Capital Crimes

by Stuart Woods

  “Neither do I, sir.”

  “Can I reach you on your cell phone, if I need to?”

  “Yes, sir. The White House operator has the number.”

  “Whoever hears first should call the other, then. Good night.”

  “Good night, Mr. President.” Kinney closed his cell phone and put it into his pocket.

  “He’s going to do it?” Smith asked, incredulous.

  “He’s already done it,” Kinney replied. “All we can do now is wait. You go back and secure the house until we can get a crime scene team up here. I guess that’ll be sometime tomorrow.”

  “Right.”

  The men melted away from Kinney, leaving him standing in the road. He looked to the southwest and was glad he wasn’t Teddy Fay.

  Ted had been in the air an hour now, and he was approaching the Kennebunk VOR. He checked his fuel: He had been flying the day before at low altitudes and, thus, at a full rich-mixture setting, burning a lot of fuel. He was down to nineteen gallons now, and using thirteen an hour. He couldn’t land at any airport, because the airplane would be discovered when the sun came up, and the FBI would know where to start looking. He needed to ditch the Cessna where it wouldn’t be found. Where would that be?

  He looked down at the Maine coast in the moonlight, and as he did, something roared past him on either side, rocking the little airplane in the resulting turbulence. What the hell was that?

  He switched on a radio and tuned it to the emergency frequency.

  “Cessna 182 retractable,” a young man’s voice said. “Do you read me?”

  Ted thought for a moment, then he answered. “I read you loud and clear.”

  “You are instructed to turn on your transponder, your navigation lights, and your strobes, if any, then to make a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn and fly a heading of zero-six-zero degrees until you have the beacon at the Brunswick Naval Air Station in sight, then to land there on runway two. Do you read?”

  “Negative, can’t do it. I don’t have the fuel.”

  “Then you can land at Portland International on the same heading. You’ll be met there.”

  “Negative, Navy. Can’t do it.”

  “Listen, pal,” the young voice said. “I don’t give a fuck if you dump that thing in the Atlantic. My instructions are to force you to land or shoot you out of the sky, and those are my intentions. What’s it going to be?”

  An excellent question, Ted thought.

  60

  Lieutenant J/G Harris Conover watched his radar screen as his jet approached the target. He had slowed to two hundred knots and, as a result, he was having to fly at a high angle of attack in the swept-wing aircraft, making visual contact with the light airplane difficult.

  Then, suddenly in his peripheral vision, the lights of a small airplane appeared, navs and strobes. He saw it for only a moment as he swept past the target, flying at least fifty knots faster than the light airplane.

  “Navy, do you read me?” a voice said in his headset.

  “I read you, and I have a visual,” Conover said, though that was no longer true. “Wingman, left one-eighty.” He banked the jet sharply and started back.

  “I’m afraid I can’t fly back with you, and it would be best if you stay well clear of me.”

  Conover was flying a reciprocal course now, and he saw the airplane again. This time its landing and taxi lights were on, too. “Don’t worry, little guy, I’m not going to bump into you. Wingman, ninety right.” He started the turn. He had orders to make his run from the landward side of the light aircraft, so that any stray rounds would land at sea.

  “That’s not what I mean,” Ted said. He started a turn to the right. “Just stay well clear.” He looked down at the coast as he crossed it. A tailwind was moving him rapidly out over the water. He reached into the duffel next to him and took out a package about the size of a hardcover book.

  Conover still had the airplane on radar, and it had made a turn from its prescribed course. “Listen to me, pal. You’re off course, and you’d better make a left turn right now. I’m locked and loaded.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Ted responded. “Good night and good luck.” He turned a timer switch on the object in his hand and set it at thirty seconds. There was nothing to think about now. He punched the autopilot on. He thought about his wife.

  “Jesus!” Conover screamed as the fireball flared in front of him. “Break right!” He started the turn. “Billy, did you fire?”

  “Not me, Harry,” his wingman said. “I think the guy did the firing himself.”

  Conover held the turn until he had made a three-sixty, then he banked left for a view below him.

  Small, burning pieces of the Cessna were striking the water. “Okay, Billy, let’s go home.” He swung on course for Brunswick and changed frequencies. “Brunswick, this is hardhat one.”

  “Hardhat one, Brunswick.”

  “Wingman and I are returning to base.”

  “What was your result?”

  “Tell the old man we didn’t have to fire. The guy pulled the plug himself. Big explosion.”

  “Roger that, hardhat one. You’re cleared to land on two.”

  “Wilco.”

  The bedside phone rang, and he picked it up. “Will Lee.”

  “Mr. President, this is Captain Mason, CNO’s office, the Pentagon.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Our aircraft made contact with the Cessna and instructed him to turn for Brunswick and land. The pilot declined to do so. Our pilot warned him to land or be shot down, and he declined again, but he turned on all his lights and his transponder. Our pilots were lining up for a shot when the Cessna exploded.”

  “You mean the man committed suicide?”

  “It would appear so, Mr. President. He headed his airplane out to sea, and our pilots saw the burning wreckage fall into the water.”

  “I see.”

  “Is this what you anticipated, sir?”

  “No, but the man saved us a lot of trouble. Please phone Coast Guard command for me, give them the coordinates of the crash, and tell them I want a search for wreckage and a body to commence at dawn.”

  “Yes, Mr. President. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, thank you, Captain. Good night.” Will hung up and punched another line for an operator.

  “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “Please get me Deputy Director Kinney of the FBI on his cell phone.”

  “Yes, sir. Please hold.”

  Kinney was standing in the living room of Teddy Fay’s house when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He dug it out and opened it. “This is Bob Kinney.”

  “Hold for the president, please.”

  “Hello, Bob?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “The CNO’s office just called. The Brunswick jets intercepted Fay’s airplane. After some conversation back and forth, he turned on the airplane’s lights and transponder, then blew himself up over the water.”

  “Holy shit,” Kinney said involuntarily. “Excuse me, Mr. President.”

  “I had pretty much the same reaction,” the president said. “Bob, you’ve done a fine job in impossible circumstances, and I won’t forget it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President, but it was Rawls’s tip that made a resolution possible.”

  “Yes, I guess he’s earned his pardon. Well, I’ll leave it to you to wrap this thing up. Don’t make any announcements about this. I’m going to hold a press conference at the White House at noon tomorrow, and I’d like you to be there.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “It’s snowing in Washington, Bob, the first of the season. Looks like we might have a white Christmas.”

  “I like the snow, sir. I’ll look forward to seeing it.”

  “Good night, Bob. I hope you can get some sleep on the way home.”

  “Good night, Mr. President.” Kinney hung up the phone. “Kerry,” he said to the agent, who was across the room, “get t
he chopper into Islesboro Airport and have them get the jet ready at Rockland. You and I have a date in Washington in less than twelve hours.”

  “With the director?” Smith asked.

  “I don’t think he’ll be there,” Kinney said.

  61

  Kinney and Smith stood at the president’s side in the White House press briefing room and waited for the clock to show 12:01 p.m., which was when control rooms all over the country would insert the live press conference into their noon news.

  The press secretary stepped to the microphone fifteen seconds before that. “The president will have a statement, and he will not take questions at this time. A later briefing, to be announced, will be held to provide details.” The clock hands moved to 12:01. “Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States.”

  The president stepped to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, my fellow Americans, I have an announcement regarding the series of murders of political figures that have taken place over the past weeks. Last night, the FBI raided a house on a Maine island where the fugitive suspect, Theodore Fay, had fled. Mr. Fay escaped through a tunnel which led out of the house’s basement and managed to get to an airfield on the island, where he took off in a light airplane.

  “On my orders, two jet fighters were scrambled from the Brunswick, Maine, Naval Air Station, and these aircraft intercepted the smaller airplane, with orders to force it to land or to shoot it down. Mr. Fay refused to follow their instructions, but before the Navy aircraft could position themselves to fire, Mr. Fay caused his own airplane to explode. The wreckage landed in the sea, between Kennebunkport and Portland, and the Coast Guard began a search at dawn for the wreckage and Mr. Fay’s body.

  “Less than an hour ago, the commandant of the Coast Guard informed me that wreckage of an aircraft bearing the registration number of Mr. Fay’s airplane had been found, and they hope to find remains soon.

  “I want to express my personal gratitude to Deputy Director Robert Kinney of the FBI and his associate, Special Agent Kerry Smith, who have been on this case from the beginning and who have pursued it to its conclusion. I want to thank, as well, Lieutenants J/G Harris Conover and William Banks for their fine work in locating Mr. Fay’s aircraft in the skies over Maine. All concerned have done good work, and their country should be proud of them.

  “Our country can breathe easier, now that this terrible episode in our history has been brought to an end. Mr. Fay, I’m afraid, is all too typical of those, of whatever nationality, who believe that they are right and others are wrong and that violence can move others to their point of view. This never works, at home or abroad, and our nation is poorer for those who have been lost. I wish, once again, to extend my profound sympathy to their families and friends. Thank you.”

  Justice Thomas Graydon watched the press conference with his wife in their cabin in the Maryland mountains. “Well, that’s a relief,” his wife said, turning off the TV.

  A U.S. Marshal came into the room. “Judge, the plowing is done, and the road is clear now. Are you ready to go?”

  “Thanks, Bill, I guess we are.” Gray don and his wife got into their coats and followed the marshal out to the judge’s black SUV.

  “Better let me drive, Judge,” the marshal said. “There’s still ice, and we’re trained for this sort of thing.”

  Graydon, who preferred to drive himself, reluctantly handed over the keys and got into the front passenger seat, while the marshal assisted his wife into the rear. After a moment, they were headed down the mountainside, followed by another car carrying two marshals.

  Graydon instinctively grabbed for the dashboard as the car hit a slippery spot and skidded a little. “Watch it, Bill,” he said.

  “Judge, please fasten your seat belt,” the marshal said.

  Graydon, who detested seat belts and felt they were an infringement on his civil rights, grudgingly reached for his seat belt.

  At that moment, the car began to skid again.

  “Hang on, Judge,” the marshal said. “It’s going to be all right.”

  But then the SUV was suddenly traveling sideways.

  “What the hell?” the marshal was able to say before they crashed through the guard rail.

  Justice Graydon saw the river far below rushing up at him. He was not able to fasten his seat belt before they crashed.

  Ed Rawls watched the press conference in the warden’s office.

  “Why were you so interested in that, Ed?”

  “Just curious,” Rawls replied. He hadn’t expected to be mentioned, but still, he was disappointed.

  “All right, Ed,” the warden said, standing up and extending two envelopes. “Here’s your pardon; it was delivered by messenger a few minutes ago, along with an envelope from the FBI.”

  Rawls stuck both in a pocket of his old civilian suit without opening them.

  The warden offered his hand. “Good luck, Ed,” he said. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

  “You bet, Warden,” Rawls replied, shaking the hand. He followed the guard out of the office, through the prison and to the front gate, where a taxi was waiting. He shook hands with the guard and got into the cab. “Atlanta Airport,” he said.

  As the taxi drove away, Rawls opened the first envelope and read over the pardon. “Very satisfactory,” he said aloud.

  “What?” the cabdriver asked.

  “Just talking to myself,” Rawls replied. He opened the other envelope and found $10,000 in hundred-dollar bills and a cashier’s check for $990,000.

  “Very, very satisfactory,” he said.

  Kinney and Smith were driven away from the White House by an FBI car and driver.

  “Bob,” Smith said, “I’ll bet you’re going to be the next director.”

  “Oh, shut up, Kerry,” Kinney said. He wanted to get back to his office to call Nancy Kimble.

  They rode along in silence for a while, then Smith spoke again. “The Coast Guard still hasn’t found Fay’s body, have they?”

  “Not the last I heard,” Kinney said.

  “Jesus,” Smith said. “I hope the son of a bitch didn’t have a parachute.”

  Kinney made a groaning noise. “Kerry, I told you to shut up.”