Brown, Dale - Independent 04

by Storming Heaven (v1. 1)

  When he was finished, one of his agents handed Landers a note. “We ID’d the woman killed in the raid,” he said. “Jo Ann Rocci, a.k.a. Jo Ann Vega, address, Newburgh, New York.”

  “That’s where the Marshals are headed to see if they can find Lake and Fell,” Hardcastle said. “This place and Newburgh look like Cazaux’s entire U.S. base of operations.”

  “I hope congratulations are in order,” Wilkes said as she examined the body, then ordered it to be zipped up and guarded, “but you still violated my procedures. I expected no less from you, Admiral Hardcastle, and I’m very disappointed with the Secret Service and the Marshals for letting themselves be led around by the nose by you, Admiral. Well, this will be your last cowboy stunt, Hardcastle, I promise you. We have a debriefing at the Justice Department, all of you. The Bureau takes charge of these bodies and this crime scene as of right now. Let’s go.”

  Stewart International Airport,

  Newburgh, New York That Same Time

  The roadblocks were still in place, but all cars were no longer being stopped and searched. The limousine driver simply showed the bored rent-a-cop an airport pass, and they were waved in. Things had definitely calmed down here at Stewart International Airport, and the commuter flights were flying again.

  To Harold Lake, it made perfect sense—Henri Cazaux abandoned Newburgh, so why not use it? So what if it had State Police, Army, Air Force, and FBI swarming all around it? Evading the authorities was Cazaux’s headache, not his. The presence of all these uniformed men gave Lake great peace of mind.

  Of course, being surrounded by his own personal security detail helped. Using a portion of the money he was skimming from the option contract deals he was doing for Cazaux, Lake had hired his own small, well-equipped army and air force. Starting with a new personal secretary—a beautiful statuesque redhead who could take Gregg dictation, type sixty words a minute, and had a Browning 9-millimeter automatic hidden in a holster beside her ample left breast—Lake had a new chauffeur and bodyguard, a new armored Lincoln sedan, inside and outside guards at his East Side apartment, a Gulfstream III jet with a six- thousand-mile range, and a ranch in central Brazil with yet another contingent of guards stationed there.

  All this security had cost him one-third of all the money he had skimmed from Cazaux over the past few weeks, but it was well worth it. Henri Cazaux was relentless. Many of these guards were nothing more than trip wires—their quick, silent deaths would hopefully alert the inner guards that Cazaux was on the hunt and closing in. Lake had no illusions about evading Cazaux—he just hoped that the world’s law enforcement authorities and his own security force would get Cazaux before he got too close.

  The first thing Lake had done when he bought the Gulf- stream was get the registration number changed and get it repainted, which guaranteed both that it would look different and would be out of sight until he needed it. He didn’t recognize the plane himself when they drove up to it, and he was about to question the driver when the chief of his security detail, a big, football-player tight-end-looking guy named Mantooth, emerged from it when the sedan pulled up. .

  The sedan stopped several yards away from the plane until it was quickly searched, then it pulled up right to the foot of the open airstair door. Mantooth stood in front of the sedan’s door, blocking the view of anyone from the main commercial air terminal, but he did not open it himself—‘Lake and Fell had to open their own doors. According to Mantooth, the bodyguards’ job was to stay on the lookout with their hands free to reach for their guns or subdue an attacker, not open doors or carry luggage. “Everything’s ready, Mr. Lake,” Mantooth said. “We’re ready to go.”

  “Then let’s go,” Lake said and quickly stepped aboard the aircraft. The doors were closed as soon as Fell stepped aboard. The big, roomy VIP interior of the Gulfstream already made him feel safe, and the increasing snarl of the bizjet’s two big turbofans and the sweet, husky smell of jet fuel helped to soothe his jangled nerves. Lake met the ship’s stewardess, a brunette named Diane, who led him to the big, light-gray-leather, fully reclining master’s chair on the right center side, buckled him in, and fixed him a Bloody Mary as the jet began to move. Ted Fell busied himself at the desk behind Lake, checking that the phone and fax machine were working. “Forget all that, Ted,” Lake said. “No one is going to call or fax us—that stuffs not even hooked up.”

  Fell looked at Lake as if he were surprised at his boss’s words; then, realizing he was right and that these phones had never been activated, fearing that Cazaux could easily find out about their escape plans that way, he averted his eyes to the richly carpeted floor and put his hands on his lap. “It... it doesn’t seem real,” Fell said. “We’re on the run. We’re never coming back.”

  “At least not as long as Cazaux, Townsend, or Ysidro are walking the earth—which hopefully won’t be for too long,” Lake said. “Just think of it as an extended and very, very secluded vacation, Ted. We’ll start developing our offshore banking and brokerage ties in a year or so, making sure that everything is numbered and convoluted enough so no one can trace the trading activity to us. We’ll be back in the trading pits before you know it. Meanwhile we work on our tans while—” Just then the big Gulfstream came to a stop, the engines wound down to low idle power, and the intercom phone beeped. Fell reached for it, but Lake picked it up. “What’s going on . . . ?”

  “Orders from the tower, sir,” the pilot said. “Takeoff clearances have been canceled for all flights. They’re ordering everyone back to the ramp.”

  “Why the hell are they doing that?”

  “Don’t know, sir,” the pilot responded. “I don’t see any police activity.”

  Lake knew why. He shot a murderous glare at Fell and said, “Damn it, Ted, the fucking FBI tracked us down.” “But how? I made the call from New York. No one knows about this plane or its location, Harold. Maybe we were followed from the city. What are we going to do?” “How the hell should I know? Let me think,” Lake said angrily. He searched out the large oval window near him, looking to see if any police were converging on them, but he was facing away from the main terminal. The Gulfstream was on the parallel taxiway approaching the end of the runway, with a United Airlines MD-80 the only plane ahead of them. On the intercom phone, Lake asked, “What are your instructions, pilot?”

  “All aircraft were told to back-taxi on the runway back to their original locations, sir,” the pilot responded. “We’ll be back-taxiing shortly and be back on the ramp in about five minutes.”

  “Are they blocking the runway?” Lake asked. There was a rather long, uncomfortable pause as the flight crew was obviously considering the possible ramifications of this question. Lake shouted, “Well... ?”

  “No, sir, nothing is blocking this runway,” the pilot finally replied.

  “Good. When that United Airlines plane gets out of the way, you will ignore all instructions from the tower and make the takeoff,” Lake said. “That’s an order.”

  “Sir, I can’t follow an order like that.”

  “If you don’t, I’ll come up there and shoot you in the back of the head,” Lake said as calmly and as truthfully as he could. He carried a gun, but he had fired it only once, several months ago, and wasn’t even sure if it was loaded. Mantooth, who was sitting in a seat near the airstair, heard Lake’s words but did not register any surprise at all—it looked as if it was okay with him if his employer shot the pilots.

  “Then I hope you can fly this plane, sir,” the pilot said, “without a windshield. If you shoot or try to open the cockpit door, we’ll stomp on the brakes, bust open the wind-, screens, jump out, and run like hell.”

  Lake obviously wasn’t very good at threatening anyone with bodily harm. “Okay, let’s try it this way,” Lake said. “Make the takeoff and I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Fifty thousand,” the pilot immediately responded.

  “Each,” the copilot chimed in.

  “Carter, Luce, you bon
eheads are getting paid plenty to fly this machine—do as Mr. Lake instructs you, or I’ll shoot you myself,” a deep, menacing voice said behind them. It was the chief of the security company, the bodyguard named Mantooth. “Take your seat, Mr. Lake.”

  “Are we taking off or not?”

  “My job is to protect you, Mr. Lake,” Mantooth said. “You’re assuming it’s the FBI or some other law enforcement agency out there, but I’ve seen no evidence of that. This airfield has obviously been compromised—whatever’s going on, I think you’ll be safer in the air than on the ground. We’ll deal with the FA A later. Now sit down and strap in. And if there’s a problem, let me know—there’s no reason for you to talk to the pilots. Is that clear, Mr. Lake?” Lake was very unaccustomed to taking orders from anyone, but he could do nothing else but nod silently at the big bodyguard—he obviously knew what he was doing.

  The Gulfstream moved up into the hammerhead, poised for takeoff as soon as the airliner ahead pulled off. Lake could just barely see the MD-80 leave the runway when the pilot lined the Gulfstream up on the centerline, spooled up the engines to takeoff power, and released the . . .

  . . . but suddenly Lake could see a bright light shining on the wing’s leading edges and on the pavement beside his jet, and even before the pilot again chopped the power to idle, he knew they weren’t going to make it. On the intercom, he heard, “Emergency vehicles on the runway, sir. We’re blocked.”

  Mantooth had drawn the biggest, meanest-looking automatic pistol Lake had ever seen from a shoulder rig, but Lake said, “Put it away, Mantooth, it’s the FBI out there. You have a permit for that, I assume?”

  “Of course, Mr. Lake, but you’d better let me—”

  “Put the gun in your holster and take off your jacket so they see your gun first thing,” Lake said. “Everyone stays . calm, everyone does as they’re told, no one resists, and no one, I repeat, no one says anything. Not a word. If they tell you you’re under arrest, you immediately say, ‘I want to speak with my attorney right now.’ Got it?” To the pilots behind the closed cockpit doors, Lake shouted, “Shut ’em down right here,” then he undogged the entry hatch.

  “No! Shut only the left engine down!” Mantooth shouted to the cockpit. He turned to Lake angrily: “Sir, you stay put. I’ll see what they want.”

  “This is my problem, Mantooth.”

  “No, it’s my problem,” Mantooth said. “You hired me to protect you, sir. I’m a practicing attorney here in New York State as well as former military. We cooperate, but you don’t have to expose yourself to danger or get your rights violated. Now, stay out—”

  “You’re a good man, Mantooth,” Lake said, “and your people are first-rate, but this shit started long before you came on board.”

  “Sir, you may have gotten yourself in deep shit, but now your problems are my problems,” Mantooth said. “If you have to surrender to the police, we’ll do it in a controlled, orderly manner.”

  “I need the government’s cooperation ... their protection ... to stay alive,” Lake said. “I have to give them whatever they want.”

  “Why do you need government protection, sir?”

  “It’s too complicated,” Lake said. “I. . . I’ve got to go out there.”

  “I said, stay put, and that’s an order,” Mantooth said. He nodded to Diane, the stewardess, who had produced a 10- millimeter automatic pistol from nowhere and was guarding the emergency exits, making sure no one came in from behind them. “I’m your attorney in New York State, representing you. You don’t have to say a word. Understand me?” Lake nodded—for the first time in a long time, he felt as if things were truly under control. Mantooth deployed the airstairs and stepped outside.

  A huge, boxy-looking aircraft with two huge helicopter rotors mounted on the tips of short fat wings—certainly not a standard little helicopter—hovered just a few hundred yards in front of the Gulfstream, shining a large searchlight right at them. It slowly began to descend onto the runway as a yellow-and-blue New York State Police cruiser with lights flashing sped onto the runway, turning around in front of the Gulfstream and parking about twenty yards in front of the jet’s nose. A lone trooper got out of the carr right hand on the butt of his service weapon, partially shielding himself with his car door. On the car’s PA speaker, he asked, “How many others in the aircraft?”

  “Five,” Mantooth shouted back.

  “Any armed?”

  “One, a private security employee.”

  “Have him, Harold Lake, and Ted Fell step out, hands in sight.” Mantooth turned and motioned toward the entry door—but instead of anyone stepping outside, the airstairs retracted and the hatch closed tight. “I said I want Lake and Fell out here—right now!” the trooper shouted.

  But Mantooth wasn’t watching the trooper—he was watching the approaching aircraft. He recognized it as a V- 22 Osprey, used by the Border Security Force for stopping drug smugglers a few years earlier. A door opened on the right side and several armed men got out. . . and at that same moment, both rear passenger doors on the State Police car burst open, two men rolled out carrying submachine guns, aimed their guns at the V-22, and opened fire.

  Mantooth pounded on the side of the Gulfstream and shouted, “Get out of here, now!” He drew his sidearm, but it was too late—he saw the red glint of a laser aiming beam flash across his eyes, and then the whole world turned black.

  The Gulfstream’s right engine roared almost to full power, and the nose did a tight pirouette to the right, the left wingtip barely edging over the roof of the sedan. Gregory Townsend, dressed as a New York State trooper, calmly reached into the front seat of the car, withdrew a LAWS (Light Antitank Weapon System) rocket, raised its sights, waited until the Gulfstream was about seventy yards away, aimed, and fired. The Gulfstream III bizjet exploded in a huge fireball, singeing the man’s hair and eyebrows with the heat. Townsend dropped the spent fiberglass launcher tube, ignored the heat, the destruction, and his two dead comrades behind him, calmly stepped into the sedan, and raced away. He was picked up by a waiting helicopter on the other side of the airport and was gone minutes later with no possible pursuit.

  The White House That Same Time

  The bedside phone was programmed with a gentle wakeup cycle: the ring started out soft and barely audible, and gradually rose in intensity, depending on the urgency of the call as determined by the White House operator. On all but a national defense-level emergency call, the President usually needed three or four good rings to wake up—but not the First Lady. At the first gentle buzz of the phone she was quickly and silently out of bed, her lean, agile body barely flexing the super-king-size mattress. By the second ring, without turning on a light, she had her Armani robe and slippers on and was all the way around to the President’s side of the bed. By the third Ting she had touched the acknowledge button on the phone and lightly touched her husband’s shoulder: “I’ll be outside,” she said simply, giving him a peck on the cheek as he struggled to shake out the cobwebs.

  The First Lady walked briskly across the bedroom, opened one of the double doors, and stepped out into the outer apartment, leaving the door partially open. Theodore, the President’s valet, was just showing a steward inside, carrying a tray with a pot of strong black Kona and walnut- covered pastries for the President, a pot of Earl Grey tea and cold cucumber slices for the First Lady, and a small stack of messages for the President’s immediate attention. A Secret Service agent stood by the door, hands folded in front of his body, casually scanning the outer apartment and occasionally talking into the microphone mounted inside his left sleeve, reporting to Inside Security that everything was secure. “Good morning, ma’am,” Theodore greeted her pleasantly.

  “Good morning,” the First Lady said distractedly. She immediately snatched the messages off the tray, sat down on the sofa, and began to read as the tray was placed on the table before her and her tea was poured. Theodore had been the White House valet for two Administrations now, and it was damned
unusual to be greeted by the First Lady when these early-morning crisis calls came in. Most First Ladies stayed in the inner apartment and waited for the hubbub to die down in the outer apartment and their own personal staff to arrive and brief them—not this First Lady. She always got up ahead of her husband, never bothered to dress before coming out, always helped herself to the messages from the Communication Center, and rarely waited for her husband to come out before making notes or phone calls or even going out to the Yellow Oval Room, the main living room in the center of the second floor, to talk to the Chief of Staff or whoever else might be out there waiting for a reply.

  “Anyone outside yet, Theodore?” the First Lady asked.

  “No, ma’am,” the valet replied.

  The First Lady picked up the phone beside the sofa. She heard the standard “Yes, Mr. President” from the operator, silently suffered the gender gaffe, and said, “Location of the Chief of Staff and the Deputy Attorney General.”

  “One moment, ma’am ... the Chief of Staff is en route, ETA five minutes. The Deputy Attorney General is also en route, ETA fifteen minutes.”

  “Ask the FBI Director, the Attorney General, and the Communications Director to report to the White House immediately,” the First Lady said and hung up. The word “ask” was, of course, superfluous—it was an order, not a request. Besides, the First Lady thought angrily, if the President had to be awakened, the damned staff had better be wide awake and in their seats by the time he was up. “You can go in and see to the President, Theodore,” the First Lady said without looking up from her reading.