He pointed. “Two at the front, two at the rear.”
I inspected each in turn, casting my eyes over the exposed pipework and examining the vent with special care. The floor hadn’t been cleared yet and there were a few offcuts around. Under the sink I picked up a piece of polythene pipe about a foot long, probably left over from plumbing in the taps. I slid it up the left sleeve of my tunic and turned my palm to keep it there.
It was going well so far but I needed to extract more detail about the air circulation system. I’d have to approach it obliquely. When I emerged he was waiting for me in the cabin.
“They should be adequate,” I said. “Tell me something. We operate a lot in the tropics. Could it handle hot and humid conditions with eighty on board?”
“We can test it, and uprate the system if necessary. We shouldn’t need to; the ventilation’s over-specified.”
And to my immense satisfaction he went on to explain the way it worked: two independent circuits, one for the cockpit, one for the passenger compartment and toilets.
Finally he saw me to my car and I thanked him for being so helpful.
There was only one thing missing now. For that I was going directly to Washington, where I would meet up once again with Stefan Dabrowski at the headquarters of the Public Health Service.
*
Stefan met me at the reception desk. His chubby features, usually so animated, were set in grim lines. We shook hands and he nodded but said nothing. I followed him to his office, where he pulled out a chair for me then settled into his usual place, forearms on the desk.
“How did it happen, Jim? All I know is she was killed on active service.”
For a moment I couldn’t answer. I was looking around the office, my chest aching with the recollection of that first meeting when Abby was with us, still a reluctant participant – or at least trying hard to give that impression. I had to drag myself back to the present. I returned my gaze to Stefan.
“Look, I’m going to tell you what happened, but I’m depending on you to keep it strictly to yourself. Is that all right?”
“Sure. I won’t say anything.”
I told him what we’d found out about the counterfeit drug racket, the way it worked, and who was responsible. I told him how she’d been kidnapped, and how I’d tried to save her from being taken for interrogation and torture, only to see her shot as she made her own bid for freedom. Each time I relived that nightmare it laid raw the memory of how powerless I’d been to prevent it. I was overbreathing now, and a lump was rising into my throat, making it hard to speak, yet still I stumbled on.
“Stefan, she died in my arms…”
At that point my voice finally caught and I squeezed my eyes shut and bowed my head, letting the grief wash over me, and waiting for the worst of it to pass.
I could hear him muttering “Bastards, bastards”. When I opened my eyes again he was looking at me and shaking his head from side to side.
“You nearly got them, didn’t you, Jim? I respect that, I really do. I mean, for me these counterfeit drugs were a few cartons of stuff we had to analyse in there.” He jerked his thumb towards the lab. “Not you. You went all the way to where it was coming from.”
We sat in silence for a few moments. Then he said:
“Have I got this right? Without the Vlasovs, this trade would collapse?”
I heaved a deep breath. “Not all of it, but a big chunk of it. Most of those small company CEOs don’t want it and don’t need it; they’re acting under duress. Even if they were given immunity from prosecution they’d be scared to go to the authorities in case Vlasov’s bully boys paid them a visit.” I shrugged. “In some ways it makes no difference whether they’re willing or not; they certainly wouldn’t carry on doing it if no one was there to handle the payments and the distribution. To that extent you’re right: the Vlasovs are the key. Abby wanted to get more evidence so we could put them away. That’s why they killed her.”
“But surely you have enough on them already? Enough to get something done?”
“Stefan, I’m like you: I’m an employee of the US government. I told them what I had, I told them I want to go after the Vlasovs, and their answer? ‘No way’. Our lords and masters have virtually given them diplomatic immunity because they don’t want to upset the prospects for an agreement with the Russian Union. And it’s my guess that there are some powerful vested commercial interests in making that agreement happen, no matter what.”
“Abby’s family could pursue it through the civil courts.”
“No, Stefan. The Vlasovs are experts at covering their tracks and they’ve got all the money they need to defend a prosecution – and countersue for defamation. In any case, it would take years, constantly reopening raw wounds. The family needs closure.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “So Abby gets killed and no one lifts a finger?”
“That’s the way it looks, yes.”
His face flushed and he clenched both fists and planted them on the desk. He spoke through gritted teeth.
“Jim, I don’t have to tell you – she was exceptional: smart, highly qualified, totally committed, her whole life ahead of her. How can they just write her off? It’s a goddamned disgrace.”
“I know.”
He looked searchingly at me. “There must be something we can do.”
I met his eyes. “There is. That’s why I came here. I need your help.”
His eyes widened and he straightened up. “Whatever it is, you’ve got it.”
I took out the short length of polythene pipe I’d picked up at the aircraft factory and passed it across the desk to him.
36
In Medellín I made my base at the hotel I’d used during the last, ill-fated trip to Colombia. It took me the rest of the day to locate a suitable charter operator but eventually I found the kind of outfit I was looking for: a woman in a tiny office, a pilot, and one light aircraft – a single-engined Technoavia Babochka. It would be cheap and an ancient crate like that would pass almost unnoticed. Then I did a little shopping and returned to my hotel room.
An hour later I emerged from the bathroom and inspected the effect in a mirror. My face, arms, and hands were now a satisfactory shade of brown and my short blond hair was black and well plastered down with gel. I nodded at the reflection.
You’ll do.
There was a restaurant nearby, and the short walk took me past a skip, into which I dropped the empty bottles from the tanning lotion and hair dye.
*
The following morning we flew to the airfield where the meeting was to take place. The plane touched down shortly after ten-thirty, turned off to the right, and continued back along the taxiway towards the airport buildings. It came to a halt on the left of the apron, out of the way of any larger craft that might roll in.
My pilot collected his clipboard and gestured towards the terminal. I knew he’d have to attend to the formalities. I said I’d wait.
“I like to get a coffee.”
“Sure, there’s time.”
“You wan’ I bring you one?”
“No, I’m fine, you go ahead.”
I could have used a coffee but I didn’t want any distractions. I wouldn’t dry out; there was a bottle of water in the side pocket.
The terminal building was modest in size but pretty typical in appearance, right down to the reflective solar-generating glass façade. The entrance doors slid open as he approached; he went through and was lost to view as they closed behind him. Rising above the roof line at the runway end of the building was the hexagonal control tower I’d seen from the opposite direction when we were on the approach. To the left the magnacrete apron tapered to a road, which passed around the building and almost certainly ended up at a manned security checkpoint somewhere on the other side.
I settled down to wait. The altitude was a lot less here than at Medellín and the daytime temperatures would be that much higher. After fifteen minutes it was already warm in the cockpit. I took a sip of wa
ter.
A growing roar alerted me to an impending arrival. I checked my watch and the clock on the instrument panel: five to eleven. A few moments later the little Babochka shuddered as the Mirovoi Industries Quickstream Majestic swept past, deploying vectored thrust on all four engines. It landed slowly and ran to a halt well before the end of the runway. Then it turned and taxied up to the parking bays close to the terminal. The engines made a descending whine.
The ground staff rolled out the steps to the front exit. I could visualise the cabin crew inside throwing across the big handle and opening the door to the man in white coveralls and hi-vis vest who was already waiting outside.
Landing documents changed hands, then the operative went back down the steps and over to the terminal. As he did so a people carrier came round the side of the terminal building, drove past me, and stopped near the aircraft. It had “Cuprex International” in purple letters across the doors
Now things started to happen. First, two girls appeared on the steps. They wore pert little hats and pale grey uniforms trimmed in red, and they came down and stood at the bottom, one on each side.
Next came two men in black suits and sunglasses, looking warily in every direction.
I began to count.
Two cabin crew and two of Vlasov’s heavyweights. Four so far.
Now the Vlasovs, both of them, going down the steps one after the other, rocking from side to side like fat Russian dolls. They waddled over to the people carrier and hauled themselves in. Behind them came two men and a woman, carrying thin brief cases.
Another five. That’s nine.
The two heavies had a last look around, then followed the others to the vehicle. It drove off.
Two grey-uniformed stewards trotted down the steps. The hostesses joined them and they all walked over to the terminal.
Eleven.
Three more men in black suits came out, waited for a couple of young women, and escorted them over to the terminal. The girls’ heavy make-up and flimsy dresses and the way they swung their hips left little doubt about their role in the entourage. In-flight entertainment – Vlasov style.
Sixteen. Add in the two flight crew and that’s eighteen.
Damn. If they’re carrying the usual complement that means they’ve left someone on board, probably another security man. Well, that’s not going to stop me now. Not that nor anything else.
My pilot emerged from the terminal building and strolled over. He opened the door, climbed in, and tucked his clipboard into an overhead pocket.
“When you want to go back? I get us a departure slot.”
“Make it in half an hour, not more. I just have to see someone and I think he’s here now.”
“Okay.”
I reached behind the seat for the item of soft luggage I’d brought with me. Then I climbed down, shut the door, and crossed to the terminal.
Inside I followed the sign for the toilets. Once there I locked myself in a cubicle, opened the soft bag, and changed out of my pale brown business suit into white coveralls, adding an orange hi-vis vest over the top. I hung my I.D. on a blue ribbon around my neck; it would pass anything but close scrutiny. Before folding my suit into the soft bag I withdrew a cloth and a container of window cleaning fluid fitted with a spray. Finally I took off my sunglasses and slipped them into the bag’s side pocket. I hadn’t heard any movement from outside so I unlocked the cubicle and looked out. There was no one around.
I set down the cloth and spray, and looked around for a place to stow the bag. There didn’t seem to be anywhere, so I went back into the cubicle, locked the door behind me, and placed the bag on the toilet seat. Then I jumped for the top of the door and hauled myself over. As I dropped to the other side and straightened my clothes I allowed myself a grim smile; the time I’d spent on the assault course hadn’t been totally wasted. I picked up the spray and cloth and returned to the lobby.
At the façade I paused behind the reflective glass and checked my watch. I had less than twenty minutes but timing was critical. Out there one of the genuine ground crew could ask me who the hell I was. I speak reasonable Spanish but my accent would be recognisably foreign. Before long everyone, including Vlasov’s heavyweights, would be taking a big interest in me. I had to get this right.
The Quickstream was sitting on the apron, shimmering gently in the heat. A tanker had driven out and refuelling was in progress. Several ground staff were standing or walking around, all wearing white coveralls and orange hi-vis vests like mine. I waited, trying to look occupied by spraying my cleaner on a patch of window and wiping it, watching the outside all the time. There was a buzz of activity around the tanker and it pulled away; I could feel the glass vibrating with the rumble of the engine. A few minutes later the Captain and First Officer appeared at the open front exit of the aircraft, came down the steps, and began their walk-round inspection.
My pulse quickened. This would be a good moment.
The doors opened automatically and I walked out onto the apron.
37
I crossed to the Quickstream, trying to look casual, eyes flicking to either side to see if anyone had noticed me. Evidently they hadn’t because I reached the steps, took them lightly, and went through the open doorway.
I saw him right away, about half-way down the cabin, a heavily built, Slavic-looking guy in a dark grey suit, sprawled in an armchair. As he caught sight of me he half rose and I saw his hand move towards his hip.
I grinned foolishly, held up the cloth and the spray and said:
“Tengo que limpiar los servicios.”
I was hoping he wouldn’t notice my accented Spanish. For additional effect I made a circular motion with the rag. Then I waited, heart pounding.
He remained poised then waved dismissively with one hand and subsided back into his seat. Time was short but to make this convincing I’d have to do the rounds. I opened the door to the first of the forward toilets.
These were probably for the use of the crew because the layout was identical to the ones I’d seen at the assembly plant. I left the door ajar so the guy outside could hear me whistling tunelessly while I cleaned the mirror. Then I crossed to the other toilet to do the same. Now I had to get to the ones at the back. I made my way through the cabin, acutely aware of his eyes following me all the way.
This part of the craft was totally unlike anything I’d seen at the Canadian plant. In the centre the normal furniture had been stripped out and replaced by a large square table with seats around it. The corners of the cabin were occupied by comfortable armchairs, which looked as if they swivelled and reclined. Ahead of me there was a partition. Before I could reach it the man stood and held up a hand.
I felt the tension coil inside me. I could probably floor him but then I’d have to abort the whole thing and I didn’t want to do that. I played dumb.
I raised my eyebrows. He pointed at the spray and made a fluttery, beckoning motion with his fingers. I handed it to him, bringing my arm across the ID card in the hope he wouldn’t notice it. The cleaner was among the items I’d bought in Medellín, so the instructions were in Spanish. He looked it over but obviously it didn’t mean anything to him. He sniffed at the nozzle, then held out his hand for the cloth. Finally he jerked his head and I walked on.
As I passed beyond the partition I glimpsed an area fitted with beds and low furniture – no doubt for both sleep and entertainment. I reached the rear toilets and opened the door on the left-hand side.
I bit my lip; this one had been remodelled. It was a good deal larger than the ones up front, and contained a shower as well as a toilet and sink, all with gold-plated fittings. Then I looked up and saw with relief that the ventilation system appeared to be standard. I sprayed one of the mirrors and gave it a quick wipe, just in case the goon was listening, left it, and crossed to the right-hand toilet. It was virtually identical.
Now!
I reached up, opened the butterfly valve in the air vent so that I could get my fingers inside,
and turned it in its bayonet fitting. It came free and I placed it by the side of the sink. Then I unfastened the left-hand strap of my overalls, reached carefully into the narrow pocket I’d sewn inside, and withdrew the foot-long piece of polythene pipe. Both ends had been covered with a layer of fine netting, secured in place with a broad elastic band. Inside were one hundred or more female mosquitoes of the species Anopheles darlingi, each carrying the multiresistant organism responsible for the severe, untreatable form of malaria that had killed David and Fergy and Gordy and ten more of the Colombian squad. When Stefan Dabrowski took them from the Entomology Division he had no idea what I planned to do with them; I’d told him he’d be striking a blow for Abby and that was good enough for him.
Up to this point I’d been preoccupied with the task of getting myself in here, and I’d managed to suppress the thought of those lethal insects, separated by a fraction of a millimetre from my skin. But now, knowing what I was about to do, my palms began to tingle, my jaw quivered, and I started to tremble. I was a prime insect target, signalling the presence of my vulnerable body loud and clear with sweat and carbon dioxide, and the mosquitoes I was about to release were carrying one of the deadliest cargoes in the world.
And they hadn’t had a blood meal for four days.
I put the pipe down by the sink, my hand shaking so much I was afraid I’d drop it. Images drifted in front of me: David’s last lucid moments, as he asked me to tell Chrissie how much he loved her; the guys thrashing on their beds, eyes rolling in delirium; the ones lying quietly, close to death. My breathing became fast and shallow and I hunched over the sink, head swimming. Somewhere in the back of my mind was Vlasov’s thug in the cabin, perhaps getting up even now to find out what was keeping me, and the Captain and First Officer, returning from their routine external inspection of the craft. I was in serious danger yet I seemed incapable of moving.
For Christ’s sake, soldier, get your act together!
I straightened up slowly and took deep breaths. A towel was hanging by the side of the sink and I used it to pat off the sweat that was running down my face and neck and soaking into my collar. I needed to get this over with. I took the piece of pipe, removed the netting from one end and fed it up into the ventilation duct, removed the netting from the other end and pushed it further in, clapped the air vent on again, and twisted. It wouldn’t lock. The fitting rattled as I tried again to engage it with trembling fingers. At any moment I expected a stream of insects to emerge through the open valve and onto my skin. Sweat was stinging my eyes and I wasn’t even sure I’d see them if they did. I swallowed hard and tried once more, turning it counter-clockwise first, then pushing and twisting. There was a click as the lugs engaged and locked. I breathed out and closed the butterfly valve quickly. Then I tucked the bits of netting and elastic bands well down in my coveralls pocket, picked up my spray and rag, and got out as fast as I could.
Counterfeit (The Jim Slater series Book 2) Page 24
