Capital Crimes

by Stuart Woods

  “Yeah, whatever I give them, the computer will give me something else.”

  “Right. Have a good flight.”

  “Bye.”

  Ted was at Manassas Airport by five o’clock, and he entered, as usual, through the back gate, using his card. He drove not to his usual hangar, but to a T-hangar in the row next to the runway. He parked the RV, opened the hangar door, disconnected the battery charger, and, using a tow bar, moved the Cessna 182RG out of the hangar. He drove the RV into the hangar, then moved a lot of gear from the RV to the airplane and closed the hangar door. The monthly rental for the hangar was paid by an automatic bank draft, so it would be years before anybody found the RV. He might even be able to come back for it, eventually.

  Using a flashlight, he carefully performed a preflight inspection, then got into the airplane and started the engine. He called clearance delivery and got a better clearance than he would have thought possible, up to New York, across LaGuardia, then Connecticut, and on to Manchester. Ten minutes later he was rolling down runway 34 left.

  The flight was wonderful, and he felt as if he were leaving one life and finding another. He landed at Manchester, and while the Cessna was being refueled, engaged the girl at the counter in the FBO in conversation long enough to plant in her mind the information that he had flown up from Georgia and was on his way to Canada. Then he took off again, without filing a flight plan and with his transponder off.

  He flew north at three thousand feet, until he was sure that no one could see him from Manchester Airport, then he turned northeast and flew toward the Kennebunk VOR, then, after that, direct toward five, seven, bravo—Islesboro Airport. His route took him along the coast in bright sunshine, the last of the autumn color showing bright gold below him. Toward the end of his trip he detoured over Owl’s Head Airport, at Rockland, and had a good look for government helicopters or airplanes. All he saw was a single corporate jet and a lot of light aircraft tied down. He then flew up the coast past Camden, low, at a thousand feet, to Lincolnsville, where he checked out the ferry parking lot for black Suburbans, Humvees, or other government-type vehicles. There were only three vehicles in the lot, all ordinary-looking, and they were waiting for the ferry, which was just leaving Islesboro for Lincolnsville, on its winter half-schedule.

  He picked up a little altitude, then flew over to Islesboro at two thousand feet, first checking out the harbor and the coastline for a Coast Guard cutter. There were few boats moored or docked and none that were threatening. He then flew up the eastern coast toward North Islesboro, checking for anything suspicious. There was one lobster boat motoring up the coast, with two men in the cockpit besides the driver, and he took note of that, but wasn’t worried about it. He flew past his house and saw nothing that alarmed him. Somebody was camping in the woods a few hundred yards from the cottage, but, even though it wasn’t the best time of the year for it, it wasn’t all that unusual. He saw no vehicles, which meant they must have hiked over from the ferry.

  His inspection completed, he flew away to the northeast toward the Bar Harbor airport.

  Kinney’s cell phone rang. “This is Jack.”

  “Jack, we’re calling from camp. If anybody’s in the barn, he’s sleeping late. We’ve been listening and haven’t heard so much as anybody breathing.”

  “Keep listening.”

  “Another thing, an airplane, a Cessna, flew over a couple of minutes ago and had a look at our camp.”

  “Yeah, I saw him. He had a look at us, too, then he flew away to the northeast. I don’t think it’s anything, unless he comes back.”

  “Right. I’ll call you back if we hear anything.”

  Kinney hung up the phone and thought about the airplane, then he turned to Kerry Smith. “Call Washington Center at Dulles and find out if any Cessna light airplanes left the D.C. area since yesterday with a flight plan filed for Maine.”

  “Will do,” Smith said and got on the phone. He was back in a few minutes. “A Cessna 182RG took off from Manassas at about five-thirty this morning and flew to Manchester, New Hampshire, on an IFR flight plan. I spoke to the FBO there, and she confirmed that they refueled the airplane. The pilot was in his fifties, heavy-set, dark hair and a beard. He said he was flying from Georgia up to Canada, and he paid cash and took off heading north. I talked to the tower there. He didn’t file a flight plan. He didn’t turn on his transponder, either, because Boston Center didn’t track anybody out of Manchester toward Canada. Center is checking to see if any Cessna 182s left any airport in Georgia in the past couple of days, headed north.”

  “Did that airplane we saw have retractable gear?” Kinney asked.

  “Yes, I think so. Normally, a Cessna 182 straight-leg would be obvious, because it has aerodynamic wheel pants.”

  “Did you get a tail number?”

  “No, but the aircraft that flew from Manassas had a tail number of November, one, two, three, tango, foxtrot.”

  Kinney made a note of the tail number. “I’m going ashore,” he said. “Do we have a vehicle on the island?”

  “No, but we have four in Lincolnsville.”

  “Where are they parked?”

  “In front of a row of stores, across the road from the ferry.”

  They were around the northern tip of the island now. “You see that private dock over there, with the shingled house behind it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going ashore there. Call Lincolnsville and have the gray Explorer take the ferry and meet me there.”

  “It could be quite some time,” Smith said. “The ferry is on a winter schedule.”

  “If it’s not leaving right away, tell them to identify themselves and press the ferry to return immediately.”

  “Will do,” Smith replied and got on the phone, while the lobster boat turned for the dock.

  Ted landed at Bar Harbor, then he taxied to a remote part of the field and retrieved a roll of plastic sheets from the luggage compartment. He unrolled the two sheets, stripped the paper off the back side and fixed new numbers to both sides of the aircraft. The sheets had been carefully made to blend with the striping on each side, and, except from up close, the numbers looked as if they had been professionally painted on. The new number was November, three, six, six, nine, charlie, and if anybody checked, they’d find a Cessna 182RG registered with that number to a flight school in Atlanta.

  He got back into the airplane, started the engine, and took off, then headed toward the northern end of Penobscot Bay at five hundred feet. That lobster boat worried him, and he was going to be very careful.

  56

  Kinney waited impatiently on the road in front of the house at whose dock he had recently landed, sending the lobster boat on to Dark Harbor, to await further instructions. His cell phone rang.

  “Jack.”

  “It’s Barney. They dropped me off at the ferry, which should be docking in a few minutes. Our car is aboard, and we’ll pick you up in, say, fifteen minutes.”

  “You’ll have to drive past the barn on your way. Don’t look like you’re in a hurry.” Kinney hung up and stamped his feet to warm them.

  Ted stayed at five hundred feet as he flew around the northern end of Penobscot Bay, enjoying the view. Once, he cut the engine and glided for a minute; he could hear children laughing and a dog barking at a house below. He restarted the engine and began to climb, flying inland past the western shore of the bay, then turning back, so as to look as if he had taken off from Augusta. He climbed to five thousand feet and leveled off as he turned east between Camden and Lincolnsville, and when the GPS told him he was five miles from Islesboro Airport, he pulled the throttle slowly to idle, then pulled out the mixture control until the engine stopped. Finally, he pulled the propeller lever all the way back, feathering the prop and turning the Cessna into a glider. He had done this before, practicing emergency landings, and he was sure he could do it again. The airplane was silent now, and nobody looked up at an airplane that made no noise.

 
; Once over the island, he turned for his final approach to the airport, still three miles out, noting with satisfaction that the lobster boat he had seen was now docked in Dark Harbor. He fixed the short runway at a point in the middle of his windshield and kept it there, adjusting his glide path occasionally to keep his airspeed at ninety knots. The runway remained in the middle of his windshield, meaning that he had the correct combination of descent and airspeed. When he was sure he could make the runway, he dropped the landing gear and put in some flaps, aiming about a third of the way down the runway. He touched down, but did not brake, letting the airplane roll. When he was near the end of the runway, he turned off onto the parking ramp and made a very nice turn into a tiedown. Only then did he use the brakes. Perfect.

  He tied down the airplane, then walked a hundred yards to a shed he had rented that belonged to a nearby house. He opened the padlock with the correct combination, unhooked the battery charger, and started the pickup on the first try. Then he drove back to the airplane and unloaded the gear he had brought with him from the airplane into the pickup.

  With the heater now blowing warm air, he drove off the airfield to the road, which ran from the ferry past his house, and headed for home. His only other concern now was the campers who had set up a tent near the cottage. He could not see them from the road as he drove past, but he did see a wisp of smoke from their campfire.

  He drove past his cottage at an easy thirty miles per hour, checking the place as he passed. Then he drove on down the road for a couple of miles before making a U-turn and starting back. A mile from his place he passed a gray Explorer going the other way with two men in the front seat, both wearing parkas and winter caps. He checked his rearview mirror and saw that the car had Maine plates. At least they were going the right way.

  Kinney watched as the Explorer approached, then jumped in. “Turn up the heater,” he said as the driver turned the car around.

  “Did you see the pickup?” Smith asked.

  “What pickup?”

  “We passed a pickup going the other way, about a mile back. Didn’t you say Fay had a pickup when Rawls saw him on the island?”

  “What kind of pickup?”

  “Old. Mid-fifties, probably, but in nice shape. A real gem.”

  “Drive slower,” Kinney said.

  Ted tried his gliding trick with the truck now. He shifted into neutral, switched off the engine, and coasted down a little hill as he approached the cottage. He started pressing the button on the remote control as he coasted, and after two or three tries, the garage door opened. He turned and coasted into the garage, employing the brakes only at the last minute, then he pressed the remote again, and the garage door closed behind him, leaving the overhead light on. He hopped out of the truck, went to a keypad just inside the garage door, and tapped in the security code. The light on the box flashed green, then went out.

  Smith saw the house as they came down the hill. “I don’t see anybody. Speed up, and let’s see who was in the pickup. There’s only the one road.”

  The driver sped up as they passed the house.

  Ted watched from inside as the Explorer went past; now there were three men inside.

  Kinney’s phone rang. “This is Jack.”

  “Camper here. Did you see the pickup?”

  “Yes, we’re checking it out now.”

  “How? You’ve already passed it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The pickup came down the hill with the engine off, the garage door opened, and it coasted right inside. Our Buddy is home.”

  “Shit!” Kinney exploded. “Turn this thing around and let’s get back to the campsite. Kerry, get on the phone and get our SWAT team over here, but tell them not to use the chopper from Augusta. Tell them to come over by boat, and the Explorer will meet them at the ferry terminal.”

  “We’re coming up on the campsite, now,” the driver said.

  “Let Smith and me out here. You make a U-turn, go back to the ferry terminal, and wait for the SWAT team. Phone me when you’re on the way back.”

  “Roger,” the driver said.

  Kinney and Smith hopped out of the SUV and ran into the woods, still out of sight of the house, aiming at the wisp of wood-smoke above the trees. They emerged in a little clearing, where two agents stood, warming themselves by the fire. Both were startled by their approach.

  Ted moved his things from the pickup into the house. He checked the freezer and took out a steak to thaw, then he turned on the furnace to get some heat into the place. He looked around. Everything was exactly as he had left it. He went to the front and kitchen doors and checked the markers he had left there on each door—two inches of cellophane tape, joining them to the jamb. They were undisturbed; no one had entered the house. He began to relax, and he stood over a grate and let the warm air blow up his trousers.

  “Our man is in the house,” an agent said, holding the earphones more tightly to his head. “The furnace is on, and he opened the fridge once. When do we go in?”

  “Not until dark,” Kinney said. “We’ll wait for the rest of our team to arrive and for Buddy to get comfortable. When he’s settled down for the night, we’ll go in.”

  57

  Kinney and six of his SWAT team gathered around the campfire; he had sent the Explorer back to the ferry terminal for the rest of them.

  “Okay, here’s where we are,” he said. “Buddy is in the house, rummaging around, cooking dinner. All seems normal. We’re going to wait until he settles in for the night, then we’re going to take him.” His cell phone rang, and he opened it. “Jack.”

  “I’ve got the rest of the team,” a voice said, “and we’re on the way back from the ferry terminal. Where do you want them?”

  “Drive past the house and up the little hill and around the bend. When you’re out of sight of the house, let them out and tell them to take up positions on the north side. Use no lights. They have night vision, after all. Tell them it will be at least a couple of hours before we go in.” He looked up at the rest of the SWAT team, gathered around the fire. “All of you listen to this.” He spoke into the phone again. “This will be a quiet entry through the front door. Pick the lock. If he has an alarm system, you’ll have thirty seconds before it goes off, so make the most of them. No flashlights inside, just your night-vision goggles. Locate and subdue Buddy. Do not fire unless he fires first. When he’s down, frisked, and cuffed, call me, and we’ll take him home. I’ll be in touch.” He closed the phone.

  Ted finished his steak while watching CNN.

  “Word from the FBI is that they are now watching I-95 north and south of Washington, D.C., for an RV driven by Theodore Fay, known as the right-wing shooter. With the death of Speaker of the House Eft Efton, the number of his victims has risen to five, four fatalities. We’ll keep you posted on the manhunt as news comes in.”

  Ted sat back in his recliner and heaved a deep sigh of relief. He had pulled it off. Now all he had to do was enjoy his retirement. He had prepared well, buying this house more than sixteen years before, and the hangar at about the same time. If he had learned anything at the Agency it was that preparation was nearly everything. He had fooled them and the FBI from day one, stealing materials from Tech Services and building identities that could be penetrated only by accident. He still had three left, should he need them, but he didn’t expect to. He was now hunkered down in his Maine island cottage with everything he needed to live—and the airplane, if he needed to escape. He had, he believed, thought of everything.

  He began to grow sleepy; he had, after all, been up since three-thirty that morning, and it had been a tense day. He went over the events of the day once more, to be sure he had not forgotten something, some threat, however small. He was confident that he had not.

  He washed his dishes, turned off the TV and the kitchen light, went to his bedroom, and began unpacking the bags he had brought. Everything had been bought in Maine, much of it from the L.L. Bean catalogue. He put hi
s things away, and as he opened a cupboard to stow some wool shirts he came upon an instrument he had nearly forgotten.

  That first summer so many years ago, he had staked out a perimeter about seventy-five yards from the house, trenching the soil and laying wire for a triangulating sensor system. In an emergency, he could switch on the system and, on a small cathode ray tube, see any spot where the perimeter had been breached and track any living thing bigger than a cat as it approached the house. For the fun of it, he switched it on; maybe he would spot a deer coming his way. The unit warmed up, and the screen came up blank of intruders.

  To the north of the house, the SWAT team leader watched as the kitchen lights went off, and the bedroom light came on. He called Jack. “Looks like Buddy is turning in,” he said. “He’s left the kitchen and gone to the bedroom.”

  “I can confirm that from our ears,” Kinney replied. “We hear him moving around the bedroom now, apparently unpacking. Let’s move a couple of men up now on each side of the house for eyeball surveillance. We’ll wait an hour after the bedroom lights go off and we hear deep breathing.”