And then came another bubble:
267-555-9100
PLEASE LET’S MEET — ANYWHERE YOU LIKE
I’M SURE WE CAN WORK THIS ALL OUT
With what? Another bullet?
Slow down, Mag. .
She quickly typed:
I NEED $200,00 °CASH BY TOMORROW.
I’LL BE IN TOUCH.
Where did that come from?
She hit SEND, then clicked to shut down the connection with the satellite. Then-unnecessarily, but it made her feel better-she unplugged from the computer the cable that linked to the antenna.
I have to think this through.
She then looked at her hands and realized they were shaking uncontrollably.
With some difficulty, she got the top unscrewed from the bottle of Cruzan gold rum, sloshed some into a glass, and drank it all at once.
[FOUR]
Philadelphia International Airport
Monday, November 17, 2:35 P.M.
John Garvey walked down Concourse A, his nerves on edge despite all the free first-class alcohol he had consumed on the flight.
Once the aircraft had rumbled down the Saint Thomas runway and left the island, he had felt some relief. And the drinks had certainly helped calm, if not numb, him. But now that that period was over, his mind had begun to spin again.
What guarantee do I have these animals will live up to their end of the bargain?
Once I’ve done this, what’s to stop them from coming after me, making me do it again and again? I should’ve gone right to the cops. But they’re watching-and he said that would’ve been a swift death sentence.
The piece of paper with the telephone number that he was supposed to text after he had his suitcase felt like it might burn a hole in his pocket. As a precaution, in case it did burn a hole or otherwise got lost, back at the hotel he had punched the number into his cell phone.
What if whoever I’m supposed to text doesn’t show?
Who am I kidding? I have their drugs.
And they know how to find me. Find us.
–
John Garvey heard the loud warning buzzer sound over the baggage carousel. Then came the huge metallic clunking of the carousel starting to turn.
The first bag slid down, a black one similar to his. Then another followed it.
They’re all black. All the same.
What if someone grabs mine by mistake?
What if mine doesn’t show up at all?
Then what?
He tried to look as if he were casually glancing around the baggage claim area. He thought that a couple of people were paying him unusual attention, one a Latino by the exit looking up from his cell phone, but finally told himself he had to be imagining things. He then noticed in the ceiling the black plastic semicircles-ones half the size of a baseball-that he knew concealed security cameras.
Those I’m not imagining.
Three bags later, his suitcase showed up.
Okay. Almost home free. .
He dragged it from the carousel, then turned it onto its wheels. He forced back his sudden desire to sprint madly for the door.
That bastard Jack was right-I did just zip right on through.
No wonder so many drugs make it here.
He pulled out his telephone, found the 215-555-3582 number, and texted: “PHL.”
That was both the airport code and the code that he had the suitcase in hand and awaited direction as to what to do with the coke.
Then, as directed, he went to get a taxicab.
–
As John Garvey came closer to the exit doors that were already open, he saw parked at the curb a white Chevrolet Tahoe with Drug Enforcement Administration markings. On the window of the back door was: WARNING! DO NOT APPROACH. K-9 INSIDE.
Easy does it. Those guys are always here with their dogs.
You’re just noticing it now because you’re looking for cops.
John Garvey stopped, then felt a firm hand grip his left bicep.
“Excuse me, sir.” It was a man’s voice, a deep, authoritative one. “Can I ask you a question?”
Garvey whipped his head around.
When he saw that the man was a uniformed Philadelphia policeman, his heart beat so hard he thought it might burst out of his chest.
“Of course, Officer,” Garvey said, and then saw the patch on the sleeve of his blue shirt: PHILADELPHIA POLICE AIRPORT UNIT.
“Is this your suitcase, sir?”
Damn! I grabbed the wrong black one!
He glanced at it and recognized his luggage tag.
Then he blurted: “It’s not mine!”
The policeman turned his head to read the luggage tag.
“Then if you’re not John A. Garvey, why. .”
“No, I mean. . I mean. .” Garvey started shaking visibly, then quietly said: “The packages. . they’re not mine.”
“Yes, sir. Would you mind if we take a look inside your suitcase?”
–
Twenty minutes later, as John Garvey sat in a battered aluminum chair in a secure room near the baggage claim area, staring at his open suitcase on the steel table, the Philadelphia policeman sauntered in with another uniformed officer on his heels. The second man, wearing a jacket reading DRUG ENFORCEMENT ADMINISTRATION, was stocky and had an inquisitive look on his face. He stopped at the door and said nothing.
Garvey looked at the Philly airport cop.
“Sir, I am advising you that you have the right to remain silent. .”
Garvey, elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands.
“He said they’d kill my family.”
“. . you have the right to an attorney. .”
VII
[ONE]
Philadelphia Northeast Airport
Monday, November 17, 2:35 P.M.
Nesfood International’s twin-engine Learjet-with Vice President (sales/marketing) Chad Nesbitt, Matt Payne, and Amanda Law aboard-had been descending through a thick layer of gray clouds for nearly ten minutes when it finally broke through the bottom.
Matt looked up from the chess game on his laptop computer. He had been repeatedly toggling back and forth, playing the game, then going to the files on Maggie McCain when he thought of something, then going to the game.
Back and forth-but getting nowhere.
He saw that Chad, in a big reclining seat close to the cockpit bulkhead, was yawning and stretching after waking from a nap. Matt glanced at Amanda, who sat beside him on the leather couch reading a medical journal, then turned and looked out his window.
Visibility was getting somewhat better, but the day had a gray winter gloom to it. Even the fresh snow on the ground, reflecting the cloud cover, looked pallid.
Depressing, he thought.
Which is fitting considering why we’re back.
They were coming up the Delaware River, about to overfly the big international airport as they approached Philadelphia. He now could see more of the city than he expected-its sections spreading out in street grids of gray-and his eye automatically started to pick out landmarks.
There were the soaring glass-sheathed skyscrapers of Center City. In their shadow, he saw the statue of Philly’s founder atop City Hall-Billy Penn is probably freezing his bronze balls off-and then he picked up the distinct shape of the Roundhouse near the Ben Franklin Bridge and, in the distance just beyond that, the Hops Haus high-rise condominiums in Northern Liberties.
Farther up he could make out the rougher areas of Kensington and Frankford, their lines of row houses gap-toothed where dilapidated properties had been torn down. The vacant lots, Matt well knew, were thick with trash and dead weeds under the coat of snow.
And very likely a dead body or two.
This is the polar opposite view of the sunny tropics we saw after taking off in the Keys.
How long is it going to take for us to get back?
He felt Amanda, and the warmth of her body, lean into him.
He turned and kissed
her lightly on the forehead.
She smiled as she kept looking out the window at the city.
She’s clearly got a lot on her mind.
After a moment he looked back out. He began to make out the long crossed strips of asphalt that were the Northeast Airport’s runways.
As the aircraft slowed and the cabin filled with the hum of the hydraulics lowering the landing gear, he said, “We’re home.”
“I love this city,” he heard her say, her tone wistful, “but I think I liked the view earlier better.”
Matt nodded. “I know exactly what you mean.”
A minute later she said, “I realize this may sound terribly rhetorical, but what if ‘on the run’ means she’s really on the run?”
–
While they had been driving to Key West International that morning, with Chad behind the wheel of his rental SUV, Matt received a telephone call from Will McCain. He announced that Maggie had just sent a new e-mail, and he wanted Matt’s address so he could forward it.
Minutes later, after reading the e-mail on his cell phone, Matt showed it to Amanda:
From: William McCain ‹[email protected]›
Date: 17NOV 0859
To: ‹[email protected]›
Subject: FWD: I’m fine!!!
Begin forwarded message:
From: Maggie ‹[email protected]›
Date: 17NOV 0832
To: Mother, Dad, Emma
Subject: I’m fine!!!
Hi!! I’m in a good place but on the run. More shortly. Promise! Love you!! Mag
“You know her better than I do,” Matt said. “What do you make of it?”
Amanda, handing back the phone, sighed heavily.
“I have no earthly idea,” she said. “Everything and nothing? That’s her upbeat personality. And her wanting to be in control. She gets that from her father. Being orderly and in control. But if she’s in a good place. .”
“I don’t get it either,” Matt said. “But I can see the control thing. And see it being a problem.”
“What did Maggie say?” Chad said, then added, “If I’m allowed to ask.”
“Hell yes you’re allowed to ask,” Payne immediately replied. “We need to find her. Or at least find out what’s going on with her.”
Payne read the e-mail aloud.
“On the surface,” Chad said, “I’d say it sounds promising.”
“Maybe,” Matt said, gazing out his window. They were driving down a narrow strip of island, the Overseas Highway down to just two lanes, and practically surrounded by water. “But like all that out there, there’s always something going on beneath the surface. Sometimes good, sometimes not. What could be the reason, besides control, that she won’t allow anyone to communicate with her?”
Is she doing it because she can’t-someone’s not letting her-or because she thinks she shouldn’t?
After a moment, he thought, Hell, if you don’t try, you don’t get. .
He turned to his cell phone and, after hitting a couple of keys, typed out and sent:
From: ‹[email protected]›
Date: 17NOV 0910
To: Maggie ‹[email protected]›
CC: SGT M.M. Payne ‹[email protected]›
Subject: Your safety
Maggie. .
This is Matt Payne.
It is critical that you and I communicate.
As you should know, everyone is looking for you.
I’ve been put on the job to ensure that you genuinely are safe. And, with the full force of the police department, to catch whoever is behind the attacks.
We will catch them. But right now I need to establish your safety before this escalates into something worse than it already is.
I can help you. I can protect you.
But I cannot do it without communication. And an e-mail like you sent your parents isn’t enough.
Call me. And if you feel you can’t call, please send real-time proof of how you are. Text or e-mail a photograph of yourself with today’s newspaper or a TV or Internet newscast — something that indicates you are okay right now.
Please, Maggie, take these first steps so we can get your life back to normal. And give your family some peace of mind.
M. M. Payne
Sergeant, Homicide Unit
Philadelphia Police Department
215-555-1010-office
267-555-4898-cell phone
“Appealing to her sense of order might get her to respond,” Matt said, showing it to Amanda. “It’s likely a long shot. But sometimes they pay off.”
–
The aircraft banked, then lined up with the runway.
Matt discovered he’d left his telephone turned on for the entire flight when it suddenly vibrated at least five times in a row. When he looked at it, still vibrating, there were four new text messages and three new voice-mail messages stacked up. None were from Maggie McCain, and when he checked his e-mail, she had not replied there, either.
There was an e-mail from Kerry Rapier. He reported that the e-mail Maggie McCain had sent to her family that morning was tracked back to an Internet Protocol address of a computer server in India.
India! he thought. That’s nine, ten thousand miles?
That’s more than on the run-that’s impossible.
Kerry added that the server was a portal that had relayed the e-mail, effectively masking the originating address. No one believed it was credible that Maggie was there.
Payne then read a text message from the yacht broker in the Keys that said he had the Viking and Matt’s Porsche secured as they had discussed.
Matt replied: “Keep them both fueled-I’m back ASAP.”
Who am I kidding? I’m stuck here.
I’m going to have to pay a car hauler company to ship the 911 up.
As he hit SEND the aircraft touched down with a chirp of tires.
Chad leaned over and pointed out Matt’s window as the Lear turned off the taxiway. Matt, who was listening to his voice-mail messages, looked. He saw that they were approaching a pair of airplanes being serviced by ground crew at the fixed-base operator. The closest was a slick white jet with a paint scheme that featured a pair of bright red gambling dice on its tail fin. The aircraft stood out, shining in the gray gloom.
“There’s the casino’s Citation that was in Key West,” Chad said.
They then saw a black man in a dark suit and black bow tie appear in the open doorway. He quickly pulled on a dark overcoat as he looked around the tarmac, then found a black Range Rover waiting nearby. He carried a pink-accented black suitcase down the stair steps and, somewhat strutting, tugged the luggage toward the luxury SUV. He looked visibly annoyed at having to walk around piles of gray snow slush.
“Well, that’s not Nick Antonov,” Payne said, deleting a voice-mail message, then hanging up his phone.
“That looks like Badde,” Chad said.
Matt looked again. “You’re right. It is the distinguished councilman.”
What is that bastard up to?
He looked at Chad. “Did you see him in Key West?”
Chad shook his head.
Matt held his cell phone up to the window and took a photograph of the aircraft. As he did, an attractive young cocoa-skinned woman hopped out from the driver’s seat of the SUV. Badde gave her a quick hug and pecked her cheek as she barely slowed before going around and getting in the front passenger seat.
“And there’s his lovely paramour,” Payne said.
Amanda automatically looked out the window, said, “You’re bad,” and then unbuckled her seat belt and began stuffing the journal into her bag.
After a minute, Payne said, “You know, even if you didn’t see him there, you would have heard about it. He likes to make his presence known.”
“You’re right about that, Matt. I’m glad he didn’t find me.”
“Well, when in doubt, go to the guru.”
“What?” Chad
said, then watched Matt hit a speed dial key on his phone.
“Hey, Marshal,” Kerry Rapier answered on the second ring. “You home yet?”
“Just landed. Quick question, Kerry. What’s the best website to track aircraft?”
“Depends. What’s the tail number?”
Matt looked out the window. “N6556TR.”
“Hold one.”
After a moment, Kerry said, “Yeah, this guy’s tried to block it.”
“Block what?”
“Block the ability to track the aircraft. Bigwig corporate types do it to protect themselves, or so they say. I like to first try the general websites, see if someone’s trying to hide.”
“You’re a bottomless well of info. How do you know all this stuff?”
“I worked for a while with our Aviation Unit at Northeast Airport. Those chopper pilots are full of tricks.”
“You said ‘tried to block.’”
“Yeah. Hold another sec. I have access to the FAA’s stuff. . Okay, here it is. The log shows it’s a Cessna Citation Ten twin-turbofan that just landed fifteen minutes ago on runway twenty-four at PNE. And, bingo, here’s why it was blocked. It’s registered to Lucky Stars LLP here in Philly.”
“Right,” Payne said. “We knew it was the casino’s.”
“So, what else do you want to know? I can tell you pretty much everything short of the stewardess’s bra size. Sorry. I believe the politically correct term is cabin crew’s bra size.”
Payne chuckled. “Where did the flight originate? Key West?”
“Nope. Dallas. Went wheels-up at Dallas Love Field at ten-fifteen local time. You want that in Zulu time?”
“Dallas?” Payne repeated, looking at Chad, who shrugged.
“Flight duration was right at three hours. Fourteen hundred seventy statute miles, most of the time at four hundred thirty-one knots and forty thousand feet.”
“When did it get to Dallas?”
“Hang on. . okay, looks like last night. Landed twenty-fifty hundred hours local. Route was Key West to New Orleans Lakefront, then on to Dallas. Before that, it left PNE Friday morning for Key West.”
The Last Witness boh-11 Page 19
