Between trying to catch the news, and trying to casually look at her every chance he got, this was becoming a game of sorts. The game was, “Don’t get caught starring at someone you can’t take your eyes off of.”
There were just some women that had it. They had the ability to just command attention and get any guy they wanted. She was one of them. He was a 28-year-old horn-dog who was looking to sow any and all the wild oats he could before he settled in for the death sentence of marriage. That’s why he had become a pilot in the first place, so he could fuck his way across the world.
He didn’t give a rat’s ass about love for the air and all that crap. It was just a flying bus to him. Sure, at first, it was all exciting and such, but now a year later, it had become monotonous. He wanted to do his time here at a regional carrier like Ameraflight, then get on with the big boys and hopefully get over to the Orient, where he would be sure to get laid more often than not.
His luck had just gotten better as the dandy she was with got up, pecked her on the cheek and left. Shortly thereafter, Doug had overheard her talking with the waitress, revealing that the “half-a-fag” with her was her brother. What a break. Damn, was she hot!
She had got up and gone to the bathroom. As she had passed, Doug had fallen in love with every inch of her. Oh man, what is that fragrance she’s wearing?
Matt had a few minutes to pack and tail her back to the airport. She had no gun, but she had her knife. This was all becoming too real, too soon. He packed their bag in a deft two minutes because they didn’t really have much to carry, but he did note the destroyed bed and his mind drifted for a second. He decided that he would take the time to see what the heck she was carrying; but her stuff was gone. He had seen her satchel go in the backpack earlier, but now it was gone. This stupid backpack had more pockets than he had ever seen, and he was not in a mindset where he would find it anyway, so he abandoned the search. So she trusts me, but only to a point.
He looked at the phone. It was now or never. He needed to either pick-up that phone and take his chances that he wouldn’t end up exactly like Lee Harvey Oswald, or do this with her, all the way. Then he took a moment to think about what going all he way might entail, including him against a law enforcement officer at some point.
He spoke out loud to himself. “So what will it be, Matt?” His internal voice answered, I’m sure I will be killed before I ever get my day in court. I feel I’m somebody’s patsy. Someone is looking to blame this whole thing on me in the end, there’s no other way to explain why my shoplift recording of her did not exonerate me. That means the only way to exact revenge and justice is to follow the girl and see where this goes.
The conversation with himself over, he placed the shoulder holster on and checked to see that the Beretta was in fact loaded at the chamber. It was. He sure hoped they had Federal ammo in it, as he’d jammed one of these with inferior ammo once. His weapons mentor had taught him about Federal ammo: it never failed.
As he was pulling the door shut, he had an idea, one that might get the results he desired. He took a page off the top of the provided hotel notepad and wrote, “An Intelligence Service is the ideal place for a conspiracy.”
Maybe someone would get its true meaning, and if somehow she came back here and saw it, he could explain to her that it was a taunt. Matt knew that someone there, some profiler, would get his intentions, or he at least hoped that person would understand that he had the opportunity to escape. He could have righted things for himself, but he was sacrificing himself for God and Country.
He couldn’t simply knock her out and turn her in. He couldn’t even try to take some of the things she was smuggling and leave them behind now, as he had hoped for. Matt realized he was probably throwing away his life in vain, but he was doing it anyway, because he was sure that whatever items she had stolen were definitely going to be used to bring down the U.S. Plus he hadn’t forgotten the threat to his wife and unborn child. I have no choice. Matt closed the door and crossed his fingers.
* * *
The sun was setting into the afternoon, and it was almost time to leave. Pablo had signed all the necessary documents, his task as owner fulfilled. The helicopter pilot had called and told him he would return from refueling in an hour. So Pablo sat back and stared out the window some more.
Pablo clearly remembered how he had sat in shock that night as they had drove. The plan had been to run to James’s chateau in Switzerland.
James hadn’t tried to communicate as they drove, sensing that it was not the time for words. Pablo remembered that James had initially driven ten hours from his chateau on Lake Geneva to find him after the chess game. Since then, to avoid looking suspicious, he had been living out of several different hotels and finally a flat.
James had ended up living away from his home for three months while he was tutoring. But he had told Pablo that home or not, they had been three of the greatest months of his life.
It had been a long drive back, and Pablo had known that James was truly concerned about Lebuff doing his job when the time came. Pablo had pushed up against James’s car door to the point that James was hoping it held. James had said he was simultaneously wondering who their enemy was and worrying about the door.
Was it someone as powerful and far-reaching as the Colombian Cartels? Or maybe some local players, who just exacted revenge on those they could reach?
Well, Jeremy Lebuff would be the canary in the coalmine. If they came searching for him at the school, then that would be the answer: it was no regional player.
Either way, Pablo had known that after spending one day back at James’s computer lab, they would have all the answers they needed.
Pablo remembered James telling him that for all intents and purposes, he felt like he was a real father that day. He had a boy to protect from some very bad people, and he was not going to let him down. He had told Pablo that the files and subfiles started opening in his head; that it was just like a chess game to him.
James had needed to put it all in perspective, to assign all this madness a plan—unorganized madness was not acceptable. From that moment on, James had vowed that they would be so far ahead of everyone in their pursuit, they would be forever untouchable.
The situation had been just like his cancer: it was happening and there wasn’t shit he could do about it except go along for the ride. Until it’s over of course, there was always that.
If he wouldn’t be going back to face the music, then Plan B had been to disappear—hard, burrowing in deep. The plan for that had lain just hours ahead at the chateau. James hadn’t planned on the two of them looking over their shoulders forever. He’d certainly had no intention of letting those terrorists get away with killing Pablo’s family and making them live in fear.
Pablo used to make James tell the story of the car ride over and over again. He had been desperate to know what was in James’s head during that time. James had seemed to understand, always making sure he conveyed all his thoughts and emotions.
The main thing James had felt at the time was that he couldn’t comprehend or put into words what a horror the massacre was. It had been quite literally an indescribable thing. James had frequently wondered what one man could have done to bring down that kind of wrath.
Pablo knew James’s mind also drifted to his own problems. He hadn’t liked leaving friends hanging out to dry. Bill Westinghouse had been as close to a friend as one could have in that environment. To call the competition cutthroat would have been like calling Wall Street a play yard.
During the drive, James had thought of several ways he could help Bill, which in turn would be helping the very people who had been profiting from the death that he had contrived. It was on that momentous drive that James Haberman had had the life-changing epiphany that it all had to stop. He had decided that Bill Westinghouse would have to be sacrificed—even though James thought he was a decent enough warmonger, as far as warmongers go.
Decisions had been made once th
ey reached the chateau. They had been hard decisions. One of them had been that James would need to call Sandy Burroughs and have him fly in the next day. Then James had changed his mind and had Burroughs fly out that night, as the next day was going to be a very busy day, and they would need all the time they could get.
On that ride, for the first time in his life, Pablo’s mind had not been grasping the whole board. He had remembered almost coercing James to repeat the car story numerous times, to make sure he got the most information possible. Every time, Pablo had gotten a flake of information that didn’t make it out the time before. He had done this to James until he was sure he had completely reconstructed that drive.
He realized now, sitting there in his glass office, that in the annals of history, their car ride from the ferry building to the Hedge would become more than a footnote. It had set things into play that would change the world forever.
He sure wished James were there. But it was probably better that he wasn’t, because this was not going to go well for his country, regardless of the outcome. A small tear ran down his face as he looked down on the river and hung his head.
James had also made another decision on that drive. He had decided to turn the tables on the aggressors. He had intended to find out exactly who Pablo’s enemies were and start to make life hard on them. James had been the one that motivated Pablo to find out all the things he could about Octavio Mendoza, the man who had been directly responsible for ensuring that the murders of his family were carried out. As a matter of fact, as he had found out in his constant search of the facts, at the same time they had been taking their car ride, another conversation had been going on in Peru.
* * *
The Lieutenant in charge of the group in Peru had come forward. He had been an ugly man and Octavio had hated the sight of him. Not that I’m good looking or anything, but at least my wife can keep her eyes open while we make love. Oh, and the smell. . .
“It is done, Commandant,” the man had croaked out.
“Did we get them all?” Octavio had inquired.
“Yes,” the Lieutenant had answered, “everyone present in the house was dispatched.”
“Thank you, Eduardo. Your services are duly noted, Comrade. Was there suffering?”
“No. Just like you ordered, they all died at once—instantly.”
“Very well, then.”
The leader of the death squad had left, and the person he had really wanted to talk with had been standing there alone. Marco Rivera had been an IT genius. Without him, they would be light years from where they were now as a group.
The fact that he had been Octavio’s son-in-law had meant he had always known where he could find him, too, and that had been a plus. His daughter, Luisa, had been as fiery as she was beautiful, and she had never allowed Marco to go anywhere alone.
Marco had said, “There’s a bank account. That Indian used his real name too, just like on the lease.”
“How much is in the account?”
“That’s the weird part. There’s only $200,000 U.S., and it appears there have only been two sources of direction for the funds. One has been to pay tuition to a school in France, and the other has been cash advances to our boy here locally, in Guayaquil. Octavio, it looks like there is one more Manuel out there. Someone has got to take a trip to France.”
Octavio had sat silently for many seconds. Marco had learned to never interrupt him while he was in deep thought, so he had waited. Marco had drifted off to the scene of what had happened to the hombre who had given them Julio Manuel’s name.
He had probably thought that Octavio would spare him, maybe even give him a job. Of course that belief had changed when his sadistic father-in-law had sliced the man’s IV bag open and poured bleach in it. They had him restrained to the fullest, and the violent convulsions that tested those restraints and the blood-curdling scream that ensued were things that Marco would never forget. Marco would also never forget that the man who had remorselessly poured the bleach into that hombre’s IV bag was no one’s friend, not even La familia.
Octavio had finally spoken. “You are right, my Son. Someone does have to take a trip to France; it’s you and I. Better pack your bags and tell your lovely wife to be waiting for you to get back, like a good wife should.”
Marco had nodded acceptance and left. He hadn’t liked it, because it was an unknown, and unknowns could be very dangerous. For all they had known, this could have been a trap, or it could have been as simple as this kid had no clue and “boom,” they were done with the Manuel family. Knowing his luck though, he had known better. He had thought to pack a big bag.
“Oh yeah,” Octavio had said before he had left, “There’s one piece of good news in this. Tell our crews to scour every last inch of the grounds. I guarantee that this payaso has that money buried on the property. Tell them to be smart, that money is there, and if I have to come there to find it, someone is going to pay!”
Marco had left thinking two things. One, how the hell did he deduce that the money is there based on their last conversation? And two, my wife is going to be pissed, and there’s always trouble when she’s pissed. . . .
* * *
When Vera came out of the bathroom, the Aviator’s eyes were stuck on her like eye magnets. He did have a nice smile, and she gave him above average marks on the nice smile. She also noticed that the big one and the old one were at the far end of the counter now and the seats adjacent to the pilot were open.
As she was heading to her table, he said, “Hello.” Then he said, “Mind if I join you?”
She turned around coyly and shot back, “That’s awfully forward of you, don’t you think?”
“Well, I noticed you weren’t wearing a wedding ring, and I couldn’t help hearing that that was your brother there, not a husband or boyfriend.”
“You mean you couldn’t help hearing because you were listening?”
“Okay, guilty as charged, but can you blame me? I mean look at yourself. You’re like Kryptonite, lady, at least to me.”
She softened. “Okay, Doug, let’s sit down.”
He looked confused. She swaggered over to him all cool-like, never breaking eye contact. She saw his Adam’s apple contract involuntarily as she neared close enough to touch him, and then she pretended to dust off his nametag. There was that smile again.
The next thirty minutes was a quick synopsis of both their lives. His was first, and she barely listened. It was something about seeing the world, blah, blah, and blah. Hers was the made-up life of Michelle Fernandez, sales rep for Arrow Brook Distributors. It was the cover name she was going to escape with.
By the time she was done with her story, she had covered her life up to this point, and was telling him how silly she felt owning a plane she couldn’t fly yet.
“That’s a hell of a plane,” he said. “You could have started with a single prop, you know, might have been wiser.”
“Well,” she said, “the salesman told me that this could carry more weight, since we’ll have clients and all of their gear coming up, too. He told me it was a better buy.”
He thought about that and replied. “He might have ripped you off.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well,” he gulped, “salesmen have been known to take advantage of women from time to time, especially in fields they’re not experts in.” Backtracking he said, “I’m sure you did your homework. I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“No offense, you were just being honest. I agree, most women are stupid when it comes to things in a man’s world.”
Doug let that go, since it could be a trap.
She asked, “Would you like to come see it and tell me what you think?”
He tried not to look as shocked as he really was. In reply, he said as coolly as he could manage, “I would love to come and see what it looks like.” But he doubted that she got what he really meant, or she wouldn’t be smiling so nicely.
They paid by leaving the money on
the table. Nadine must have been in the back. The other two were glued to the TV and barely noticed them leave.
Finally, Matt thought. Her note said ten minutes. How did she go from “you’ve got ten minutes, be waiting,” to then taking over thirty minutes to extract herself from the diner? Typical woman-time behavior.
But finally she and Fly Boy were on the move, and Matt was following behind at a safe distance. Two minutes up the road, they turned left into the airport, then swung onto the access road to the right. There Matt saw them get out and head for the middle row of six hangers.
He kept driving straight into the main airport complex, which consisted of a large single story building to the right, and a parking lot to the left, which was maybe a hundred yards long. It currently housed cars in about thirty of its one hundred potential parking spots.
The terminal was a long, single story building. It had a row of handicapped and short-term parking spaces right in front. The front steps had a few newspaper stands and a flagpole with a spotlight on the American flag, flapping gently in the breeze.
The place looked deserted, and it was only midnight. Matt went forward to the second lot entrance. He turned left into the parking lot and made a sharp U-turn. He nestled himself between two cars, inched out enough to have a full view of anyone coming in.
Matt realized that there were no less than ten private jets on the tarmac right in front of him, and it hit him why there were thirty cars in the lot this late. This was a commuter airport for rich people to get down to Vegas and the Bay Area, or even L.A. and vice versa. So with the “no-fly zone” imposed, these planes were stuck here, and whoever owned those cars was stuck in the Bay Area or L.A.
He looked in his rear view mirror, and saw nothing but blackness. Matt was pretty sure he was going to get scraped off the surface of the earth tonight, either by some missile shot out of an F-15 or some other form of high-tech death his own country would employ against him. This plan is as thin as it gets.
He was on that precipice again. He could hear it on the news, which he kept low in the background. They were updating their profile on him, and he was starting to sound more like Timothy McVeigh by the second. He got that feeling again of turning himself in and taking his chances.
The Harbinger of Change Page 14