The hijacker reached around and grasped his own attaché case—the one containing the fake bomb—and threw it out the hatch into the thunderous darkness. Next, he selected several pieces of luggage at random and tossed them out as well. Finally, using shroud lines cut from a parachute he wasn’t planning to use, he took the brown briefcase he had removed from the overhead bin and securely tied it to his midriff opposite the money bag. He now bore a faint resemblance to the Michelin Man: parachutes on the front and back, the money tied on one side and the briefcase on the other. It may have looked comical, but it was secure.
This accomplished, he stepped carefully onto the stairs and then, a moment later, jumped into the night. In the cockpit, everyone noted the sudden lift caused by the release of weight, and the captain recorded the time: 8:13 PM. But they weren’t sure what it meant. They had no way of knowing if the hijacker was still in the plane, and so they flew onward to Reno.
Cooper hurtled out into the blasting wind. He waited a moment to clear the two engines, which on the Boeing 727-100 were mounted aft; stabilized his free fall; counted a full sixty seconds—and then released the drogue. This action pulled out a ten-foot bridle, which in turn yanked the parachute out of the deployment bag. Cooper noted all these stages by feel, with satisfaction. As soon as the chute was fully open, he oriented himself, making out the faint lights of the town of Packwood, his fixed point of reference—dimmed by the storm but still visible.
Then he reached down to where he had tied the bag of money, tugged open the drawstring, and reached into the bag. With the chute open, the wind had lessened considerably and movement was easier. He grabbed a fistful of cash, yanked it out, and tossed it away. Then he began emptying the bag as quickly as possible, throwing handfuls of money off into the night.
Suddenly, he felt a jerk on the lines. Looking up, he saw that several bundles of money had been swept upward and were interfering with the main canopy, partially deflating it. At the same time, he felt his fall accelerate toward a fatal rate of descent.
He did not panic. In a practiced move, he cut away the main canopy by pulling the release handles on the shoulder straps. He now went into free fall. He quickly pulled the second handle to manually deploy the reserve chute. But when it snapped out and open, he realized there was something wrong with this, as well; it had deployed but not cleanly. Maybe it had been sabotaged or, more likely, it had simply become stiff from sitting too long without being repacked. A not uncommon problem.
But it was a dire problem for him.
Cooper felt an unfamiliar surge of panic as he dropped through the darkness, the wind tearing loose the bag with the rest of the money. Nothing he tried could correct the deployment of the reserve chute. He continued to fall, the partially collapsed reserve chute juddering in the turbulence, a final cloud of twenty-dollar bills bursting like confetti and fluttering away into the night as the struggling figure plummeted down toward the forest below, soon lost from sight in the howling storm.
4
Present Day
THE AGUSTAWESTLAND 109 GRAND shot northwest, powerful rotors humming, flying so low that its landing skids almost seemed to brush the azure-blue surface of the Atlantic. It rose as it cleared the reefs, barrier islands, and bays that led to mainland Florida.
In the luxurious cabin of the helicopter sat three people: a man in torn jeans and a plaid shirt; a young woman in a pleated white skirt and blouse, wearing dark sunglasses, with a large sun hat on her lap; and a spectral figure in a severely cut black suit, who sat looking out the cabin window with a remote expression on his sculptural features. Despite the tinting of the window, the brilliant sunshine outside turned his silver-blue eyes a strange platinum color and gave his light-blond hair the sheen of a snow leopard’s fur.
This was Special Agent A. X. L. Pendergast of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. With him in the passenger cabin were his ward, Constance Greene, and his partner, Special Agent Armstrong Coldmoon. They were departing the scene of a successfully concluded case on Sanibel Island, Florida, and though relatively little conversation was taking place, there was a sense of closure in the cabin and a feeling that it was time to get on with their lives.
Now the helicopter climbed and banked right, to avoid the hotels and luxury condos of Miami Beach, glistening like an alabaster Oz against the line of sand and the blue water beyond.
“Nice of the pilot to give us a show like this,” Coldmoon said. “It’s like a ride at Disneyland.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Pendergast replied in his silky, butter-and-bourbon New Orleans accent.
“You’re assuming it was intentional,” Constance said as she leaned forward to pick up the volume that had slipped from her hands when the helicopter banked: Clouds without Water, by Aleister Crowley. “Turbulent pitch and roll are often the first indications of helicopter trouble, before the stresses of a vortex ring force it into an uncontrolled descent.”
This was greeted by a moment of silence broken only by the whine of the engines.
“I’m sure we have an excellent pilot,” Pendergast said. “Or is that your fey sense of humor at work?”
“I find no humor in the prospect of having my person, burned and dismembered, spread across a public beach for all to see,” the young woman replied.
Coldmoon couldn’t see her eyes behind the Ray-Bans, but he felt sure she was looking at him, gauging the effect this morbid observation was having. Not only did this strange, beautiful, erudite, and slightly crazy woman scare the hell out of him—in the last week, she had both saved him and threatened to kill him—but she seemed to get a distinct enjoyment out of busting his balls. Perhaps, he told himself, it was a sign of interest. In which case—no thanks.
He took a deep breath. It didn’t merit thinking about. Mentally, he was already thousands of miles away, at his new posting at the Denver Field Office, far from the muggy air and stifling heat of Florida.
His gaze drifted from Constance Greene to Pendergast. Another strange one. Even though he’d just completed two cases back-to-back with the senior agent, Pendergast was another reason why Coldmoon wanted to get to Colorado as quickly as possible. The guy might be a legend in the FBI and the finest sleuth since Sherlock Holmes, but he was also notorious for the number of homicide cases he’d solved in which the perp had been “killed during apprehension”…and Coldmoon had learned the hard way that anybody who partnered with the guy had only a slightly better chance of surviving than the perp.
As the confectionary beaches of the Florida coast skimmed past below him, bringing him ever closer to the plane that would take him west, Coldmoon felt a sort of release, as if from prison. He almost smiled at the thought of the incredulity on the faces of his cousins, who lived in Colorado Springs, because his assignment had been so delayed that they refused to believe he was actually coming. Cheered by this thought, he glanced out the window again. The coastline was still as built up as farther south, but the buildings were not nearly as tall now. He could see I-95 running up the coast, wall to wall with cars. That would be something else he wouldn’t miss, although he’d heard that traffic in Denver had gotten crazy over the past few years. From above, it was hard to tell where they were. The flight was longer than he’d expected. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Pendergast and Constance had their heads together and were speaking in low tones. It was odd, though—he didn’t know a lot about Miami, despite the time he’d spent there, but he was pretty sure that the airport was west of town, not north…especially not this far north. They’d passed what he thought was Miami some time ago.
He sat back in his leather seat. Were they headed for an air force base or FBI helicopter landing pad? After all, their boss, Assistant Director in Charge Walter Pickett, hadn’t yet issued him a plane ticket to Denver. Maybe they were flying him in a government or military jet—it was the least the Bureau could do, given the shit he’d been through. Unlikely: now that word would soon be coming through of Pickett’s promotion to Associat
e Deputy Director, he was probably too busy packing his own bags for D.C. to think of anything else.
“Hey, Pendergast,” he said.
Pendergast glanced up.
“I thought we were headed for Miami International.”
“That had been my assumption.”
“Then what’s going on?” He looked out the window again. “Looks like we’re hell and gone from Miami.”
“Indeed. It would appear that we have overshot the airport.”
At these words, Coldmoon became aware of an uncomfortable tickling sensation—something like déjà vu, but distinctly more unpleasant—manifesting itself in the rear of his brain. “Overshot? You’re sure we aren’t coming back around for a landing?”
“If we were actually headed for Miami, I doubt we’d be over Palm Beach right now.”
“Palm Beach? What the hell—?” Coldmoon looked down. Another narrow barrier island covered with mansions was passing below—including one particularly large and garish pseudo-Moorish compound their shadow was crossing over at present.
He sat back again, momentarily dazed by surprise and confusion. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“I confess I haven’t the faintest idea,” said Pendergast.
“Perhaps you should ask the pilot,” Constance said without looking up from her book.
Coldmoon glanced at the two with faint suspicion. Was this some kind of joke? But no—his gut, which he always trusted, told him they were as in the dark as he was.
“Good idea,” Coldmoon said, unbuckling his harness and standing up. He made his way forward from the passenger compartment to the cockpit. The two pilots, with their headsets, khaki uniforms, and brown hair cut to a similar regulation length, could have been twins.
“What’s up?” he asked the pilot in command in the right seat, cyclic between his knees. “We’re supposed to be going to Miami.”
“Not anymore,” the PIC said.
“What do you mean, ‘not anymore’?”
“Just after we took off, we got new orders from dispatch. We’re to proceed to Savannah.”
“Savannah?” Coldmoon echoed. “You mean, in Georgia? There must be some mistake.”
“No mistake,” said the PIC. “The orders came from ADC Pickett himself.”
Pickett. That son of a bitch. Standing in the doorway of the cockpit, Coldmoon thought back to the final conversation they’d had with the assistant director before taking off. I’ve just learned of the most peculiar incident that took place last night, north of Savannah…Pickett must have waited until they’d taken off, then ordered the flight to be diverted.
Of all the backstabbing, ungrateful…Well, Coldmoon had already been suckered into taking on a second case with Pendergast and his unorthodox ways—it sure as hell wasn’t going to happen again.
“Turn the chopper around,” he demanded.
“Sorry, sir,” the PIC replied. “I can’t do that.”
“You got shit in your ears? I said, turn this chopper around. We’re going to Miami.”
“Respectfully, sir, we have our orders,” the other pilot said. “And as it happens, they’re the same as yours. We’re headed to Savannah.” And taking his hand from the collective, he unzipped his light windbreaker just enough to display the butt of a handgun peeping out from a nylon shoulder holster.
“Agent Coldmoon?” It was Pendergast, speaking from what seemed like a long distance away. “Agent Coldmoon?”
Coldmoon wheeled around, lurching slightly with the motion of the helicopter.
“What?”
“It’s obvious we can do nothing about this unexpected course of events.”
“Didn’t you hear?” Coldmoon blazed. “We’re going to Savannah. Frigging Savannah, when I should be on a flight to—”
“I did indeed hear,” said Pendergast. “Something most unusual must have occurred, to say the least, for Pickett to abduct us like this.”
“Yeah. He’s being promoted and, as a result, has become even more of an asshole. What the hell are we going to do?”
“Under the circumstances, I would suggest nothing—except sit down and enjoy the view.”
But Coldmoon wasn’t about to let it go. “This is bullshit! I’ve got a mind to—”
“Agent Coldmoon?”
It was Constance who spoke. She said his name in her usual deep, strangely accented voice, without any particular emphasis.
Coldmoon fell silent. This woman was capable of saying, or doing, anything.
As it happened, she did nothing but gaze mildly at him. “You might find it calming to consider just how paradoxical this situation is.”
“What do you mean?” Coldmoon said angrily.
“I mean, how often do you suppose an FBI agent finds himself being kidnapped by his own people? Aren’t you intrigued as to why?” And with that, she returned to her reading.
5
THEY LANDED ABOUT FORTY-FIVE minutes later at a remote section of Hunter Army Airfield. No sooner had Coldmoon angrily yanked his backpack out of the rear of the helicopter’s cabin than he heard the sound of a second chopper, approaching quickly. A minute later, it appeared in the sky. It was a Bell 429, government issue by the look of its tail markings, and it in fact appeared identical to the one their superior, ADC Pickett, had arrived at their private island in earlier in the day. Coldmoon scoffed. Why should he be surprised?
At almost the same time, as if choreographed, an Escalade with windows tinted almost as black as its body pulled up nearby, stopped, and then waited, idling, engine on.
Coldmoon looked at Pendergast, who was removing his and Constance’s luggage from the rear compartment of the chopper. Earlier, Pendergast had made it clear that he was eager—to put it mildly—to get back to New York. But he seemed to be taking this development in stride. More than that—he wasn’t objecting at all.
Coldmoon turned to him. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”
“I assure you I did not,” Pendergast replied over the prop wash.
“Then why the hell are you acting like we’re stopping for a picnic? I thought you wanted to get home.”
“I very much wish to return to New York.” He began walking with the bags toward the waiting SUV.
Coldmoon followed him. “Then what the—?”
“My dear Armstrong.” Coldmoon hated it when Pendergast began one of his little pronouncements like that. “I fail to see what this display of agitation will accomplish. Pickett knew our wishes. There must be a good reason for him to have ignored them. Perhaps it has something to do with that Georgian senator who carries a lot of weight with the FBI. Yes…I suspect we’ve been diverted because of a case offering potential bad publicity.”
Coldmoon looked at him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you sound intrigued.”
“I am intrigued.” Pendergast looked around the airfield, silver-blue eyes glinting in the open air. “Savannah is lovely. Have you ever been there?”
“No, and I have no interest in going.”
“It’s a charming city, full of beautiful old mansions, cruel histories, and numerous ghosts. A true gem of the South. It rather reminds me of our old family plantation house, Penumbra—as it once was.”
Even as Pendergast was speaking, Coldmoon turned away, muttering a long and anatomically specific Lakota curse. He honestly couldn’t decide who was worse—Pickett or Pendergast. It figured the guy once had a plantation.
Now the passenger door of the Bell slid open and the trim figure of Pickett came striding toward them. “I’m very sorry about this little detour,” he said before Coldmoon could object. He waved in the direction of the SUV. “If you would all please get in, I’ll explain as we drive.”
“Drive where?” asked Coldmoon. But Pickett was already talking to the driver. There was one furious whine from behind, then another; turning, Coldmoon saw their helicopter and Pickett’s taking off in sequence, backwash blowing over them. The choppers rose, noses drooping like ungainly buzzards. He w
as half tempted to run toward them and cling to the skids before they were completely out of reach. In a silent fury, he tossed his backpack in the rear of the SUV and got in, sitting in the rearmost seat. Constance slipped in next to him. Pendergast took a seat in the middle along with Pickett. The driver put the Escalade in gear and stepped hard on the accelerator. Military hangars and warehouses swept past, and then they were on I-516, heading north.
Pickett closed all the windows and asked the driver to turn up the A/C, then cleared his throat.
“I want to assure you this was a last-minute development,” he said. “I didn’t know in advance, and I promise my visit wasn’t an attempt to waylay you. The fact is, a problem has developed here that demands immediate attention. It’s a cooperative investigation between the Bureau and the local authorities.”
“Surely you have abundant resources here in Georgia already,” Pendergast said, “that are capable of supplying that attention.”
Pickett winced. “Let’s just say this case is particularly suited to your strengths. It’s a fast-breaking situation and we need to get on top of it and show progress right away.”
“I understand. And how is Senator Drayton these days?” Pendergast asked.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Pickett.
“But he is an acquaintance of yours, is he not?”
“You have no idea,” Pickett replied with a wintry smile. There was a brief but nevertheless uncomfortable pause. “I’m asking you to take a look, that’s all.”
“By all means,” said Pendergast. “Although I believe those were the precise words you used a few weeks ago, when you asked me to fly to Sanibel.”
Coldmoon saw his chance to jump in. “And what does this have to do with me? I’m due to report to the Denver office.”
“I’m aware of that. It’s the luck of the draw.”
“But, sir, my arrival has been delayed once already. If you say this is Pendergast’s forte, great, but I really need to get—”
Bloodless Page 2
