Blackout

by Nance, John J. ;

  “Which way are you heading today?” he asked. His eyes traveled the length of her profile.

  “Oh, several places,” she replied.

  His eyebrows climbed a notch. “Ah, a woman of mystery!”

  “No,” she countered. “A woman of caution.” Interesting accent, she thought. Somewhat Germanic, but not quite.

  Kat tried to turn away, but the man was not ready to abandon his pickup attempt. “Excuse me for being forward, but may I introduce myself to you, so you won’t be concerned about talking to a stranger?”

  Kat turned back to him, convinced the odds of simply walking away were low. I’m a heat source in the sights of an infrared tracker and he’s not going to break lock easily. “You may introduce yourself,” she said, “but it won’t get you anywhere. I’m quite taken.”

  “As I am with you, dear lady. My name is—”

  “Excuse me.” Another passenger pushed between them to grab a newspaper as Kat shrugged and waved, turning to the counter to pay for the paper.

  The man with his left arm in a sling materialized beside her within seconds, waiting until she had received her change. “I never finished my introduction,” he said.

  She took his right hand and shook it in perfunctory fashion. “Hello, so glad to meet you. My husband, the angry and jealous mafia don, will not be so happy to meet you, so please go away and have a nice life while you can. Okay? Okay. Bye!”

  Kat could see Robert in her peripheral vision, approaching rapidly from the opposite direction, unseen by the man who was now smiling and shrugging.

  “As you wish,” he said, turning to go as Robert closed to within ten feet.

  Kat’s attention was on Robert, not the would-be suitor, but she sensed a sudden change as the man froze in place with his back to Kat, his head turned toward the oncoming reporter, his entire demeanor bristling.

  Robert came to a sudden stop five feet away with a look of surprise as he recognized one of the goons who’d tried to kidnap him in Hong Kong. Kat followed Robert’s startled gaze just as the assailant dropped his newspaper and thrust his right hand inside his coat.

  Robert yelled an unidentifiable word and pivoted, shooting off up the ramp toward the main terminal with the man in chase.

  Kat pushed through startled passengers to race up the main ramp through security, noting the startled look on the face of a police officer who had made no effort to follow.

  Robert disappeared around the end of a ticket counter as his pursuer crashed headlong into a phalanx of passengers, knocking them, and himself, to the floor. Kat was closing, but not fast enough, as the man leapt to his feet and took off again. Robert was racing up a stairway. He reached the top and disappeared to the left with the man in hot pursuit.

  Kat saw the man reach the top of the stairs and drop to a shooter’s stance as he pulled out his handgun, aiming down the upstairs hallway. She pushed herself as fast as she could, taking the steps two at a time as she closed on the man ahead, her right hand fishing in the cloth bag.

  The gunman was taking careful aim, and as she topped the steps, she could see Robert backed against a wall thirty yards away with nowhere to run. She ran straight for the assailant’s back, calculating her trajectory as she prepared to launch herself into him, her hand bringing one of the heavy platform shoes from the depth of the cloth bag.

  Robert MacCabe could see Kat descending on them at full speed with both hands held high over her head, her approach still unheard by the gunman.

  And he could see she wasn’t going to make it in time.

  Robert dropped to the floor, disappearing from the gunman’s sights and spoiling his aim. The barrel of the gun quickly descended toward him once more, but the slight delay had bought the two seconds Kat needed for a precisely timed, maximum-effort swing as she brought the heel of her sturdy platform shoe into the back of the gunman’s head with all her strength. The impact sent the gun clattering harmlessly to the terrazzo floor as the gunman crumpled in his tracks. Kat flashed by sideways, falling out of control and tumbling headlong into Robert as he sat on the floor ten feet beyond. He grabbed her as she fell, keeping her head away from the floor and absorbing her remaining speed.

  Together they sat in a heap on the cold terrazzo, panting against the river of adrenaline flowing through both their bloodstreams before either could speak.

  “Holy … mother of …”

  “Good Lord!” Kat gasped. “Who is that?”

  Robert told her as he helped her up, retrieving the man’s pistol. He checked that it was cocked and loaded before aiming it at the man’s head as Kat approached him.

  “Robert …” She panted. “Look in …” She swallowed hard, taking her purse off her shoulder. “Look in here, in the bottom, for my flex cuffs. Cuff him to that pipe over there.”

  Robert handed Kat the gun and complied, as she kept the gun at the ready.

  “Okay. Now frisk him. Look for ID in all his pockets.”

  The false FBI credentials fell into Robert’s hand. “Special Agent Dennis R. Feldman, according to this,” Robert said. “The picture matches. There’s no other ID.”

  “And I’ll guarantee you, if there’s an ‘Agent Feldman,’ this isn’t he.”

  Kat took the ID and the 9mm from Robert, emptied the bullets from the gun and stuffed them in her purse before placing the gun on the floor and kicking it to the far end of the hallway. She held up the platform shoe she’d used to clobber the gunman.

  “Those platforms are lethal!” Robert said.

  “Came in handy, didn’t they?”

  “Forget carrying guns,” Robert said. “Platform shoes should be standard FBI equipment.”

  “Yeah? Then you should try wearing them,” she teased, still breathing hard and fighting a bloodstream full of adrenaline.

  “I saw that clown hustling you,” he said. “I had no idea who it was, but I figured you needed a jealous lover to come to your rescue.”

  They began moving rapidly back to the stairs, then down to the main floor of the terminal, alighting just as two uniformed airport cops came rushing up.

  “Hurry!” Kat said, adopting a scared expression and pointing up the stairs. “They were fightin’ up there, and one of them guys has a gun.”

  The two officers raced up the stairs and Kat pulled Robert quietly around the corner to another security entrance. She quietly dumped the 9mm bullets in a trash can before passing through the metal detector.

  More police officers passed them, racing back from the concourse toward the gate area as Kat and Robert used an alternate route to return to the gate area just in time to board the flight.

  Kat took a window seat, and Robert slipped in beside her.

  “Damn,” Kat muttered.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t have you check him for a body pouch.”

  “He didn’t have another gun. I patted him down carefully.”

  “I was thinking of ID,” she said. She pulled out the satellite phone and punched in Jake’s number at FBI headquarters.

  “You need to call the Portland International Airport police immediately, Jake, and confirm that the man they found handcuffed in an upper hallway of the main terminal is a federal fugitive.” She filled in the rest of the story.

  “Did he see you, Kat?”

  “No.”

  Jake told her quickly of the director’s about-face.

  “Jake, that’s great, but make the call.”

  “It means we can support you, Kat. We’re not out trying to catch you.”

  “JAKE! Please! Make the call before they spring the guy.”

  “Okay. Will you call me back?”

  “When I can.”

  She disconnected and sat for a few seconds, trying to absorb Jake’s meaning. The cabin door was still open and the flight attendant was still required to allow cellular phone calls until it closed. The attendant was eyeing Kat carefully, obviously irritated by her outfit.

  “Will he do it?” Robert asked.
>
  Kat nodded. “Yeah, but they’re trying a new tack to suck me in. Now it’s all roses and light and the whole Bureau to support me.”

  “Could be true.”

  “Could be,” she said, still thinking, “but I can’t chance it.”

  A small beeping noise began in the depths of her purse, and Kat reached in to extract the nationwide pager. She read the message with a darkening expression.

  “What?” Robert asked.

  She handed him the pager.

  EMERG. MSG: KAT, ROBT MACCABE NOT WHO HE APPEARS TO BE. GET AWAY ASAP.TELL HIM NOTHING. REPORT YOUR INTENTIONS ON NEW LINE, 8009464646. JAKE RHOADES.

  Robert gave her a stunned look. “What’s this? Now I’m the enemy?”

  “That’s what Nuremberg wants me to think. This didn’t come from Jake.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She nodded. “He never signs his last name. That’s a standard procedure.”

  “So what does this mean?”

  Kat took a deep breath. “It means they’re closing in on my personal information. They’ve found my beeper and PIN numbers. The location of my uncle’s cabin won’t be far behind.”

  The lights began to refocus slowly as Arlin Schoen blinked his eyes, trying to recall where he was and why there was a terrible pain in the back of his head.

  He tried to sit up, but found his hands manacled by plastic cuffs. He looked up into the large black face of a scowling airport police officer with his hands on his hips. There were six other officers standing around.

  Someone got me from behind, he concluded, after quietly taking inventory of his body parts as best he could with his hands restrained.

  “He’s coming around,” the Portland Airport police lieutenant said, kneeling down to look into Schoen’s face. “Who are you?” the lieutenant demanded.

  Schoen made a show of taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. “Did he escape?”

  “Did who escape?”

  “I … was trying to apprehend a federal fugitive. I don’t know what happened.”

  “Yeah, sure. You were KO’d by a real federal agent, buster. We just got the call from FBI headquarters.”

  He shook his head. “Oh, hell! So they already know I lost him?”

  The lieutenant grabbed Schoen by the hair and lifted his head. “I’m going to ask you one last time, turkey, and then I’m going to get angry. What’s your name!”

  “All right. All right. I’m Special Agent Don Duprey, FBI, assigned to the Cincinnati office.”

  “Sure you are!”

  “If you’ll check beneath my right pants leg, you’ll find a pouch with my credentials, my passport, and even my shot record. What did you mean, I got KO’d by an FBI agent? I am an FBI agent.””

  The police lieutenant looked at his men and motioned to one of them to perform the search. The ID wallet and passport were precisely where indicated.

  “If …” Schoen breathed hard. “If you’ll take a moment to call the Cincinnati office, or even call Washington back, you’ll find I’m legit.”

  Unsure and off balance now, the officers helped Schoen to his feet as one of them radioed in the request. The dispatcher came back within five minutes with confirmation and a description, which was relayed to the lieutenant. The officers stepped away from the prisoner to talk while keeping a cold eye on him.

  “So now what do we do?” one of the officers asked under his breath.

  The lieutenant frowned and glanced at the prisoner. “We have a valid ID with a matching picture and FBI confirmation. Did anyone see this female agent Washington was talking about?”

  There were blank looks among the uniforms.

  “What was that name?” one of them asked.

  “Special Agent Katherine Bronsky,” the lieutenant replied. “That’s the agent Washington said cuffed this guy.” He surveyed his men. “Jim? Bill? You two were first here. Did you see anyone?”

  “Just civilians,” Jim replied as his partner nodded. “A girl and a guy were at the foot of the stairs.”

  “Could the girl have been Agent Bronsky?”

  “Hardly. She was a real piece. They don’t make FBI agents like that.”

  “Wait a minute,” the other one said. “That name. Wasn’t it a Bronsky they had on the news last night? The FBI agent who’s kidnapped a little boy?”

  “Yeah,” the other one answered, “that’s the same name, and I saw her picture, but the gal at the foot of the stairs bore no resemblance to that fed.”

  The police lieutenant sighed and shook his head. “Call FBI headquarters, get a description of this Bronsky, and see if it fits the woman you saw. If it doesn’t, we’re releasing this guy. I don’t want any hassles with the FBI, and I’ve got nothing to hold him on.”

  The answer came back within five minutes. The two officers who had arrived on the scene first listened carefully, then shook their heads simultaneously.

  “That definitely wasn’t her.”

  After being released with an apology and melting rapidly into the crowd, Arlin Schoen found a phone and punched in the direct 800-number to his command post.

  “I thought you were on the way back here, Arlin.”

  “I was waiting for the Vegas flight when I spotted MacCabe.” He snapped off a quick description of what had occurred.

  “Was Bronsky with him?”

  “I don’t know, but I suspect she was the one who clubbed me from behind. Someone did.” He rubbed his head. “I haven’t a clue where they’re headed.”

  “I do” was the response.

  chapter 43

  STEHEKIN, WASHINGTON

  NOVEMBER 16—DAY FIVE

  11:50 A.M. LOCAL/1950 ZULU

  The sound of his own breathing was a comforting counterpoint to the “schuss” of his skis as Warren Pierce settled into a comfortable pace. The snowfall the night before had been minimal, but the snowpack through the fields on either side of the main road was substantial and satisfying. It was crystal days like this, he thought, that made cross-country skiing so invigorating—crisp air in his lungs and the blur of evergreens on each side making the valley his own special world.

  Another of the summer cabins passed by to his left, a familiar sight to any Stehekin resident. That one is the Caldwells’ place, he thought, absently letting his eyes wander from the snow-covered roof to the contrail of a distant airliner tracing a feathery exclamation point in the sky above Lake Chelan.

  He rounded another bend and crossed the road, trending toward the river. The substantial old log house ahead had been there all his life, and it loomed into view on schedule, the usual wisp of steam curling from the heater vent on the roof.

  Warren stopped, unsure why, but something about the cabin was wrong.

  Why is the door open?

  Warren moved closer, keeping himself within the tree line to the north side as he took in a shuttered window to the left of the open door. There was no sign of life.

  A breeze moaned through the evergreens overhead, and the front door swung open even farther with a mournful creaking that startled him. He could see an overturned chair inside, but there were no lights visible within.

  A cold feeling of apprehension began to move up his spine, an unreasoned desire to turn and go, but he tried to overrule the feeling and will himself to look more closely. Don Donohue was the caretaker. He checked it every day. How could the front door be swinging open?

  Warren forced himself to ski in to the front yard, his eyes taking in shards of broken glass and footprints in the muddy snow by the porch—as well as something by the door that looked red, like blood.

  Warren turned and skied toward the road as fast as he could, turning toward the ranger station and the dock, propelled by a mindless fear. Someone needed to investigate, and that someone was not going to be him.

  ABOARD A HORIZON AIRLINES DASH 8, IN FLIGHT, FORTY MILES EAST OF PORTLAND, OREGON

  Kat had watched the south side of Portland International Airport flash past and drop awa
y as the DeHavilland Dash 8 lifted into an overcast sky from Runway 10 Right. Like the instinctive act of a blue heron lifting off a lake and pulling its long legs up behind it, the spindly landing gear of the Dash 8 retracted backward and tucked itself into the underside of the wing-mounted turboprop engines, leaving Kat with a spectacular view. High-wing aircraft were well suited to daydreaming passengers, she thought. Especially smaller ones flying at lower altitudes over the lush Pacific Northwest landscape of manicured golf courses and a carpet of forest.

  The verdant hills to the east of Portland were moving sedately past as the Dash 8 climbed through the bottom of an overcast, turning the world outside into an endless field of milky white. Her view diminished to the right engine pod and the faithfully churning jet-driven propeller.

  In the forward cabin the lone flight attendant was preparing her tiny rolling bar for the drink service, when the sound of a ringing cellular phone reached her ears. Her attention snapped to the flashy blond in a midcabin window seat. She left the galley immediately and moved swiftly to row eight, reaching out just in time to catch the ringing phone before the excessively blond passenger could raise it to her ear.

  “You’ll have to turn that off, Miss.” she commanded, happy with the authoritative tone in her voice. The surrounding passengers were turning out of curiosity, but that was fine. The woman deserved some communal condemnation.

  But the passenger fairly yanked the phone from the flight attendant’s hand, placing it to her ear as she fished for something in her handbag.

  “I said, TURN THAT THING OFF!” the flight attendant commanded.

  The blond’s left hand whipped out a leather wallet and flipped open a badge and an ID that the flight attendant recognized as the emblem of the FBI. She nodded and backed up the aisle in confusion, pulled out a key, and entered the cockpit.

  Kat replaced the ID and hunched over, straining to hear Jordan James’s voice. “Are you sure, Jordan?”

  “I need a rendezvous point, Kat. I need to talk to you in person as soon as possible. I have a plane ready to fly me out to the coast tonight, wherever you are.”

  “I’m … not on the coast. I mean, I’m not that far. There’s someone I’m trying to find and interview. I’d rather not say who, or where, just in case.”