by Stuart Woods
The two old runways were potholed, and there were many weeds growing up through the tracks. The field was empty. Lance looked at his watch: The son of a bitch was late, and it was getting dark. He drove up and down both runways, checking for holes that might wreck an airplane; he took note of the wind, then he drove to the end of one runway, shut down the engine, and got off the motorcycle, searching the skies. He saw it before he heard it, a black dot, steadily getting bigger.
Lance stood at the end of the selected runway, holding his arms straight above his head, the airport lineman’s signal for “park here.” The Cessna circled once, then set down on the correct runway, slowing, then taxiing toward him. It stopped, but the engine kept running.
Lance unstrapped a salesman’s catalogue case from the rear rack of the BMW, opened a door, and placed the case on the rear seat, securing it with the passenger seat belt. He looked over the rear seat at the luggage compartment; his bags were already aboard. He got into the airplane, closed the door behind him, and fastened his seat belt.
“Beautiful bike,” the pilot said. He rubbed the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand together, the ancient code. Lance took a stack of fifty-pound notes from an inside pocket and handed it to him. The pilot did a quick count, tucked the notes into a pocket, and grinned. “Where to, old sport?”
“That way,” Lance said, pointing south. “I’ll direct you.”
“Any particular altitude?”
“Ten.”
“Ten thousand?”
“Ten feet; fifteen, if ten makes you nervous.”
“We’ll attract attention that low, and besides, there are a lot of trees between here and the Channel. I’d suggest a thousand feet.”
Lance reached forward and switched off the transponder. “Good; when you get to the Channel, descend to minimum altitude, and fly a heading of one eight zero.”
“Below the radar? I could get into trouble.”
Lance held up the keys of the motorcycle. “You like the BMW?”
The pilot pocketed the keys, lined up on the runway, and pushed the throttle to the firewall. Two minutes later, they were at a thousand feet. “How far we going?” he asked. “Will I need to refuel?”
“Less than two hundred miles,” Lance replied. “If you topped off as requested, you’ll have fuel for there and back.”
The pilot nodded. After a few minutes he pointed to a blinking light. “Lighthouse,” he said, and started a descent.
“Careful you don’t bump into any shipping,” Lance said.
“A hundred feet will keep us below the radar and above anything but the QE2,” the pilot said. “What line of work are you in?”
“I’m a salesman,” Lance replied.
“What do you sell?”
“Whatever’s in demand.”
They flew on in silence, at one point steering around a big tanker plowing up the Channel, then the shore lights of Normandy came into view.
“Come right to one niner five degrees,” Lance said. He reached forward and turned a knob on the Global Positioning Unit in the panel, selected “create user waypoint,” and entered some coordinates. “Climb back to a thousand feet,” he said.
The pilot leveled off at a thousand feet, and Lance reached forward, switched on the autopilot, and pushed the NAV button. The airplane swung a few degrees onto a new heading. “Let it fly the airplane for now,” he said. He checked the distance to waypoint; one hundred eight miles.
“What are we landing on?” the pilot asked.
“A farmer’s field,” Lance replied. “You’ve got about three thousand feet of length and all the width you need.”
“Any lights?”
Lance pointed to the rising full moon. “That,” he said, “and some car headlights.” He tuned the number one communications radio to 123.4 MHz and held the microphone in his lap.
Forty-five minutes later, Lance spoke again. “Descend to five hundred feet.” He spoke into the microphone. “It’s me; you there?”
“I’m here,” Ali’s voice said.
“Wind?”
“One eight zero, light. I’m already parked.”
“Switch on your headlights, and put them on bright; turn them on and off, once a second.” Lance scanned the horizon.
“Five hundred feet,” the pilot reported.
“We’re five miles out,” Lance said. “Look for headlights, flashing on and off, and land into them, on a heading of one eight zero.”
The pilot leaned forward and searched the ground ahead of him.
“Four miles,” Lance called out.
“I don’t see anything.”
“They’re there. Three miles.”
“Nothing.”
“Dead ahead, see them?”
“Got them!”
“A mile and a half; get lined up; can you see the tree line?”
“Yes, the moonlight is good.”
“Just miss the trees and aim for the car. You should have a soft touchdown.”
The pilot punched off the autopilot, swung right, then back left, lining up on the headlights. He put in full flaps and reduced power.
“Minimum speed, and for God’s sake, don’t hit the trees,” Lance said.
The pilot switched on both the landing and taxi lights, faintly illuminating the grass beyond the trees. He floated over the treeline, chopped the throttle, and put the airplane firmly down on the field, standing on the brakes. He swung around in front of the car and stopped.
“Keep the engine running,” Lance said, reaching behind him for the catalogue case. He got out, opened the door to the luggage compartment, and started handing bags to Ali. “Tell Sheila to turn off the headlights,” he said.
Ali went to the car, and a moment later, the lights went off.
Lance leaned into the airplane. “Wind’s light,” he said to the pilot; “you should be able to take off due north. Keep it low all the way.”
The pilot nodded. “Good luck,” he said.
“Enjoy the bike,” Lance replied. “The registration’s in the saddlebags.” He closed the door and watched as the pilot ran the engine up to full power, then released the brakes. Lance winced, thinking he might not make the trees, but then the little airplane was off the ground and climbing steeply. He ran back to the car and got into the passenger seat, while Ali got into the rear.
Sheila put the car in gear and drove slowly off the field. When she was into the trees, she switched on the headlights and found the track through the woods.
“How long until we hit the autoroute?” Lance asked.
“Less than half an hour. Driving at a steady eighty we should be at the Swiss border before dawn.”
“Got the passports?” he asked Ali.
Ali handed the three forward, and Lance inspected them. “Good,” he said.
Ali handed him a small leather case. “Here’s your makeup and beard,” he said.
He had tried out the makeup and beard when they had taken the passport photographs. He’d apply it after they were on the smooth autoroute. Then he would be Herr Schmidt.
“Meine damen und herren,” he said, “mach schnell!”
Sheila joined the paved road, put her foot down, and the car roared off into the European night.
Chapter 57
MORGAN PARKED HIS CAR IN THE short-term lot at Heathrow, fastened his luggage to a folding hand trolley, and walked into terminal four. He found a men’s room, let himself into the handicapped toilet stall, then took off his hat, got out of the raincoat, and began unbuttoning his shirt. He opened his small suitcase, took out a loud Hawaiian shirt and put it on, followed by a tweed cap and sunglasses with heavy black rims. He wadded up his shirt and wrapped it in the raincoat, then stuffed the bundle behind the toilet. He left the stall, dug into his bag, and found a small bottle of pills marked VALIUM 5MG. He took one, then looked at himself in the mirror. “Keep calm,” he said. He grabbed his luggage cart, left the men’s room, and walked to the ticket counters.
; From the departure board, he chose a flight, and, a minute later, he was standing in a ticket line. Then it occurred to him that he was going to have to go through security, and that the money in his valise might be discovered. As he stepped up to the counter, he made a snap decision. “Check everything,” he said to the ticket agent.
“Of course, sir,” she replied. “You’re going to have to hurry; your flight leaves in twenty-five minutes, and it’s already boarding.”
“I’ll hurry,” Morgan replied, accepting his ticket and boarding pass.
Dino screeched to a halt in front of terminal four. Before Stone could open his door, a man clutching a handheld radio opened it for him.
“My name’s Bartlett,” he said. “Heathrow security.”
Stone introduced himself and Dino, then showed him the photograph of Morgan.
“I’ve already circulated it,” Bartlett said.
“He’s shaved the mustache, and he’s wearing a raincoat and a trilby hat,” he said. “And he’ll be carrying a canvas valise, I’m sure of that. He’s calling himself Sir William Mallory, and he has a British passport in that name.”
Bartlett used his radio, passing on the new description. “Let’s go,” he said to Stone.
“How many people have you got working right now?” Stone asked, hurrying to keep up.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, but I’ve pulled every available man and woman off nearly everything else. We’re concentrating on the security checkpoint, since every passenger has to pass through it.”
“Let’s start there,” Stone said.
With Bartlett leading the way, they made off across the busy terminal.
Morgan reached the security checkpoint, and immediately he was approached by two men in suits, one of whom flashed an ID card.
“Please step over here, sir,” one of them said, taking his arm and moving him out of the line.
“What’s going on?” Morgan asked, as innocently as he could.
“May I see your passport and ticket, please?”
Morgan produced both.
“You are . . .” The officer looked at the passport. “Mr. Barry Trevor?”
“That’s right,” Morgan said. “What’s this about?”
“Just a routine security check, sir. And is this your current address?” The officer held up the passport.
“Yes, it is, and I’ve got a plane to catch.”
“We won’t be a moment, sir. Would you remove your sunglasses, please?”
Morgan took them off and gave the officers a big smile. He knew his security photograph at Eastover made him look dour.
The officers compared him to a photograph one of them produced. They looked at each other; one shook his head. The officer handed back Mr. Barry Trevor’s passport and ticket. “Thank you, sir; sorry for the inconvenience. Here, let me get you through security.” He led Morgan to one side of the checkpoint and signaled to the officer on station, who ran a detector wand over Morgan’s clothes, then waved him through.
Morgan headed for the gate. With a little luck, his timing would be perfect.
Stone arrived at the security checkpoint, and Bartlett called two men over.
“Any sightings?” he asked.
“No; we’ve checked three men, but all seemed okay.”
“Any of them carrying a canvas valise?”
“No; one of them had a briefcase, but there were only business documents inside.”
“Any of them wearing a raincoat and a trilby hat?”
“No, sir.”
Bartlett turned to Stone. “Anything else you want to try?”
Stone nodded. “I hear Spain is a favored destination for fugitives.”
“That’s right; we’ve no extradition treaty with them.”
“Let’s go to the gates that have flights departing for anywhere in Spain.”
Bartlett looked up at a row of monitors next to the security checkpoint. “Three, no, five flights departing in the next two hours, from three gates.” He led the way through the checkpoint, then flagged down an oversized golf cart driven by an airport employee. Bartlett, Stone, and Dino boarded the vehicle, and, on Bartlett’s instructions, it began to move down the long corridor.
Morgan walked along the people mover, dodging other travelers who were happy to stand still and ride. He tried to move quickly, without looking as though he was hurrying. He checked his watch; seven minutes to go.
Bartlett was on the radio, summoning officers to the three gates with departing flights to Spain. “I want two men at each gate, scrutinizing every male passenger even remotely resembling the photograph.” He turned to Stone. “If he’s bound for Spain, we’ll get him at the gate.” His radio squawked, and he held it to his ear. “Say again?” He turned back to Stone. “One of my men has found a raincoat, a shirt, and a trilby hat, discarded in a men’s room. A British passport bearing the name Sir William Mallory was in the raincoat pocket.”
“Costume change,” Stone said. “This guy is starting to do everything right.”
The cart pulled up to a gate, and Stone got out, followed by Dino and Bartlett. The first person he saw was Stan Hedger.
Hedger walked up to him. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
“It’s a public airport; none of your business.”
“Have you seen Lance Cabot?”
“Is that why you’re here? You’re looking for Cabot?”
“That’s right.”
“So is half the country, from what I hear.”
“I thought you had gone back to the States, Stone. Why are you involved in this?”
“It’s personal,” Stone said. “See you around, Stan.”
“Come on,” Dino said, “we’re wasting time.”
Morgan reached his gate two minutes before the flight was scheduled to take off. He went to the counter for a seat assignment.
“You’ll have to hurry, Mr. Trevor,” the young woman said. “We’re about to button up the airplane.”
“I’ll hurry,” Morgan said, and made for the boarding ramp. There was no line, and a moment later he was strapping himself into a first-class seat.
Stone, Dino, and Bartlett made their way quickly from gate to gate, coming up empty-handed at each one.
“That’s it,” Bartlett said. “We know he’s in the airport, but we don’t—”
“What are other likely destinations for fugitives?” Stone asked.
Bartlett shrugged. “Could be anywhere. There are more than a hundred international flights taking off in the next two hours; I don’t have the manpower to cover them all, and I’m not about to shut down this airport, unless I get a personal call from the Home Secretary.”
“Shit,” Stone said.
“My sentiments exactly,” Bartlett replied. “But let’s keep looking.”
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant said. “We are now pushing back from the gate, and in a few minutes we’ll be taking off for our flight to Honolulu. While we’re taxiing, we direct your attention to the video, which will explain the emergency procedures for this aircraft.”
Morgan picked up a magazine. Fuck the emergency procedures, he thought. He wanted a double Scotch.
Stan Hedger left the airport in disgust, along with one of his people, and got into a waiting car. He did not notice, nor did his driver, that the car was followed by another, which kept a respectful distance.
Stone and Dino stuck it out until nearly midnight, when departures slowed dramatically, then they drove back to the Brewer’s Arms.
Carpenter, Mason, and Plumber were all in the suite when they arrived. “Anything?” Carpenter asked.
“Morgan was at the airport,” Stone said. “One of the security people found his discarded hat, coat, and passport in a men’s room. We covered the departures for Spain all evening, but there were too many departing flights to cover them all. What have you heard about Lance?”
“A farmer about eighty miles west of here report
ed that a light airplane landed and took off again at a disused RAF airfield near his house. Two local police officers found a brand-new BMW motorcycle abandoned there.”
“You think it was Lance’s?”
“It was wiped completely clean of fingerprints,” she said, “and it was properly registered to someone in London. We’re checking it out now, but who else would abandon an expensive motorbike at an old airfield and wipe off the prints?”
“I doubt if he’s coming back for it,” Stone said.
“The police are keeping a watch, to see if anyone picks it up.”
Stone sank into a sofa. “This hasn’t gone well, has it?”
Carpenter sat down next to him. “No, it hasn’t, but it’s not your fault; you were a big help. And you’ve lost all that money.”
Stone raised a hand. “Please, don’t mention that again.”
“I’ll do what I can to get you reimbursed, but I’m not very hopeful. My management are very annoyed that we’ve let these people get away.”
“Can I give you a lift back to London?”
“I have to stay here, but I’ll walk you downstairs.”
They walked through the inn to the parking lot, and Dino got behind the wheel.
“I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing each other again,” Carpenter said.
“Oh, I don’t know; I might get to London, from time to time.” He handed her his card. “You might even get to New York.”
“Possible, I suppose. Let me give you a telephone number; memorize it, don’t write it down.” She gave him the number, then repeated it. “If you call that number at any hour of the day or night, you’ll hear a beep; leave a message for Carpenter, and I’ll get back to you when I can.”
“I’m sorry about the device,” he said.
“Spilt milk,” she replied. “They don’t have the electronics to make it work, and they don’t have the software—especially the software. It will take them months, hopefully years, to figure out how to use it, and by that time we’ll have something better.”
