The Last Witness

by W. E. B. Griffin

  “Yes, sir. Would you mind if we take a look inside your suitcase?”

  —

  Twenty minutes later, as John Garvey sat in a battered aluminum chair in a secure room near the baggage claim area, staring at his open suitcase on the steel table, the Philadelphia policeman sauntered in with another uniformed officer on his heels. The second man, wearing a jacket reading DRUG ENFORCEMENT ADMINISTRATION, was stocky and had an inquisitive look on his face. He stopped at the door and said nothing.

  Garvey looked at the Philly airport cop.

  “Sir, I am advising you that you have the right to remain silent . . .”

  Garvey, elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands.

  “He said they’d kill my family.”

  “. . . you have the right to an attorney . . .”

  VII

  [ONE]

  Philadelphia Northeast Airport

  Monday, November 17, 2:35 P.M.

  Nesfood International’s twin-engine Learjet—with Vice President (sales/marketing) Chad Nesbitt, Matt Payne, and Amanda Law aboard—had been descending through a thick layer of gray clouds for nearly ten minutes when it finally broke through the bottom.

  Matt looked up from the chess game on his laptop computer. He had been repeatedly toggling back and forth, playing the game, then going to the files on Maggie McCain when he thought of something, then going to the game.

  Back and forth—but getting nowhere.

  He saw that Chad, in a big reclining seat close to the cockpit bulkhead, was yawning and stretching after waking from a nap. Matt glanced at Amanda, who sat beside him on the leather couch reading a medical journal, then turned and looked out his window.

  Visibility was getting somewhat better, but the day had a gray winter gloom to it. Even the fresh snow on the ground, reflecting the cloud cover, looked pallid.

  Depressing, he thought.

  Which is fitting considering why we’re back.

  They were coming up the Delaware River, about to overfly the big international airport as they approached Philadelphia. He now could see more of the city than he expected—its sections spreading out in street grids of gray—and his eye automatically started to pick out landmarks.

  There were the soaring glass-sheathed skyscrapers of Center City. In their shadow, he saw the statue of Philly’s founder atop City Hall—Billy Penn is probably freezing his bronze balls off—and then he picked up the distinct shape of the Roundhouse near the Ben Franklin Bridge and, in the distance just beyond that, the Hops Haus high-rise condominiums in Northern Liberties.

  Farther up he could make out the rougher areas of Kensington and Frankford, their lines of row houses gap-toothed where dilapidated properties had been torn down. The vacant lots, Matt well knew, were thick with trash and dead weeds under the coat of snow.

  And very likely a dead body or two.

  This is the polar opposite view of the sunny tropics we saw after taking off in the Keys.

  How long is it going to take for us to get back?

  He felt Amanda, and the warmth of her body, lean into him.

  He turned and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

  She smiled as she kept looking out the window at the city.

  She’s clearly got a lot on her mind.

  After a moment he looked back out. He began to make out the long crossed strips of asphalt that were the Northeast Airport’s runways.

  As the aircraft slowed and the cabin filled with the hum of the hydraulics lowering the landing gear, he said, “We’re home.”

  “I love this city,” he heard her say, her tone wistful, “but I think I liked the view earlier better.”

  Matt nodded. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  A minute later she said, “I realize this may sound terribly rhetorical, but what if ‘on the run’ means she’s really on the run?”

  —

  While they had been driving to Key West International that morning, with Chad behind the wheel of his rental SUV, Matt received a telephone call from Will McCain. He announced that Maggie had just sent a new e-mail, and he wanted Matt’s address so he could forward it.

  Minutes later, after reading the e-mail on his cell phone, Matt showed it to Amanda:

  From: William McCain

  Date: 17NOV 0859

  To:

  Subject: FWD: I’m fine!!!

  Begin forwarded message:

  From: Maggie

  Date: 17NOV 0832

  To: Mother, Dad, Emma

  Subject: I’m fine!!!

  Hi!! I’m in a good place but on the run. More shortly. Promise! Love you!! Mag

  “You know her better than I do,” Matt said. “What do you make of it?”

  Amanda, handing back the phone, sighed heavily.

  “I have no earthly idea,” she said. “Everything and nothing? That’s her upbeat personality. And her wanting to be in control. She gets that from her father. Being orderly and in control. But if she’s in a good place . . .”

  “I don’t get it either,” Matt said. “But I can see the control thing. And see it being a problem.”

  “What did Maggie say?” Chad said, then added, “If I’m allowed to ask.”

  “Hell yes you’re allowed to ask,” Payne immediately replied. “We need to find her. Or at least find out what’s going on with her.”

  Payne read the e-mail aloud.

  “On the surface,” Chad said, “I’d say it sounds promising.”

  “Maybe,” Matt said, gazing out his window. They were driving down a narrow strip of island, the Overseas Highway down to just two lanes, and practically surrounded by water. “But like all that out there, there’s always something going on beneath the surface. Sometimes good, sometimes not. What could be the reason, besides control, that she won’t allow anyone to communicate with her?”

  Is she doing it because she can’t—someone’s not letting her—or because she thinks she shouldn’t?

  After a moment, he thought, Hell, if you don’t try, you don’t get . . .

  He turned to his cell phone and, after hitting a couple of keys, typed out and sent:

  From:

  Date: 17NOV 0910

  To: Maggie

  CC: SGT M.M. Payne

  Subject: Your safety

  Maggie . . .

  This is Matt Payne.

  It is critical that you and I communicate.

  As you should know, everyone is looking for you.

  I’ve been put on the job to ensure that you genuinely are safe. And, with the full force of the police department, to catch whoever is behind the attacks.

  We will catch them. But right now I need to establish your safety before this escalates into something worse than it already is.

  I can help you. I can protect you.

  But I cannot do it without communication. And an e-mail like you sent your parents isn’t enough.

  Call me. And if you feel you can’t call, please send real-time proof of how you are. Text or e-mail a photograph of yourself with today’s newspaper or a TV or Internet newscast — something that indicates you are okay right now.

  Please, Maggie, take these first steps so we can get your life back to normal. And give your family some peace of mind.

  M. M. Payne

  Sergeant, Homicide Unit

  Philadelphia Police Department

  215-555-1010—office

  267-555-4898—cell phone

  “Appealing to her sense of order might get her to respond,” Matt said, showing it to Amanda. “It’s likely a long shot. But sometimes they pay off.”

  —

  The aircraft banked, then lined
up with the runway.

  Matt discovered he’d left his telephone turned on for the entire flight when it suddenly vibrated at least five times in a row. When he looked at it, still vibrating, there were four new text messages and three new voice-mail messages stacked up. None were from Maggie McCain, and when he checked his e-mail, she had not replied there, either.

  There was an e-mail from Kerry Rapier. He reported that the e-mail Maggie McCain had sent to her family that morning was tracked back to an Internet Protocol address of a computer server in India.

  India! he thought. That’s nine, ten thousand miles?

  That’s more than on the run—that’s impossible.

  Kerry added that the server was a portal that had relayed the e-mail, effectively masking the originating address. No one believed it was credible that Maggie was there.

  Payne then read a text message from the yacht broker in the Keys that said he had the Viking and Matt’s Porsche secured as they had discussed.

  Matt replied: “Keep them both fueled—I’m back ASAP.”

  Who am I kidding? I’m stuck here.

  I’m going to have to pay a car hauler company to ship the 911 up.

  As he hit SEND the aircraft touched down with a chirp of tires.

  —

  Chad leaned over and pointed out Matt’s window as the Lear turned off the taxiway. Matt, who was listening to his voice-mail messages, looked. He saw that they were approaching a pair of airplanes being serviced by ground crew at the fixed-base operator. The closest was a slick white jet with a paint scheme that featured a pair of bright red gambling dice on its tail fin. The aircraft stood out, shining in the gray gloom.

  “There’s the casino’s Citation that was in Key West,” Chad said.

  They then saw a black man in a dark suit and black bow tie appear in the open doorway. He quickly pulled on a dark overcoat as he looked around the tarmac, then found a black Range Rover waiting nearby. He carried a pink-accented black suitcase down the stair steps and, somewhat strutting, tugged the luggage toward the luxury SUV. He looked visibly annoyed at having to walk around piles of gray snow slush.

  “Well, that’s not Nick Antonov,” Payne said, deleting a voice-mail message, then hanging up his phone.

  “That looks like Badde,” Chad said.

  Matt looked again. “You’re right. It is the distinguished councilman.”

  What is that bastard up to?

  He looked at Chad. “Did you see him in Key West?”

  Chad shook his head.

  Matt held his cell phone up to the window and took a photograph of the aircraft. As he did, an attractive young cocoa-skinned woman hopped out from the driver’s seat of the SUV. Badde gave her a quick hug and pecked her cheek as she barely slowed before going around and getting in the front passenger seat.

  “And there’s his lovely paramour,” Payne said.

  Amanda automatically looked out the window, said, “You’re bad,” and then unbuckled her seat belt and began stuffing the journal into her bag.

  After a minute, Payne said, “You know, even if you didn’t see him there, you would have heard about it. He likes to make his presence known.”

  “You’re right about that, Matt. I’m glad he didn’t find me.”

  “Well, when in doubt, go to the guru.”

  “What?” Chad said, then watched Matt hit a speed dial key on his phone.

  “Hey, Marshal,” Kerry Rapier answered on the second ring. “You home yet?”

  “Just landed. Quick question, Kerry. What’s the best website to track aircraft?”

  “Depends. What’s the tail number?”

  Matt looked out the window. “N6556TR.”

  “Hold one.”

  After a moment, Kerry said, “Yeah, this guy’s tried to block it.”

  “Block what?”

  “Block the ability to track the aircraft. Bigwig corporate types do it to protect themselves, or so they say. I like to first try the general websites, see if someone’s trying to hide.”

  “You’re a bottomless well of info. How do you know all this stuff?”

  “I worked for a while with our Aviation Unit at Northeast Airport. Those chopper pilots are full of tricks.”

  “You said ‘tried to block.’”

  “Yeah. Hold another sec. I have access to the FAA’s stuff. . . . Okay, here it is. The log shows it’s a Cessna Citation Ten twin-turbofan that just landed fifteen minutes ago on runway twenty-four at PNE. And, bingo, here’s why it was blocked. It’s registered to Lucky Stars LLP here in Philly.”

  “Right,” Payne said. “We knew it was the casino’s.”

  “So, what else do you want to know? I can tell you pretty much everything short of the stewardess’s bra size. Sorry. I believe the politically correct term is cabin crew’s bra size.”

  Payne chuckled. “Where did the flight originate? Key West?”

  “Nope. Dallas. Went wheels-up at Dallas Love Field at ten-fifteen local time. You want that in Zulu time?”

  “Dallas?” Payne repeated, looking at Chad, who shrugged.

  “Flight duration was right at three hours. Fourteen hundred seventy statute miles, most of the time at four hundred thirty-one knots and forty thousand feet.”

  “When did it get to Dallas?”

  “Hang on . . . okay, looks like last night. Landed twenty-fifty hundred hours local. Route was Key West to New Orleans Lakefront, then on to Dallas. Before that, it left PNE Friday morning for Key West.”

  Matt looked at Chad. “You landed at Key West last Friday morning.”

  Chad nodded as the Lear came to a stop and its engines began winding down.

  “Okay, Kerry,” Payne said. “I’m not sure what I learned. But thanks. See you in a bit. I’m begging a ride to the Roundhouse from my buddy.”

  “The party is going on here in the war room.”

  “Got it.”

  Payne ended the call, then said to Chad, “You’re a corporate bigwig type. Do you block your tail number?”

  “We don’t need to. We’re not a publicly traded company with everyone second-guessing our every business decision, including how we use our planes. Although I have to admit I agree with the activist shareholders who want true transparency from the hypocritical politicians screaming about carbon footprints—and sticking it to me to pay what essentially is a luxury tax on a business tool—while they’re secretly jetting around in corporate aircraft.”

  Payne grunted as he looked at the casino’s jet.

  “Transparency and politicians? Dream on, buddy.”

  [TWO]

  Locust Near Fifty-fifth Street, West Philadelphia

  Monday, November 17, 2:47 P.M.

  Dmitri Gurnov had slipped back behind the wheel of the Audi, which was parked a block down the street from the address that Ricky had said was the place called the Sanctuary.

  A three-story brick-faced building, the facility looked from the outside like a small apartment complex with an interior central courtyard. It was much bigger—maybe three times the size—than the two row houses on Girard Park that made up Mary’s House.

  Like Mary’s House, the Sanctuary had no signage that said what the facility was. It did have one reading RESIDENTS ONLY. NO TRESPASSING. SMILE! YOU’RE ON CAMERA! And, also like Mary’s Place, the intercom buzzer was answered by a woman well practiced at not answering questions, particularly those of strangers.

  Neither woman had admitted to knowing a Ms. Mac or a Krystal Gonzalez.

  And when he tried pressuring the woman at Mary’s House, saying he knew that Ms. Mac worked there, the woman sternly but calmly said that he had exactly ten seconds to leave the property or she would call the police and have him arrested for trespassing. And she began counting, Ten, nine . . .

  He’d used the first five of those seconds t
o quickly apologize if he in any way had offended her—then headed for his car parked around the corner.

  Sitting in the Audi now, he watched people coming and going from the Sanctuary building. They mostly were teenagers, both male and female, and the occasional adult with a child in tow. To enter the locked door, he saw that they used some sort of electronic card key.

  Getting inside the facility would pose Gurnov no challenge whatever—the teens, for example, were standing there and talking while holding the door wide open with no care in the world—but gaining entry would serve no purpose other than drawing the wrong kind of attention.

  What he needed was information.

  When he had asked Ricky if there were any other girls recruited from these two facilities, he’d said only the two who were gone.

  “What do you mean ‘gone’? They’re working in Florida or Texas?”

  “They were.”

  “And now?”

  “Now they’re gone. For good.”

  I should check on him.

  Gurnov’s go-phone vibrated. He looked at its small screen. It showed a text message from Julio:

  215-555-3582

  MULE AT BAG CLAIM

  Finally! Good news!

  Gurnov, waiting for an update, went back to watching the activity at the Sanctuary.

  Ten minutes later, Gurnov’s primary cell phone rang.

  He looked at it and answered in Russian: “Everything okay, Nick?”

  “I’ve been thinking. I need you to handle the product.”

  Product?

  “Okay. What is going on?”

  Gurnov’s go-phone vibrated. He read Julio’s update:

  215-555-3582

  MULE JUST LOST LOAD

  Gurnov blurted, “Shit!”

  “What happened?” Nick said, still in Russian.

  “Nothing. Just realized I lost something.”

  He texted back:

  LOST??? HOW WAS IT LOST?? ARE YOU SURE?

  It was a moment before Nick said, “Jorge Perez is up to something.”