Kaplan raised his arm to acknowledge and headed for the designated drug testing room.
After the tests were administered, he walked to the parking lot and climbed onto his black Harley Davidson Fat Boy. Kaplan slipped on his sunglasses, fired up the 1584 cc Twin Cam 96B balanced engine and pulled out of the airport parking lot. He waited impatiently as the security gate slowly opened, twisting the throttle rapidly, revving the engine. Before the gate had fully opened, he sped out.
Kaplan had lived in Savannah for nearly twenty years, getting hired after the hiring spree that followed the 1981 Professional Air Traffic Controllers Organization strike.
He had grown up near an airport in Fayetteville, North Carolina. As a young boy he would ride his bicycle to the airport and sit for hours watching the airplanes take off and land. One of the Fayetteville air traffic controllers noticed Kaplan out there nearly every day. On one occasion, he invited young Kaplan up into the tower. He was an instant favorite in the tower. He still remembered the amazement on the controllers’ faces when they saw how well he knew and recognized the different aircraft, in some instances better than some of the controllers. When asked where he learned so much, he told them he spent a lot of time at the library reading about airplanes from the library’s copy of Jane’s All the World’s Aircraft.
After high school, he attended North Carolina State University for two years. When his parents were killed in an automobile accident, the financial burden forced him to drop out of college and work full time at a hardware store in his hometown. Eventually Kaplan got bored and joined the Army. Upon enlistment, he requested flight training to be a pilot, either fixed wing or helicopters. He didn’t care as long as he was flying. He was informed that there were no slots available, nor would there be for a couple of years. After some soulsearching, he enlisted as a private in an infantry division.
At a solid, muscular two hundred twenty pounds, his strength was impressive. His personal regimen was strict.
He received accolades in marksmanship, self-defense, and field navigation, and after two years, became part of the Special Forces Airborne Division in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. At the end of his four-year enlistment, the Army offered him a lucrative reenlistment incentive and, seeing nothing in civilian life very promising, he stayed in four more years.
He’d earned respect from his fellow soldiers and his superiors alike for his calm demeanor in the face of adversity, his intuitive instinct, and his survival skills—skills he shelved in civilian life, not knowing that one day they might save his life.
CHAPTER 9
The black 1967 Pontiac GTO screeched to a stop in the NTSB designated parking area at the Atlanta Federal Building. Four men stood next to the two Suburbans belonging to the NTSB Atlanta Field Office—some with their hands in their pockets, some with arms folded, all with an agitated look as they stared at Jake with Beth McAllister riding shotgun.
Beth raised her eyebrows. “It looks like the natives are growing restless.”
“You think? Should I tell them the real reason I’m late?”
She smiled.
He parked next to the white Suburbans brandishing the black block letters NTSB on the sides and rear, retrieved his bag from the trunk and handed her the keys.“Take care of her.”
“Don’t worry, Jake. I promise I’ll keep it under a hundred.”
Jake had always been a fan of the classic muscle cars—the GTO was his favorite. He bought the GTO from a man who was desperate to sell after going through a divorce. The man had started the restoration process when he had to sell—part of the marriage dissolution decree. Jake had spent the last ten months and over ten thousand dollars bringing the GTO to mint condition.
As she stepped out of the car, Pat McGill greeted her with a hug. “As always, it’s nice to see you again, Beth. Sorry again about ruining your vacation.”
“It’s nice to see you too, Pat. Don’t worry about it. Jake was getting to be a real pain in the ass,” she laughed. “God, all he wanted to do was eat, fish, and have sex and not necessarily in that order. I needed a break anyway.”
“Hey, I resemble that remark,” Jake said. He held up his hands. “Which vehicle am I in, Pat?”
McGill pointed to the Suburban next to the GTO. “You and I are in that one and actually, you’re driving.” McGill tossed him the keys.
McGill looked over at Beth and winked. “What are you going to do without him?”
“Get a little peace and quiet.” She grinned. “Or maybe just one good night’s sleep.”
“Funny girl,” Jake said. “I’ll call you when I know something.”
She slipped into the driver’s seat of the GTO, put it in gear and drove off. Jake put his bag in the back of the Suburban and closed the back door.
“I thought you were taking her to Peachtree City first?” McGill said.
“Well … it took us a little longer than I planned to get away from the cabin.”
McGill laughed, motioned all the investigators into a small circle and said, “I’ve done as much of the pre-launch checklist as I can, which I mentioned on the phone. The command center will call while we’re en route with more details. Let’s move out. We’re already well over our two hours.”
Within minutes of leaving the Federal Building, the two Suburbans were cruising down Interstate 75 southbound towards Macon. McGill leaned over and picked up one of the two-way radios. “Unit one to unit two, how do you read?”
“Pat, we got you five by five.” It was a reference to the old military scale of one to five, or loud and clear.
McGill keyed the microphone. “When we get south of Macon on I-16, I’ll give the briefing to everyone at once, so keep the radio on.”
He put the radio down and turned to Jake. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been back to Savannah, much less for St. Patrick’s Day. It’s a shame we won’t get to enjoy the big party.”
“Can you believe it? I’ve lived in Georgia off and on my whole life and I’ve never been to Savannah. I’ve heard it has great food and plenty of beer.”
“It’s a historical town,” said McGill. “I lived there for several years after we moved from Ireland.”
“Okay. I know you’ve been in the states a long time but just how long did you live in Savannah? And what do you mean, we?”
“I moved to Savannah twenty-five years ago, with my aunt and my cousin.”
“With your aunt and cousin?” Jake asked. He slowed the Suburban for a construction zone on the interstate.
“My parents died when I was five,” McGill said. “My aunt and uncle took me in and raised me.”
“You’ve been here twenty-five years and in all that time you’ve never lost that Irish accent?” Jake laughed.
“No, I guess I haven’t.”
“What part of Ireland are you from?”
“Northern Ireland, actually. A little town in the northwestern corner called Londonderry. We left because of the Troubles in Northern Ireland. It got to be too much for my aunt to deal with.”
“What were the Troubles?”
“I thought you minored in political science? Don’t they teach you prep boys anything?”
“I thought that was just some religious tension stuff.”
“It’s more than that. It’s political, religious, ethnic. But mostly just a dark time in Ireland’s history. And, although it has gotten a lot better in recent years—mostly due to the 1998 Good Friday Peace Agreement and the formation of the New Northern Ireland Assembly—Northern Ireland still has a long way yet to go before we have true peace.”
Jake noticed a change in McGill’s expression, an introspective stillness. McGill was never one to talk about his past. It quickly became apparent he wasn’t going to talk about it now either. Something was bothering McGill, Jake knew that for sure.
CHAPTER 10
She stood in front of the mirror while waiting for the hot water to work its way through the pipes from her basement to her thirdfloor master bathro
om. The volume on the TV was barely loud enough for her to notice the broadcast interruption from the news station. The news flash was reporting an aircraft accident that just occurred near the Savannah River. She ran into the bedroom, grabbed the TV remote from her nightstand and turned the volume up.
“A corporate jet has crashed while on approach to the Savannah International airport. According to sources, the crash site is on or near Hutchinson Island. Rescue, fire and police units are responding. Traffic has the Talmadge Bridge gridlocked and authorities have temporarily closed the bridge so rescue and emergency vehicles can access the scene. We will bring you more as developments occur.”
Annie looked at the clock next to her bed and knew that Gregg Kaplan must have been working the aircraft that crashed. She had been a controller for over fifteen years but had never worked an aircraft accident. She had heard the stories of stress and trauma from the air traffic controllers involved with accidents and could only imagine the emotions they felt.
She reached for the phone and started to dial Gregg’s cell phone, but then hung up. She didn’t know what to say to him. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she replayed the morning’s events.
Immediately after Kaplan had relieved her from the controller position, she had signed out for the day, headed to her locker, put up her headset and grabbed her purse. Kaplan’s suggestive remarks had distracted her with the thought of last night’s garden tub adventure. The events rolled through her mind as she exited the front door of the facility and headed across the parking lot to her car.
She slipped into the front seat and checked herself in the mirror, put on dark red lipstick, her sunglasses, put the key in the ignition.
The red Mazda Miata MX-5 came to life. The engine quietly hummed as she lowered the convertible top and secured it. She unclipped her hair and shook her head, then pulled her hair back into a ponytail and slipped on her baseball cap. After a few more seconds, she gave herself one final primp check in the rearview mirror, pursing her lips.
She pulled away from the tower, out the gate and onto Gulfstream Road. She accelerated the car, her auburn ponytail whipping in the air. A hundred thoughts invaded her mind, from Kaplan’s disheveled appearance this morning to the items on her day’s “to do” list.
Distracted, she suddenly realized she was about to miss her exit, she swerved across two lanes of traffic amid the blaring horns of angry motorists and down the off ramp. Her house was only five more minutes away.
She pulled into the alley behind her home on Oglethorpe Street, across from Colonial Park Cemetery in the historic district. She opened the rear gate and drove into the garage, leaving the garage door open for Kaplan. She climbed the stairs to the door that let her directly into the kitchen.
Scout, her overweight tortoiseshell cat greeted her, rubbing against Annie’s legs before walking over to her food dish. “Okay, I know, it’s time to eat,” Annie said as she reached down to pet her.
She tossed her car keys on the counter next to her mail basket. Her day had started without her normal regimen of fifty sit-ups followed by forty-five minutes on her StairMaster. She grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and headed upstairs. Annie took off her work clothes, slipped into her workout clothes, and walked into her exercise room on the third floor.
Twenty minutes later she abandoned her workout. Something wasn’t right. She just couldn’t get into it. She stripped off her workout clothes, tossed them into the hamper and turned on the hot water in the shower.
After showering, she wrapped a towel around her wet hair like a turban. She dried off with another towel and then draped it over the glass shower enclosure hanging it equal lengths from the top on both sides. She needed to hurry—Kaplan was probably already on his way to her house.
CHAPTER 11
Tehran, Iran “ Son of a bitch!” The Persian grabbed the metal statue from the table and hurled it at the television. The statue smashed through the screen, sending glass shards onto the floor. Smoke billowed toward the ceiling, sparks flew.
His two children, a girl and a boy, ran into the room. “Father!”
His wife followed them and saw the television. “Farid Nasiri— the children. What have you done?”
The Persian, born in Tehran, Iran, in 1975, was the son of a wealthy businessman. He inherited the business when his father was killed in a tunnel bombing in Afghanistan after the United States retaliated from the Al Qaeda attacks of September 11, 2001. He had a ruthless business style and was known for his foul temper and unscrupulous dealings. On more than one occasion he had doublecrossed his contacts, keeping both the money and the merchandise. His contacts were reluctant to do business with him, mostly out of fear. And he’d just learned that Laurence O’Rourke’s chartered jet had crashed in Savannah, Georgia.
He turned to his wife and glared. His hard black eyes cut at her from underneath his traditional headwear.
She lowered her eyes, looking at the floor. “I beg your forgiveness.”
He motioned with his hand, muttering, “Leave me.” She ran to the kitchen, hurrying the children to their bedrooms.
How could this have happened? Who would want O’Rourke dead? A question he knew didn’t need answering.
While in Dallas, O’Rourke first made contact with the Persian through an Iranian singles web site, the Persian’s usual method of conducting business.
He had contacted O’Rourke yesterday to confirm the offshore account number. The money had been raised and a substantial deposit made in O’Rourke’s Cayman bank account.
The disappointing news of Laurence O’Rourke’s death could have a devastating impact on the plans of the terrorist cells.
How would the news be taken by the leader?
Even more troubling, how would the Pakistani take the news? Salim Malik, Bin Laden’s number-two man, was known for his barbaric methods of punishment.
No sooner had the disturbing thought passed through the Persian’s mind when his cell phone rang. Malik.
“Hello?”
“Your failure is not looked upon favorably by our leader, Farid.”
“How could this be my failure? These are not circumstances I have control over.”
“You should have planned better. You should have realized the dynamics surrounding this man O’Rourke and planned accordingly. These things should have been taken into consideration before you disclosed your intentions to our leader.”
“But the situation—”
“Enough,” Malik said. “He will give you one more chance. Another failure on your part and you will never see paradise. Is that clear, Farid?”
Before the Persian could answer, Salim Malik hung up.
CHAPTER 12
Ian Collins yawned as he rode down the escalator at the Jacksonville International Airport, his overnight bag slung over his left shoulder.
He had tried to sleep on the airplane but the woman in the seat next to him was a talker. A baby two rows back cried half way to Jacksonville. And there was the nine-year-old kid in the seat behind him who got bored and started kicking the back of his seat. Collins had stopped that quickly. He removed a contact, leaned around the seat and gave the kid an evil look. “Don’t do it again.”
The petrified boy didn’t move the remainder of the flight to Jacksonville.
He held his Blackberry in his right hand, reading his new messages. The first of the four messages was from Savannah:
Call me when you arrive JAX—Jillian He remembered how anxious she sounded on the phone the night before about her part of the operation—he shook his head. He advanced his Blackberry to the second message. Message number two was from Belfast:
Request immediate update on O’Rourke.
The third message was also from Belfast, although from a different sender. This sender had an opposite agenda from the others.
Word is phase one of Savannah Project complete. Please confirm.
The fourth message was a follow-up message from Jillian.
; LO crashed the party about twenty minutes late. Surprise party was a success. He walked across several lanes of traffic in front of the baggage claim area to the area designated for courtesy vans. Several passengers were taking advantage of this first opportunity to smoke a cigarette since leaving their departure points. Annoyed by the smoke, Collins moved to an isolated section of the waiting area. He placed his bag on the concrete and leaned back against the metal rail separating the waiting areas from the lanes of traffic.
While waiting for the courtesy van to pick him up, he typed out replies to some of his messages. First, he responded to Jillian’s:
Happy to hear party went as planned. We must still monitor the situation closely and keep away uninvited guests. Find Sullivan location. Will call when arrive SAV.
The Savannah Project (Jake Pendleton series) Page 5
