by Stuart Woods
“Bart Cross. I’ve known him since he was a kid, and he’s done a lot of work for me on films. I helped him get a union card.”
“Is he one of those people who always needs money?”
“I think that’s true of most people, babe, but more so of Bart than most. He’s a poker player, and no better than so-so. He wins sometimes, but he loses more often. And he has to make the payments on that Beech Baron of his. That’s gotta be costing him four or five grand a month, and then there’s insurance, hangar and maintenance.”
“So, you think he’d be up for making some large cash?”
“How large?”
“I guess I’d go to twenty-five grand,” she said. “If I have to.”
“Bart would do just about anything for that kind of money,” Long said.
“Good. I’d like to meet him tomorrow. Can I have his number?”
“I’ll call him for you.”
“No, I’d rather do it directly and cut you out of this. We don’t ever want him to be able to testify that he put us in touch.”
“All right.”
“Does Bart know that I escaped from prison in Mexico?”
“Not from me he doesn’t, and nothing’s been on TV about it here, and he’s not the sort to read the papers. I’d say he’s ignorant of your Houdini act.”
Barbara looked at her watch. It was an hour earlier in Santa Fe, so she called her real estate agent.
“Yes, Mrs. Keeler?”
“I wanted to let you know that I won’t be needing the house after the end of the first month.”
“I’m sorry you couldn’t stay longer,” the woman said. “Will you be needing another place?”
“No, I’ve decided to go back to San Francisco.” Barbara gave her a bank account number to wire her security deposit to when her month ended.
“Thank you for all your help,” she said, then hung up. She thought about Dolly Parks and whether to call her, then decided not to. Best to cut her trail clean.
“So, you’re not going back?”
“Eventually,” Barbara said, “but that house is blown for me. I’ll find another place, if I need it.”
Long went to his desk, opened his address book and wrote down a number. “Here’s Bart Cross’s cell number,” he said, handing her a slip of paper. “He’s not working at the moment, so you’ll probably catch him at home in the morning.”
Barbara tucked the paper into her bra. “Thanks, sweetie,” she said. “I’ll be sure to tell him you know nothing about my seeing him.”
“I’ve still got your old Toyota,” Long said. “It’s in the garage, on a trickle charger. It should be okay.”
“I think I’ll have another martini,” Barbara said, holding out her glass.
25
The following morning Barbara called Bart Cross’s cell number.
“This is Bart,” he drawled.
“We last met in Yuma,” Barbara said.
It took him a moment. “Oh, yeah. How are you?”
“Lunch today.” She gave him the name and address of a restaurant on the Santa Monica waterfront. “One o’clock sharp,” she said.
“Uh, okay.”
She hung up. She spent the morning shopping in Santa Monica, especially in a bookshop, where she bought a fairly large-scale map of Santa Fe. Then she went to a RadioShack and bought two prepaid cell phones. Back in the car, she opened the map and marked her rental house and Ed Eagle’s house. Then she put on her blond wig and made herself up in an overdone fashion with lots of eye shadow.
AT ONE O’CLOCK, she watched from a distance as Bart arrived at the restaurant and got a table outside. When he was settled she walked over and sat down. “I won’t be here long,” she said, “so listen carefully.” She placed an envelope on the table. “I’ll be blunt,” she said. “I want two people killed: They’ll be together. I’ll pay you twenty-five thousand dollars for the job, and another five thousand for expenses. There’s ten thousand in this envelope, and the rest will be paid when the work is done. Do you want the job? If not, say so now, and I’ll be gone.”
Bart lifted the flap of the envelope and peeked inside. “Yes,” he said.
“The man is in Santa Fe. His name is Ed Eagle, and he’s a lawyer. He cheated me out of a lot of money in the settlement of a lawsuit, and I want him dead by the end of the month. Specifically, I want his throat cut. The other is his wife; I don’t care how you kill her.”
“That can be done,” Bart said.
She pushed the folded map and a key across the table. “There are two houses well marked on this map. Don’t open it now. The one on Tano Norte is a guesthouse where you can stay; the other is Eagle’s house. Your best chances are going to be morning around nine when he goes to work, or after dinner when he comes home. You’ll have to watch him for a while to get the lay of the land.”
“All right.”
“I want them both dead, together, and you have eighteen days to do it. After that day, you have to vacate the house. If anyone comes to the door looking for me, say that you sublet the house, paid me in advance, and that I may be in San Francisco.”
“All right.”
“Fly into Double Eagle Airport in Albuquerque, without filing a flight plan, and take a taxi to the big airport.” She placed a car key on the table, along with the parking receipt. “This is for a Mercedes station wagon, tan metallic, which is in long-term parking at Albuquerque Airport. The space number is written on the back of the ticket. When the work is done, park the car as nearly as possible to the same spot, and you can give me the key when we meet for your final payment.”
She gave him one of the two phones. “Memorize this number,” she said, reciting the number of the phone she retained.
“Got it,” he said.
“You are to use this phone to contact me and to avoid making calls on your own phone. You will contact me only if absolutely necessary.”
“Got it.”
“Make no calls from your own cell phone after you leave L.A. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“When you are back in L.A., call me and I’ll arrange to pay you the remainder of your money. After you have it, destroy the cell phone and scatter the pieces. Any questions?”
“No.”
“Call me if you need more information. I’m leaving now. If anyone sees you here with me, tell them I’m a hooker who tried to pick you up. One more thing,” she said. “If they’re both not dead by the eighteenth day, you’re dead.” She got up and walked away.
BART PUT THE MONEY and the map into his inside coat pockets. His heart was beating rapidly. This was a gift from heaven, he thought. He put the prepaid phone in his pocket and got out his own cell phone and dialed a number.
“Yes?”
“It’s Cross.”
“You better have my money.”
“That’s why I’m calling. I can give you the cash whenever you like.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at a restaurant in Santa Monica.” He gave the man the address.
“I’m five minutes away,” the man said.
Shortly, a car pulled up in front of the restaurant, and a large man got out. He came to the table.
“Sit down,” Bart said.
“I don’t have time.”
“If you want to get paid, sit down.”
The man sat down. “You’re a pain in the ass,” he said.
Bart slid the menu across the table. “The money is under it,” he said. “Put it in your pocket.”
The man did so. “Nice doing business with you,” he said.
“We won’t be doing any more business,” Bart said.
“Fine by me.” The man got up, got in his car and drove away.
The waitress appeared. “Is anyone joining you?” she asked.
“No. I shooed away a hooker, and some guy mistook me for somebody else.” He ordered lunch and sat, basking in the sunshine, feeling great.
BARBARA DROVE BACK to Bel Air, to J
immy’s house, thinking hard all the way. She had to have a backup plan. There was simply no way she was going to put all her eggs in a basket named Bart Cross.
She was still thinking about it when she walked into the house.
“Hey,” Jimmy called from his study.
She walked into the room and fell into a chair. “I know how early it is, but I need a drink.”
Jimmy got up and made a martini for her. “Here you go.”
“I met with Bart,” she said.
“Everything go all right?” he asked.
“Seemed to. Do you think he has any guts?”
“Guts is something Bart has never been short of,” Jimmy replied. “I saw him take a bigger guy in a bar fight in Long Beach once. Bart was smaller, but he was meaner, too.”
“I hope you’re right,” Barbara replied.
Jimmy shrugged. “Worse come to worse,” he said, “if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”
And like that, she had her backup plan.
26
Todd Bacon sat at his computer, composing a report to Holly Barker. He was embarrassed to have so little to tell her. He pressed the send button and sat, staring at his computer screen, wondering what to do next. As he watched, an e-mail notice appeared in the lower right-hand corner. He checked his inbox.
Call me at this number, the unsigned message read.
Todd called the number.
“Sounds like you’re coming up dry,” Holly Barker said, without preamble.
“So far,” Todd admitted. “I believe he was here, but now I think he may have left town.”
“I understand why you believe that,” Holly said, “but don’t believe it. If he was in town he’d want you to think he’d left.”
“Well, then, he’s pretty convincing,” Todd replied. “I don’t know what to do next.”
“Stop looking for him,” Holly said. “Find Lauren Cade. After all, she’s what got you where you are.”
“I don’t even have a photograph,” he complained. “All I’ve got is the description you gave me.”
“That has already changed,” Holly said. “She’s no longer a blonde, I can promise you that, but she can’t change her body. She’s a slim girl with impressive breasts and a skinny ass. I know the tits can be bought off the shelf, but not the ass. Look for the combination. Go where people go—restaurants, grocery stores, shops. She’s in a new town, and she’s going to want new clothes. Everybody in Santa Fe goes to the Plaza sooner or later. Go there and look. You’re a good-looking guy. When you see someone with that combination who’s not a blonde, try and pick her up. You might get lucky.”
“They didn’t train me for this at the Farm,” he said, referring to the Agency’s training facility in the Virginia countryside.
“Then you’ll have to train yourself,” Holly said. “When you find her, you’ll have found a new skill.”
“If I were an older guy with a younger girl, like him,” Todd said, “I’d stick close to her.”
“Maybe he will,” Holly said, “but don’t expect him to look his age. He’s good at changing his appearance, and he’s not going to make himself look like an old man while he’s with someone as great-looking as Lauren. If he’s sixtyish, look for a man who looks fifty or younger.”
“Are you sure I can spend the Agency’s time on something as ephemeral as this?”
“The boss has already made that decision,” she said. “He has, in effect, cut you loose. You’re just going to have to get out there and give yourself a chance to get lucky. Gotta run.” Holly hung up.
Todd hung up and sat there, thinking. Holly’s suggestion seemed crazy, too random. He was convinced he had a better chance of finding Teddy’s airplane than he did of finding Teddy himself.
He brought up his flight-planning program on the computer and looked at the Santa Fe area. Maybe Teddy had just moved his airplane to a less conspicuous spot. Todd thought about what he himself would look for if he were deciding at which airport to land. He’d want fuel, certainly, so that would eliminate some little backcountry dirt strip. He’d want maintenance services, too. Small aircraft needed taking care of, and he’d want a mechanic, maybe an avionics shop as well. The field should be within easy driving distance of Santa Fe, say fifty to sixty miles.
He looked at all the surrounding airports. There was Albuquerque International, but that was too big, and fuel and services would be too expensive. There were a dozen or so small airports, mostly shown on the map as red circles, but many of those wouldn’t have the necessary services. There were two general aviation airports marked in blue: Double Eagle, outside Albuquerque, which was fifty miles or so away, and Las Vegas, to the east, about the same distance.
He checked his airport guide: Las Vegas had no services, except a restaurant, but Double Eagle had a full-service FBO, with both mechanical and avionics shops.
Todd thought about flying down there, but it was only fifty miles; it would be almost as fast to drive. He got his car from the garage and drove south through town to I-25. He set his cruise control at five miles an hour under the speed limit and tried to stay awake.
TEDDY AND LAUREN LEFT their rented house and drove out Old Pecos Trail.
“How long a drive is it?” Lauren asked.
“An hour or so. Then it will take you at least two hours to drive to Las Vegas and pick me up.”
“I’m sleepy,” Lauren said, moving her seat back to a reclining position. “I’m going to take a nap.”
Teddy set his cruise control at five miles an hour over the speed limit and let the SUV take care of itself. There wasn’t a lot of traffic, and soon he began overtaking a red Taurus ahead of him, driven by a man alone. He moved to the left lane and let his car overtake the other. As he passed it, he caught a glimpse of the driver’s profile. It was the young Agency man, Todd Bacon, whom Teddy had seen at Geronimo a couple of nights before. He put on a baseball cap and increased his speed.
TODD WATCHED the Jeep Grand Cherokee sail past him and thought nothing of it. If there’d been a couple inside he would have been more interested.
TEDDY KEPTHIS speed up all the way to his exit from the interstate, and by that time Bacon’s car was out of sight. It was unlikely that they’d be heading to the same destination. He drove to the airport and, in the parking lot, woke up Lauren. “We’re here,” he said. “Do you want some coffee before you start for Las Vegas?”
“No,” she replied, stretching. “I’m fine.” He got out, and she moved to the driver’s seat. “See you there,” she said, then pulled out of the parking lot and headed back toward the interstate.
TODD REACHED HIS EXIT and turned toward Double Eagle Airport. Halfway there he passed the Grand Cherokee he’d seen earlier, but this time it was driven by a woman. The two cars passed too quickly for him to get a good look at her.
AT DOUBLE EAGLE, Teddy went to the paint shop and found his airplane sitting on the ramp. He inspected the paint job on the new tail number, then went into the office and paid his bill, getting a five percent discount for cash. He went back to the airplane, did a quick preflight, checking the tanks to be sure the fuel he’d ordered was aboard, then Teddy got into the Cessna, started the engine and began running through his checklist.
TODD PARKED HIS CAR and walked past the FBO and onto the ramp, to check the place out. A Beech Baron was landing, and he watched it touch down, then he turned and began walking to the FBO. Then he saw something that interested him. There was a paint shop on the field, something that hadn’t been mentioned in his airport guide.
He walked into the hangar and saw a small glassed-in office to one side, where a man worked at a desk. He rapped on the door. “Good morning,” he said.
“Morning,” the man replied. “Can I help you?”
“I was just wondering, have you had a Cessna 182 RG in recently for some paint work?”
“Yeah, I had a customer who wanted his tail number changed.”
Todd tried to control h
is excitement. “When was that?”
“He paid his bill less than half an hour ago,” the man replied. “He might still be on the line.”
Todd ran out of the hangar and looked at the parked airplanes, running along the line. There were plenty of Cessnas, as usual, but he didn’t see a 182 RG. Then he turned and looked toward the runway, where a Cessna was beginning its takeoff roll. He watched it lift off and then saw the landing gear come up. He squinted, but it was too far away to read the registration number on the side. He kept watching it as it climbed, until it began making a turn to the east and disappeared.
Todd ran back to the paint-shop office. “Can you tell me what tail number you painted on that airplane?” he asked.
“Sure,” the man replied, and gave him the number.
“Do you have a name and address for the owner?” Todd asked. “I’m looking to buy a nice 182 RG.”
The man looked through some papers stacked on his desk. “Yeah, here’s the FAA form. I’m afraid he’s from Arkansas, though, and he told me he was headed home.”
“Let me make a note of this, and I’ll call him,” Todd said, scribbling down the information. He thanked the man, then ran for his car.
BART CROSS TAXIED HIS Beech Baron to the ramp at Double Eagle Airport, then ran through his shutdown checklist and cut the engines. He got his luggage out of the rear compartment, then went into the FBO to arrange for parking and fuel. Shortly after that he was on his way to Albuquerque International Airport to pick up the Mercedes station wagon.
27
Todd gunned his red Taurus and headed for the interstate. Teddy, if he wasn’t really going to Arkansas, would likely be headed for Las Vegas, the second of his airport guesses, and Lauren would be driving there to meet him. She had at least a half-hour head start—more like three-quarters of an hour. He turned onto the I-25 and set his cruise control at seventy-five. This was no time to get stopped by the state patrol.
TEDDY LANDED at Las Vegas after a forty-minute flight and taxied up to the little municipal terminal. He gave his fuel order to a lineman, then went inside to the front desk, where a man sat behind the counter. “Good afternoon,” he said.
“Hey,” the man replied. “You just refueling? Anything else we can do for you?”
