid in beside him. “Everything’s in good order,” he said. “You and I will talk when we’re in the air and I’ve gotten my clearance.”
He started the engine, worked his way through a checklist, then taxied to the end of the grass strip. He did a quick runup, then put in some flaps, adjusted the trim and slowly pushed the throttle up to full power. After a brief check of the instruments, he released the brakes and the airplane began to roll.
More than halfway down the strip, John pulled back on the yoke and they were airborne, flying into the setting sun. He retracted the landing gear and the flaps, then turned to the east. The moon was rising, waning now, but still big.
Ham put on a headset that was hanging on the yoke in front of him. “Beautiful night,” he said.
John held up a hand for silence. “Miami Center,” he said, pressing a button on the yoke. “November one, two, three, tango foxtrot is off of Vero Beach, IFR to Miami Opa-Locka. Do you have a clearance for me?”
“This is Miami Center. You’re in luck tonight. You’re cleared direct Opa-Locka.”
“Thank you, Center, direct Opa-Locka.” He turned to Ham. “That’s never happened before,” he said. “Usually, my routing is more complicated.”
“That will make the trip quicker, then?”
“By a few minutes.” He leveled at six thousand feet and announced his altitude to Center. After a few minutes to lean the engine, he turned on the autopilot, sat back and turned to Ham, opening a zip pered envelope and extracting an envelope. He handed it to Ham. “This is your identity,” he said.
Ham opened the envelope and emptied the contents into his lap. He found a wallet, a passport and an airline ticket. Insi
de the wallet was a driver’s license, some credit cards, a social security card and some photographs of a plump woman and some children.
“You’re Owen Sanford,” John said, “and the ticket and the stamps in the passport say you’ve just landed in Miami on a flight that lands about now, that originated in Cairo.”
“So, if I’m arrested, it’ll look like there’s a Middle Eastern connection?”
“Right, but don’t worry, you’re not going to be arrested.”
“Can I know now who my target is?”
“No, it’s better that you don’t for the time being.”
“If you say so,” Ham replied.
“Do you have anything in your pockets that might identify you?”
Ham handed over his wallet and made a show of patting his pockets.
“How about the pen you retrieved? Let’s see that.”
Ham showed him the pen. It was a stationery store ballpoint, undistinguished.
“You can keep that,” John said. “Anything else? Even the smallest thing could identify you.”
“John, if I get caught, my fingerprints will identify me,” Ham said.
“You’re right, of course, but we’ll deal with the fingerprint problem. You having any second thoughts about your mission?”
“No,” Ham replied.
“Would the identity of your target make a difference?”
“No. I trust you to make that judgment. I think of myself as a tool.”
“Good,” John said, with some satisfaction. “Excuse me, I have to make a phone call.” He flipped a switch on the instrument panel, then dialed a number on what appeared to be a cell phone on his yoke.
Ham realized that the switch had isolated the pilot’s intercom from the rest of the airplane. He couldn’t hear what John was saying, and he wasn’t all that good a lip-reader.
The King Air was taxiing to the terminal at Opa-Locka when the onboard telephone rang, and Harry picked it up. “Yeah? Thanks.”
He hung up the phone and leaned back. “John’s airplane is in the air, and they’ve cleared him direct. He’ll be here soon.”
The airplane came to a stop before the terminal and the pilot shut down the engines.
“Get this thing in a hangar and close the doors,” Harry said to the pilot, then he led the way off the airplane. “They’ll put the luggage in my car,” he said to Holly. “Follow me.”
He walked over to the base of the tower and picked up a phone. “This is Harry Crisp, FBI,” he said into it, and the door buzzed open. They got into an elevator and rode to the top.
Harry shook hands with the controller supervisor.
“Anything you need?” the man asked.
“Three pairs of the best binoculars you’ve got,” Harry said.
The man produced three large pairs of binoculars, and they sat down to wait.
Fifty-six
IT HAD STARTED TO RAIN. HARRY, DOUG, HOLLY and Daisy sat in the semidarkness of the tower and waited, watching airplanes land on the shiny runways, their landing lights flaring on the streaked windows of the tower.
Then suddenly: “Opa-Locka Tower, November one, two, three, tango foxtrot, with you, descending out of six thousand feet.”
“One, two, three, tango foxtrot, this is Opa-Locka Tower, radar contact, enter a right base for twenty-seven right, cleared to land.”
“Okay,” Harry said to the supervisor, “when he contacts ground, I want you to have the lineman direct him to taxi right there,” he said, pointing to a well-lit area in front of the terminal.
“Got that?” the supervisor asked the ground controller.
“Got it. I’ll call him.”
“Doug, is our photographer in place?”
“On the second floor, in the terminal building.”
The airplane taxied onto the ramp and, directed into the light by the lineman, came to a stop. Harry, Doug and Holly had a clear view of the door.
The airplane sat, its engine idling. Holly stood, staring through the binoculars. “Why isn’t he cutting the engine?” she asked.
“He’s waiting for the oil in the turbochargers to cool down,” Harry replied. “It’ll take four or five minutes.”
As they watched, a gray minivan drove onto the ramp and stopped near the airplane.
“Doug,” Harry said, “let the terminal know that I want that van delayed at the gate until our people are in place.”
Doug picked up a phone.
The airplane’s engine finally stopped. The airstair door opened, and a man got out.
“Who’s that?” Doug asked.
“It’s Peck Rawlings,” Holly said. “I met him at the gun show.”
A second man, wearing a suit and a straw hat got out.
“How about him?”
Holly said nothing. She was staring through the binoculars. She didn’t recognize the second man, but something about him was familiar.
A third man alit from the airplane.
“That’s John,” Harry said. “But where the hell is Ham?”
All three men had scurried into the van to get out of the rain, while the van driver loaded their luggage, which was only a few cases. He got in and drove toward the gate.
“Well, shit,” Harry said.
“Are we going to run this surveillance if Ham isn’t here?” Doug asked.
“I’m thinking about that,” Harry said, staring out the window.
“It’s Ham,” Holly said suddenly.
“What?”
“The second man, the one in the suit and hat. It’s Ham.”
“Are you sure? It didn’t look like Ham.”
“It’s Ham. I can tell by the way he moved.”
“We’re on,” Harry said. “Let’s get out of here.” He thanked the tower supervisor and led the way down the stairs to a waiting FBI car.
The van drove up to the gate and stopped, but it didn’t open.
“What’s happening with the gate?” John asked the driver.
“I don’t know.” He rolled down the window and pushed the button on the intercom. “I’m at the gate, and it’s not opening,” he said into the instrument.
“We’ve been having problems with it,” a woman’s voice said. “Hang on just a minute.”
“Your luggage is in the trunk,” the FBI driver said, as they got in.
“Everybody in place?” Harry asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell ’em it’s okay to open the gate.”
They watched as the van moved through the opening.
Harry accepted a handheld radio from the driver. “This is number one; we’re moving.”
They waited until the gate closed behind the van, then drove up to it and out of the ramp area.
“Can you see them?” Harry asked the driver.
“No, sir, but I’ve got confirmation on my earpiece that they’re in sight up ahead. We’ll be working a four-vehicle pattern. They’ll never know.”
“I hope you’re right,” Harry said.
Following directions from the radio, they headed toward Miami Beach.
Ham, John and Peck all sat in the rear seat at John’s direction, even though it was cramped.
“Ham,” John said, “start handing our luggage from the rear up here.”
Ham didn’t understand, but he did as he was told.
“You hold on to the rifle. I’ll take your bag.”
“What’s going on?” Peck asked.
“You’ll see in a minute,” John replied.
“Who’s behind the van now?” Harry said into the radio.
“Car four.”
“Can you see inside?”
“Not really. The windows have that dark vinyl stuff on them.”
“How close are you?”
“Two cars between me and them.”
“Drop back another car. I don’t want to crowd them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Traffic was fairly heavy. Ham, who was sitting on the right side of the van, looked out and
saw another van, a maroon one, keeping pace with them in the right lane.
“We’ll do it at the traffic light,” John said. “Ham, get ready to open the door.”
Ham put his hand on the door handle.
The van came to a stop, and the maroon van stopped beside it, only inches away.
“Let’s go,” John said. “Open the door and get into the other van, Ham.”
Ham slid the door open, just as the left-hand door of the maroon van opened. He tossed the rifle across, then stepped into the other van and sat down. Peck and John followed him, and the doors to both vans slid closed, clearly by remote control. “Go,” John said, as the light changed. “You know the drill.”
The driver made a right turn and sped away.
“Have you made the change?” Harry said into the radio. “Who’s behind the van now?”
“Car two,” a voice responded.
They drove along in silence for a few minutes.
“Not moving very fast, are they?” Doug said.
“I guess they don’t want to risk a traffic stop,” Harry replied.
“Car one, this is car two.”
“I’m here,” Harry said into the radio.
“Something strange. The van just pulled into a McDonald’s.”
“Pass it by,” Harry said. “Next car, pull into the McDonald’s. Everybody else pull over and wait for instructions. Who knew they would get hungry?”
The driver stopped the car. Everyone waited. Five minutes passed. Harry picked up the radio. “What’s happening?”
“Car four is in the McDonald’s parking lot. The driver got out and went in alone.”
“Is there a big line for food?”
“No, sir. He ordered a Big Mac, and he’s sitting there alone, eating it.”
“Oh, shit,” Harry said. “We’ve been had.”
Fifty-seven
THE DRIVER OF THE VAN SEEMED TO BE WORKING his way west, making frequent turns.
“Anybody behind us?” John asked, after twenty minutes.
“We’re clean,” the driver replied.
