High Flight

by David Hagberg

  “Has Guerin thought about recalling its own airplanes?”

  “I think they’ve discussed it,” Carrara replied.

  “But they’re going ahead with Sunday’s flight, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So in effect, what you’re saying to me is that you think McGarvey is getting the shaft from us. Which means that you’ve been in contact with him.”

  “That’s right, General.”

  “Which is why I placed you on administrative leave. Nothing I’ve heard this morning makes me regret that decision.” Murphy’s attitude hardened. “McGarvey’s going to take the fall this time. Watch out that you don’t go down with him. I’m sure that you’ve already broken a few laws.”

  “You won’t speak to the President?”

  “No.”

  “And you won’t let McGarvey come here to explain what he’s doing?”

  “You’re a good man, Phil. Back away from this now, while there’s still the chance.”

  It was about what Carrara had expected. The Murphy of a few years ago would have listened. “Thanks for your time, General. I think we’ll talk again on Monday.”

  Murphy’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I believe we will.”

  Sam Varelis compared the findings from the 1990 American Airlines crash with the Dulles crash last week, for the fourth time in as many days, amazed that he had been so blind. That everyone else on his staff at the NTSB was so blind.

  Both crashes were apparently caused by the same set of physical circumstances. In both crashes the same section of the port engines received the same heat damage, causing the same catastrophic failures. Exactly the same. In both crashes. But that was a statistical improbability, if not impossibility.

  Mueller arrived back at the Sterling farmhouse before noon. All that was left to do was plant the remaining three repeaters at JFK, La Guardia, and Dulles. There was plenty of time for that. In fact everything was on schedule.

  He parked in the garage and went in through the kitchen. The house was quiet. Although someone had done the dishes the place stank of food odors mingled with an electronic smell, the acrid stench from the fire, and something else that smelled like wine. A few more days and he would be away from here.

  “Louis?” he called from the stair hall.

  “Up here.”

  Mueller left his bag downstairs and went up to the front bedroom where Zerkel was stretched out with a pillow on the floor. Several empty wine bottles were lined up in front of the window. “Are you celebrating?”

  “Damned straight. The deed is done. What do you think about that?”

  “You found a way to get into Tokyo Bank’s computer?”

  “It was a snap.” Zerkel sat up and got unsteadily to his feet. “Mr. Reid has got a horseshit wine cellar, I’m here to tell you.” He rubbed his temples. “Headache. But I fixed his ass. Now he’ll have to start his collection all over. I busted every fucking bottle down there.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be grateful to you,” Mueller said. “Is he here?”

  “I haven’t seen him since yesterday,” Zerkel replied. “What about the repeaters?”

  “Three to go, which I’ll do tomorrow. Are you certain that everything will work?”

  “You can do it from a pay phone, man. I’ll give you the Tokyo number and access code. Soon as their tone comes on line, whistle and it’ll happen.” Zerkel gave a short whistle. “Like that.”

  “Brilliant,” Mueller said, and he sincerely meant it. The man was a genius. It was a shame he had to be killed. Mueller could think of any number of uses for him. “Get some rest now. You’ve earned it.”

  “I want out of here.”

  Mueller looked mildly at him. “When?”

  “I don’t care. Just as long as it’s before Sunday.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “Buenos Aires,” Zerkel said firmly. “And I want a million dollars in cash.”

  “All right.”

  Zerkel was surprised. It showed on his face. “Just like that?”

  “You’ve kept your end of the bargain. I’m sure Reid will keep his. After all, he’s going to make a lot of money. A million is very reasonable.”

  “Will you talk to him?”

  “Soon as I clean up and get something to eat. You might even be able to leave tonight. Or certainly first thing in the morning.”

  “Christ.”

  Mueller smiled. “What do you think about that?”

  Carrara parked behind the Georgetown Holiday Inn, locked his car, and walked back to the gray windowless van parked two rows away. He got in the passenger side. Roy Ulland, an operative from the Agency’s Technical Services Division, was behind the wheel. He was a slightly built man with fair skin, blond hair, and huge, drooping moustaches. They headed out immediately.

  “Hello, boss. You’re late.”

  “I put JoAnn on a plane for Montpelier, and it was late taking off,” Carrara explained. He was sending his wife to Vermont to be with her sister through the weekend. “Did you run into any trouble?”

  “No. He has three incoming lines. One for his fax machine, one that didn’t answer this morning, and a third that transfers calls to the Lamplighter offices at the Hyatt.”

  Carrara studied the younger man. “If this goes bad I won’t be able to do much for you. Still time to back off, Roy.”

  Ulland grinned. “You’ve bailed me out before. I figure it’s payback time. Besides, this is my job, remember?” He was, in addition to being a good second-story man, a barroom brawler. Carrara had taken a liking to him because of his expertise, his easy manner, and his loyalty, and had gone to bat for him more than once with the D.C. police and with Personnel.

  “Just so you know. Okay?”

  “Piece of cake, boss.”

  They pulled up on 29th Street around the corner from Reid’s house. From where they were parked they could see anyone entering or leaving the driveway. Daylight operations like this made Carrara nervous. But if McGarvey’s timetable was correct, they were running out of time, and they would have to take chances.

  “How do you want to work this?” Ulland asked.

  “Let’s establish where he is first. If I can stall him on the phone while he’s away from the house, it’ll give you a chance to get inside, plant a few bugs, and make a quick pass for anything on Japan, Guerin, or the two Germans.”

  “What are you going to say to him?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “It’ll sure as hell shake him up.”

  “That’s the idea, Roy,” Carrara agreed. “Let’s try his house number first.”

  Ulland swiveled his driver’s seat aft, handed Carrara a handset, then flipped a switch on a console that brought up a dial tone on a speaker, and entered Reid’s number on a keypad. It rang five times. “He’s still not home.”

  “Try the rollover number. He’s probably at his office.”

  “Right.” Ulland broke the connection, but before he could enter the second number it rang. “He’s got an incoming.”

  “Trace it.”

  “Just a minute. There’s a privacy screen on it,” Ulland said.

  The call rolled over on the second ring and was answered on the fourth. “Good afternoon,” a woman said. “Thank you for calling the Lamplighter. How may I direct your call?”

  “Out of state,” Ulland whispered, as the number came up on a display. “Sterling, Virginia. Just across the river.”

  “Let me speak with Mr. Reid,” the caller said.

  “Who may I say is calling, sir?”

  “Tom Reston.”

  “One moment while I connect you.”

  “German accent?” Carrara asked.

  “Maybe,” Ulland replied. “Okay, it’s rural. Billing is to a P.O. box here in Washington. But the line location shows a fire number. I’ll bring up a map.”

  Reid came on the line. “Are you back?”

  “Yes. Our friend is finished. He wants his money a
nd the means to get out.”

  Reid was silent for a moment. When he came back his tone was guarded. “Can you … take care of it.”

  “You need to talk to him. He still has his safety procedures in place. He’ll need to be convinced of your sincerity.”

  “I’ll come out within the hour.”

  “With care,” the caller cautioned, and he hung up.

  “Got ’em,” Ulland said. He’d brought up a map on a computer console. It pinpointed the house. “South of Sterling, and east of Highway 28. Just off Highway 7. Looks remote. Maybe a farm.”

  Carrara studied the map, a sudden chill playing up his spine. “Less than five miles as the crow flies from Dulles. Line of sight.”

  “Maybe we’d better take a look,” Ulland suggested.

  “Good idea.”

  From where McGarvey was seated in the Grand Hyatt’s lobby he could watch the elevators. Shortly before one, Reid came down in an obvious hurry. The man had spent much of the evening at the State Department and then had come directly here to his offices. McGarvey had booked a room and kept watch from the stairs on the Lamplighter’s floor until this morning. He got up and headed across the lobby.

  Ryan switched off the tape recorder. “He can be charged under the Secrets Act. Trial in camera.”

  “He’s the Deputy Director of Operations, Howard. I can definitely see his point of view, even though I think he’s wrong. But he and McGarvey have both served this Agency well,” Murphy said. He suddenly wondered if it was such a hot idea taping his conversation with Carrara and sharing it with Ryan.

  “Well, you warned him.”

  “Yes, I did. I’ve trusted Phil’s good judgment for a number of years, and he’s never let me down. He knows the score. And he knows the limitations imposed on him because of his position. But we’re not going to take any action against him unless and until he steps over the line.”

  “I think you’re wrong, General.”

  “As always, I appreciate your candor. But this time I’m going to overrule you. I’ve relieved him from active duty for the time being, which cuts him out of the mainstream.”

  “He’s got plenty of friends here. I’m sure he’s still plugged in to everything that’s happening.”

  Murphy didn’t like the petulant note in Ryan’s voice. “Nonetheless, he’s still a top-level administrator with this agency. And he’ll continue to have our trust and support. I expect that I’ve made myself clear.”

  John Whitman was summoned to the FBI director’s office after lunch. His people had worked hard on the Guerin case (as it had come to be known) for the past ten days, but they were still stymied by a lack of hard evidence. The State Department and White House had warned them away from Edward Reid, and now the CIA was dragging its feet about Kirk McGarvey. He was going to talk to the director to approach the Attorney General again for a little slack. Without some leeway they simply could not do their jobs. It was aggravating, he thought, and he was tired of giving his people excuses when they needed answers. The director’s secretary passed him inside immediately.

  “I know that look on your face,” FBI Director John Harding said. “But this time you don’t have to say a thing. The CIA has agreed to cooperate.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “The A.G.’s office is preparing a warrant for McGarvey’s arrest on obstruction of justice and industrial espionage. But you’re going to have to take it easy, John. All we’ve got is circumstantial evidence for the most part, and you’ve seen his file. I don’t want anyone hurt.”

  “I understand.” Whitman could hardly contain himself. McGarvey might not have all the answers, but he’d be a start.

  “Get your people ready, and I’ll let you know when we have the paperwork in hand.”

  Phil Carrara and Roy Ulland headed out of Washington through Arlington toward the rural Sterling address that had come up on the computer-generated map. They’d tried to contact McGarvey at Dominique’s Watergate number without success, which bothered Carrara, especially after his talk with the General this morning. If Mac were taken out, Carrara thought, they’d lose. Simple as that. He didn’t carry a weapon and neither did Ulland. But he didn’t really think they’d need to be armed. They were just going to take a look. If they needed reinforcements they’d call for them.

  McGarvey watched in his rearview mirror as the white Toyota van with darkly tinted windows came up the ramp to the Washington Memorial Parkway behind him. He thought it was the same car that had followed him from the Hyatt over to Reid’s Georgetown house. He’d not slept in the past thirty-six hours, and he knew that his judgment was affected.

  Reid’s gray Mercedes was three cars ahead, and following him was easy. His trail could be picked up at anytime either from his house or from the Hyatt. But whoever was in the Toyota was a different story. McGarvey was betting that they were Japanese. But who were they following, him or Reid? If it was Reid, it meant that the former State Department official was somehow involved with the Dulles crash. Or at least the Japanese thought he was and were investigating him. If not, it meant they were Kamiya’s people sent to finish the job that had been started in Tokyo. If that were true it could mean that he was getting close, which led again back to Reid. The arguments were circular, and therefore worthless.

  A few miles north, Reid turned off the parkway and headed west on State Highway 123 toward the back entrance to the CIA. For a brief moment McGarvey had the wild notion that Reid was working with the Agency and that all this was some sort of gigantic setup engineered by the General and Howard Ryan. But the Mercedes passed the access road without slowing and a couple of miles later turned east, toward the airport, on the Dulles Airport Access Road.

  It was possible that he had gone home to pack a suitcase and was booked on a flight somewhere. If he were involved with the Dulles crash, and with whatever was going to happen on Sunday, he would want to get out of Washington or even the country until the dust settled. But that wasn’t right. If Reid were going to end up the Monday-morning hero he would have to stick around.

  Perhaps he was going to the airport to meet someone, or perhaps he wasn’t going to the airport at all. There were several other exits from the access highway before Dulles.

  McGarvey drove past the ramp Reid had taken, crossed under the highway, and turned up the westbound ramp, back toward the city.

  He looked in his rearview mirror. The Toyota passed the east ramp, and as he merged with traffic on the highway, it was two cars behind him.

  One question was answered.

  “I think I was followed part of the way out here,” Reid said. He was agitated.

  “But not here to the house?” Mueller asked. They watched the highway from one of the front bedrooms. No one had come up the driveway.

  “It was a blue Saturn. Followed me from the Hyatt to Georgetown, then as far as the Dulles highway. But it turned off.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “Maybe,” Reid said uncertainly. “I only got close enough once to see that there was only the driver. And it was a rental car. The Bureau doesn’t operate that way.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not sure of anything,” Reid snapped. “But if I am being followed, and it’s not the Bureau, then who? The CIA?”

  “It doesn’t matter. If someone shows up out here, we’ll be ready for them.”

  “I’m getting out of here tonight,” Zerkel said from the doorway. “Did you bring my money?”

  “As a matter of fact I did,” Reid said, turning away from the window. “But first we’re going to discuss your safeguards. They’ll have to be neutralized.”

  “What guarantees will I have—?”

  “You’ll have a million dollars in cash, and my word, Louis. Isn’t that enough?”

  Zerkel teetered on the brink of insanity. His eyes were wild, and his lower lip twitched. He nodded finally. “I want to see it first.”

  “Very well,” Reid said. “The money is downstairs.”
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  “Kan-cho on the bridge,” the XO announced.

  “As you were,” Seiji Kiyoda said. All his best officers were present, he noted with satisfaction. He glanced at the clock. It was 0300 local. A steward handed him a cup of tea.

  “We’re ready,” Minori said.

  “Very well,” Kiyoda answered. He stepped back into the sonar room. “How’s it look on the surface?”

  “Pretty rough, sir.” Chief Sonarman Tsutomu Nakayama brought up one of the displays. “Lots of surface clutter. I’d say they’re sailing into forty-knot winds or more, six- to seven-meter seas. But it’s hard to hold any target.”

  The crewmen aboard the American destroyer would be fatigued fighting the storm, and their important officers would probably be asleep at this hour. The Samisho, on the other hand, cruised in comfort seventy meters beneath the surface, and her important officers had been ordered to rest for the last twelve hours.

  “How far back are they?”

  “Twenty-five thousand meters. Same course and speed.”

  “They remain in passive mode?”

  “Yes, Kan-cho. They go active only when we shut down.”

  Kiyoda studied the displays. “Anything else out there?”

  Nakayama brought up another display. Barely visible in the waterfall were a series of straight-line dots. “I think it’s an oil tanker. One hundred thousand meters plus, to the south-southwest. She’ll be out of our range within the next couple of hours. No designation.”

  “Then it’s just us and Sierra-Zero-Nine. Keep a sharp eye for anything else coming up behind him. They may have called for help.”

  “Aye, aye, Kan-cho.”

  Kiyoda returned to the control room, and brought their present course, speed, and depth up on his command console, then overlaid that data on a chartlet of their operational area. Their speed-of-advance had steadied to ten knots on a course just west of south that would allow them to clear Amami-O-Shima Island and the off-lying reefs and islets. The waters here were treacherous, alternating between very deep and very shallow. Even experienced sailors could come to grief here because of the many uncharted shoals and dangerous currents.