When they reached the gate, Ben was again frustrated. There was no guard; the gate was the electronic type that opened when a passcard was inserted into the lock, and now it was closed. As the taxi pulled up to it, he saw the Cadillac drive past a hangar and onto the apron, where a white Falcon jet was parked.
The car stopped beside the aircraft. A uniformed chauffeur and a bulky guy in a light-colored suit got out and opened the rear doors. Two people emerged: a man in a lime green jacket and a woman with dark hair and long legs, carrying a small bag. The Falcon’s pilot and copilot stepped forward to greet them, looking snappy in short-sleeved white shirts and caps, and then the couple boarded the jet.
Tolliver sat where he was, watching. The chauffeur opened the trunk of the limo and he and the other man took suitcases out of it, setting them on the cement apron. There were five pieces, all large and apparently heavy. The men then loaded the suitcases into the Falcon’s aft luggage compartment, assisted by the crew. When the guy in the suit was finished with the bags, he too entered the passenger cabin. Ben figured him for a bodyguard.
Minutes later, the jet moved slowly out onto a taxiway, navigation lights on and engines whistling, and rolled toward the active runway. The chauffeur watched also, standing beside the car.
Tolliver slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand. “Goddamn it,” he said aloud. To come this close—
He turned to the cabbie and told him to drive to the control tower, pointing to it. The taxi sprayed gravel as they pulled away.
This time there was a guard—evidently a police officer, judging from the tan uniform. The guy was standing in the small patch of shade beside the door of the tower, asleep on his feet. There were dark crescents under the armpits of the uniform blouse and a heavy automatic rifle was slung over his shoulder.
As Tolliver got out of the taxi, he broke out his shield once more and barked at the dozing guard. The man’s eyes opened, and when he saw the gold, he looked as if he might pass out. He snapped to attention and saluted. Tolliver stepped past him through the door, returning the case to his pocket.
The elevator whisked him up to the large room atop the shaft, where three controllers were working at desks next to the tall windows. A radar technician was sitting nearby, monitoring a screen on which a number of blips were visible. Through the windows, Ben could see a Varig 737 landing and another commercial airliner taxiing out. The white Falcon was number one for takeoff.
As the Falcon was given clearance, Tolliver listened to the exchange on the loudspeaker between the controller and the pilot. He noted that the aircraft carried an N number, which meant it was under U.S. registry, not Panamanian.
The slim jet wheeled onto the runway, then surged forward as the engines went to full power. It streaked down the concrete ribbon and leapt into the air, climbing out at an impossibly steep attitude, as graceful as an arrow. Departure control ordered the pilot to fly a heading of 005 degrees, and then the aircraft was gone.
Ben waited until there was a momentary lull in the air traffic. Then he stepped over to one of the controllers, giving the guy one of his patented half-second glimpses of the gold shield. “That white business jet that just took off,” he said. “November one-three-six-two Charlie. Where’s it going?”
The controller picked up a telephone and pressed a button. He spoke briefly—to Flight Service, Ben assumed—listened, and hung up.
“He filed for PBI,” the controller said.
“Where’s that?”
“In the States … in Florida. PBI is Palm Beach International.”
60
Jan’s voice was a whisper. “It didn’t seem like much … in the beginning. We’d … have sex, and he’d be rough. He’d slap me, bite me.”
Peggy looked over her shoulder. People were walking by in the hallway—hospital personnel, other patients. She got up and closed the door, then returned to her sister.
“Who did those things to you?”
Jan shook her head. She had that taut expression on her face again, the jagged scar twitching, her eyes sunken deep in their sockets and shining with an odd light. “Don’t ask me that. I can’t tell you. I can’t tell anybody. He’d kill me.”
Peggy had learned not to push it. The thing to do was to be grateful Jan was talking and to let her find her own pace. “All right—go on.”
“He said it wasn’t anything, that he was only pretending. But after a while, he started beating me. With his fists. And then later with a whip.”
“How could you let him do that?”
The words began tumbling from Jan’s mouth, so rapidly that it was hard to understand her. “It just gradually got worse and worse. He started really hurting me. I didn’t know what to do. By then, I’d gotten in so deep. I had my own apartment and he was paying for it and buying me clothes, anything I wanted. Jewelry, anything. Even bought me a car.”
“I remember that,” Peggy said. “I didn’t know where it was all coming from, and you wouldn’t tell me.”
“I was … ashamed.”
“But why didn’t you—”
“What? Break it off, or go to the police? I thought about doing that, but I didn’t want to give up all the things I had. And to tell you the truth, I was scared. Then it got to a point where it didn’t matter so much.”
“Even though he was hurting you?”
“Yes. We were doing a lot of coke together. And this one time, he knocked me around until I was a bloody mess. I screamed and carried on, tried to hit him back. I was pretty hysterical, and it took a long time for me to calm down. He promised he’d take it easy, wouldn’t hurt me again. Then after that, he started bringing other stuff.”
“Other stuff?”
“Little glass tubes you break and inhale. He said it was amyl nitrite, and that it was harmless—just made the sex better. Pills, too. Red capsules he said were uppers. With the coke and all the rest of it, I’d get so high that I didn’t care what what was happening. It didn’t hurt anymore then—even when he burned me.”
“Burned you how?”
“With a cigar.”
Despite her resolve simply to listen, Peggy was horrified. “Jan, have you told Dr. Chenoweth any of this?”
“No! Oh God, no. I wouldn’t tell anybody except you.”
“But—”
“It’s too dangerous. I’m taking a terrible chance by talking about it at all.”
“You’re not taking a chance. You’re absolutely safe. And you have to trust the people who are trying to help you—if you’re going to get well again.”
“No! I’m not safe. You have to get me out of here. If he finds out—”
An idea came into Peggy’s mind. “Tell me something. Were you still working for the Cunninghams when all this began?”
Jan looked away, not answering.
Behind them, a knock sounded. The door opened and Jay Chenoweth stepped into the room. He smiled. “Hello there. How’s everyone doing today?”
“Fine, Doctor,” Peggy said. “We’re doing fine, aren’t we, Jan?”
She turned back to her sister. The intense expression on the thin features had disappeared. Jan’s eyes were dull and vacant, staring straight ahead, at nothing.
61
Tolliver caught American’s 998 out of Panama City with less than five minutes to spare. The trip to Miami seemed even longer than the one going down, probably because he was suffering from a severe attack of impatience. He had the circle now; he was sure of it. New York to Panama to Palm Beach, with Cunninghams on both ends. But the big question was as elusive as ever: What the hell were they up to?
In Miami, he went through immigration and customs and then connected with American Eagle’s 4:30 P.M. flight up the coast to Palm Beach International, arriving there at 5:10 P.M.
At this airport, customs was housed in a separate facility. He took a shuttle bus over to the one-story building that was the U.S. Port of Entry.
The man he spoke to was rumpled and congenial, an older
agent named Chuck Groening. Looking at Ben’s ID, Groening smiled. “Worked in New York a couple years myself, Lieutenant. You got no idea how happy I was to get out of there.”
“Maybe I can imagine it,” Tolliver said.
“Yeah, I guess maybe you could. Don’t get me wrong—down here it’s not all roses. There’s plenty of street crime, other problems. But nothing like what you guys have to cope with. And you can keep the winters. What can I do for you?”
“I’m interested in a private airplane that was due in earlier today from Panama. A Falcon, one-three-six-two Charlie.”
“Sure, got here a few hours ago. Handled it myself. What do you want to know?”
“Everything you can tell me. I’m trying to trace some people in a case I’m on.”
“Yeah, all right. Come on in the office.”
Ben followed him across the central area, where two other agents were inspecting bags.
This was a small operation. Despite the International part of its name, most of the flights that came into this airport were domestic. The others were from Canada and the Bahamas, infrequently scheduled.
As a result, the pace at customs was leisurely. Only about a dozen arrivals were waiting to go through at the moment, people wearing bright-colored casual clothing and looking relaxed and happy. Nothing like Miami, with its swarm of tired, sweaty passengers jamming the inspection counters at all hours of the day and night, after voyages from every part of the world.
“Here it is,” Groening said. Standing at his desk, he pointed to the listing in a logbook. “Three people. Mr. and Mrs. Tomas Aguila, and Pablo Chavez. Plus the pilot and copilot.”
“What were they carrying?”
“Just personal belongings. Mostly clothing, and some binders with business papers. A camera and a laptop computer. The lady had a jewelry case and a bunch of cosmetics.”
“How many bags?”
“Three. And the pilots each had a small valise and a Jepp case.”
“What’s a Jepp case?”
“They’re used to carry Jeppeson aerial navigation charts. And also plates showing instrument approaches for different airports.”
“And that was all the luggage on the airplane?”
The agent peered at Tolliver. “Tell you what, Lieutenant. Why don’t you let me in on what it is you’re looking for. That way, I could probably be more help to you.”
“I have reason to think they might be hauling something they shouldn’t have been. Contraband of some kind, but I’m not sure what.”
Groening frowned. “If they were, it couldn’t have amounted to much.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, we gave the airplane a good going over, and it was clean. If there’d been drugs on board, even small amounts, Lucy would have picked it up.”
“Who’s Lucy?”
In answer, Groening turned and made a smacking noise with his lips. A German shepherd jumped up from where it had been lying on the floor and trotted over to the agent, wagging its tail. The dog had been so quiet, Ben hadn’t noticed it.
Groening scratched the animal’s chin. “That’s a good girl. You didn’t smell anything, did you, baby? Have to be pretty slick to get past you. Now go on back over there and take your nap.” The dog returned to its place, settling down onto a small rug.
The agent turned to Tolliver. “Let’s face it, Lieutenant. If somebody’s a smuggler, the last thing they’re gonna do is come waltzing in here with a nice business jet, saying, Here we are; please inspect us. I don’t care what it is they’re running, drugs or anything else.”
“If not drugs, what else could it be?”
“Only other thing that’s important is jewels. There’s some of that, but not much. Emeralds, for instance, from Colombia. Drugs, though, are where it’s at. As you know, most of it comes into the big cities like Miami or New York, with mules carrying it. There’s thousands of those people, running back and forth all the time. I’d say the DEA intercepts maybe ten percent of the dope, if that much.”
“Still, plenty comes in on private airplanes too though, right?”
“Oh yeah. Mostly from the Bahamas, but they don’t land here. They’re small airplanes that put down on country strips. With so many square miles of ocean, there’s no way the Coast Guard or the DEA can patrol it all.”
“Getting back to the Falcon.”
“Uh-huh. I hate to disappoint you, but that flight was totally legitimate.”
“And you’re sure of that?”
Again Groening pointed to the log. “See here? They followed exact procedures for a private jet coming in from a foreign country. Faxed us a a complete rundown a week ago, stating the aircraft type and registration and their ETA. Also gave the names, addresses, nationalities, and dates of birth of everybody on board. If any of ’em had a record or there was any other reason to deny entry, computer would’ve spit it out for us. But there’s nothing on any of ’em. So now tell me—they look like smugglers to you? Or any kind of criminals?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Sorry, Lieutenant.”
Tolliver wasn’t ready to give up. “This says the Aguilas and Chavez are Panamanian and the pilots are U.S. citizens.”
“Correct.”
“And the aircraft is registered in the United States.”
“That’s right.”
“Can you tell me who owns it?”
“Not offhand, but I can find out.” He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a directory. “The FAA office in Oklahoma City can give us that.”
Ben waited while Groening made the call. The agent spoke to someone and then waited for a few minutes. He made notes on a pad, said thanks, and hung up.
“Belongs to the Amvest Corporation. Four-twenty Park Avenue, in New York.”
Amvest. Why was the name familiar? An instant later, Ben had it. Amvest was one of the companies owned by Cunningham Mining.
62
Daylight was gone now and there was a light breeze. The temperature was about seventy-five, Tolliver guessed, much more comfortable than last night’s steam bath in Panama City. He got back on the shuttle and returned to the main terminal, where he rented a small Chevy sedan at the Hertz counter. As he took the keys and the contract, he asked the girl where private planes were parked. On the south side of the airport, she said, and told him how to get there.
At least a hundred airplanes were on tie-down, most of them small and with single engines. There were also several crop dusters and a half dozen ancient DC-3s that were being operated by some airline he’d never heard of, as well as rows of private jets, parked in front of a complex of hangars run by Butler Aviation and Bizjet. Spotlights illuminated the area, which was accessible by a number of open gates.
Locating the Falcon was easy. It was standing between a Lear and a Citation, its distinctive profile unmistakable, and he picked out the N number as he approached. He parked the Chevy in front of an administrative office attached to the hangars and went inside.
A young woman behind the counter asked if she could help him. He identified himself and inquired how he could get in touch with the pilots of one-three-six-two Charlie. She looked in her book and said she had no local contact; charges for fuel and services were being billed to a company in New York.
He thanked her and went back outside. Lights were on in one of the cavernous hangars and he could see a mechanic standing on a platform, working on one of the engines of a large corporate jet, a Gulfstream. He walked over to the platform and called up to the man.
The guy pulled his head out of the intake and looked down. He had short-cropped gray hair and a lined face. “Yeah—what is it?”
Tolliver held up his shield. “Police officer. Like to ask you a few questions.”
The mechanic drew a rag from the back pocket of his coveralls and wiped his hands on it. Then he came down the metal steps, continuing to rub grease off his fingers.
“What’s your name?” Ben asked.
There
was a look of wariness in his eyes. “Joe Bellamy.”
“I’m Lieutenant Ben Tolliver, Joe. You happen to know anybody who was on that Falcon out there—the one next to the Lear?”
Bellamy spoke with a corn-pone drawl. “Naw, I got no idea whose airplane that is. Folks who come in here, they like their privacy.”
“Then maybe you can just give me some general information, okay?”
“I was about ready to knock off. But yeah, all right.”
“Come on outside.”
They walked out to where the Falcon was parked. When viewed from a distance, the aircraft hadn’t looked as large as it actually was, probably because its lines were so graceful. Up close, it loomed above them, the white surfaces reflecting the glare of the spotlights.
“You familiar with this type?” Ben asked.
“Sure. I done a lot of work on ’em.”
“Then tell me something. Suppose you wanted to hide something in a plane like this. Nothing too big, but say a couple of suitcases. Would that be possible?”
Bellamy looked at him sideways. “I don’t know if I—”
Tolliver held up a hand. “Let’s just say it’s hypothetical, okay? Could you do it?”
“It’d be easy.”
“Why is that?”
“On account of this airplane has got a hellhole.”
“A what?”
“Back there in the tail, just forward of the stabilizer, there’s an empty space. It’s called a hellhole, but don’t ask me why. Lot of airplanes’re built like that. You have to unscrew the cover off a bulkhead to get at it, but it’s there.”
“And you could put suitcases in that space?”
“Sure. Matter of fact, there’re a couple places like that in a Falcon. Another one’s just aft of the luggage compartment. How much weight we talking about?”
“I don’t know—but not more than a few hundred pounds.”
“Pilot’d have to trim the airplane a little, but it wouldn’t be any problem.” The mechanic squinted. “You think they might’ve been hauling dope?”
“Maybe.”
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