Sydney was crestfallen. “Oh, Hunz! Is that what Baranov said? He’d deny it, of course. Is the FBI certain?”
“Baranov told them where they could find Yuri Kiselev. He’s buried in a basement just outside of Minsk. He’s been dead for two months. Apparently, he made the mistake of falling in love with Baranov’s mistress.”
“And the nanotechnology?”
Hunz shook his head. “There is no production lab. No master plan.”
“What about someone else? If the technology is possible, maybe someone else—”
“The theory was based on Baranov’s money and Kiselev’s brains. And from what the FBI told me, Baranov is as anxious as we are to find out who’s behind Death Watch. His mother died this morning. A death watch victim.”
Sydney touched his arm with sympathy. “That was our best lead. It all made sense, in a warped, villainous way. So what are we left with? Does the FBI or your EuroNet team have any other suspects? ”
“A hundred leads. All long shots.”
Sydney looked toward the back of the plane. “That means that Cheryl and Josh will most likely ”
“Yeah.”
“At least you’ll get your exclusive,” Sydney said, her tone turning hard. Just because she was disappointed his theory hadn’t worked out didn’t mean she’d forgiven him for exploiting Cheryl.
“Yeah. Looks like I will,” Hunz said sadly. “But that’s not why I arranged to get Cheryl back to Chicago.”
“But you just said . ”
“I said there is always a price to pay.”
“An exclusive.”
Hunz nodded. “An exclusive.”
“You have something up your sleeve,” Sydney said.
Hunz laughed. “I wish I did.” He sighed heavily. It was the third sigh since he sat down. “Actually, this whole enterprise is because of you.”
“Me?”
“Last night. The look in Lyle Vandeveer’s eyes. It meant everything to him that you were there. I’d be willing to bet he hadn’t smiled that much in years. Then tonight, after hearing from the FBI…well, I wanted to do something similar for Cheryl, something that would make her smile, make her happy, before…”
“Before she dies.” Sydney finished his sentence for him.
“No,” Hunz said. “Before I die.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Of the 51,327 tons of cargo that passed through Chicago’s O’Hare airport that month, 167 pounds of it was Billy Peppers.
His feet and hands were frozen, his joints stiff, and his rear end numb from four hours of nonstop vibration. Shut up in the packing crate, in pitch-black darkness, he listened for activity, sounds similar to those he’d heard in LA when they were loading the plane—forklift engines; heavy boots; male voices shouting orders, cursing, talking sports, telling off-color stories. For the last ten minutes or so—who could tell for sure? It was too dark to see his pink Tinkerbell watch—he’d heard nothing except the sound of his teeth chattering.
The vertebrae-wrenching landing would have sent him to the chiropractor tomorrow if he had money for that sort of thing. That was followed by the monotonous rumble of taxiing. With no windows to gauge the distance, it seemed as though they taxied to Cleveland before the engines finally wound down, sounding very much like a huge vacuum cleaner that just had its plug pulled. Soon afterward, Billy felt the fuselage shake as a door was opened. There was activity for a while, then silence.
Buster told him to wait until the workers moved him into the hangar. It was safest that way.
“They’ll offload you,” Buster had said, “stick you off to the side, and pretty much leave you alone. You’re not a priority package, so no one will get to you until morning. That should give you plenty of time to hammer your way out.”
Billy didn’t take the “you’re not a priority package” comment personally.
He strained to hear something beyond the plywood walls. He heard nothing. Buster told him to wait, and Buster knew what he was talking about. But Buster was talking about the way things were supposed to work. Things don’t always work the way they’re supposed to work.
In the dark this needling doubt pricked Billy repeatedly. What if someone had made a mistake? The guys who load and unload cargo weren’t exactly Rhodes scholars. No offense, Buster. It was possible they overlooked him, or were intentionally blinded to the markings on the crate. That wasn’t out of the realm of possibility, knowing what he knew.
Billy leaned forward at the thought. There were two sides to this spiritual war in which he was involved, with angels on both sides. It stood to reason that if a good angel told him to go to Chicago, there was a bad angel who didn’t want him here, and it was certainly within a bad angel’s ability to blind the eyes of a cargo handler! If that was the case .
He listened for a new sound—the closing of a cargo hatch. What if they were done unloading? What if Chicago was not the plane’s final destination? He could end up in Boston, or New Orleans, or Winnemucca.
Setting the Nike shoe box to one side—with the lid unsecured, he’d held it the entire trip to keep the angels from spilling out—Billy felt for the hammer Buster had given him. Grabbing it, he let loose with two good whacks across the upper edge of the crate, then listened, which was harder now because of the ringing in his ears from hammering in such close quarters.
The noise didn’t seem to attract attention, but neither did it make much of an impression on the crate. He had little room in which to swing the hammer, and Buster had nailed him in good.
A couple more whacks, harder and louder this time, and he failed to see even a suggestion of an opening along the top edge of the crate. Each blow sounded like firecrackers going off.
It was time for a different approach. Dropping the hammer, Billy pressed his back against the crate and gave the opposite side a couple of kicks with the heel of his shoe.
He saw a strip of light.
A couple more kicks and one entire edge was loose. A couple more and the opening was large enough for him to crawl out.
Tucking his shoe box under his arm, Billy Peppers crouched like a running back prepared to take on a pair of three-hundred-and-fifty-pound tackles. Who knew what he would encounter? But the only thing that hit him when he emerged was the cool Chicago night air.
A quick glance up and down the fuselage revealed he was alone. A huge portal opened up to the airport runway. In the distance, an Aer Lingus Airbus with a green shamrock spotlighted on its tail was landing.
Billy approached the edge of the hatch. He saw no ramp, no ladder. He’d have to jump. It was about an eight-foot drop, maybe ten. Most days this would be a challenge. Tonight, with his feet frozen and his knees feeling like rusted hinges, the jump had pain written all over it.
He heard voices, though he couldn’t see the men they were attached to. They were getting louder. Billy looked at the tarmac. Jump or hide? Did he have a choice? The crate was yawning open. He supposed he could nail it shut again, but what then? Hide among the cargo? He could possibly get lucky and someone would pull a ramp up to the side of the plane and then leave again so he could walk out. Or they could shut him up in the belly of this silver whale, and the next thing you know he’d be disgorged onto the sands of Winnemucca.
It was time to take a leap of faith.
Billy crouched down, prayed a simple help-me-Jesus prayer, and jumped.
There was a moment when he seemed to hang suspended in the air, an exhilarating feeling of flight that ended suddenly and most painfully. The tarmac struck the bottom of his feet with what felt like lightning; his knees cracked and buckled; the Nike shoe box went flying, spilling angels everywhere; and when the rest of him crashed against the cement, he tried to stop himself from falling with outstretched hands and managed to scrape both palms, embedding pebbles in his flesh that looked like little comets with long red tails.
With his cheek pressed against the cement, while various body parts issued emergency signals to his brain, Billy remembered how parachute jumper
s dipped their shoulders and rolled upon impact. Sure, now he remembered.
Gingerly, because he had to use his hands to push himself up and they were presently screaming at him, Billy managed to get to his knees. There was a stiff breeze and some of his angels were trying to fly away. They looked like they’d forgotten how, tumbling this way and that.
“Hey! You!”
One of the voices he’d heard earlier took human form. It became a body dressed in gray coveralls with a face that didn’t look pleased to see him. In fact, there were three men just inside the hangar. Two were smoking. One was sitting on top of a crate, his feet dangling.
“Get away from that plane!”
All three men were looking at him now. The one shouting had taken a last draw from his cigarette and tossed it aside. He picked up a crowbar and came toward Billy. The crowbar fit his hand with familiarity, much the same way a nine iron would fit in the hand of a golfer, or a bat in the hand of a baseball player.
Billy scrambled to capture the last of the runaway angels and shoved them into the box. The two ceramic angels were scuffed but not broken. His Bible lay open, the wind’s fingers flipping its pages.
He grabbed them all and tossed them into the box, then wrestled with the lid. His knees complaining loudly, he managed to get on his feet and—hobbling—put some distance between him and the crowbar.
“That’s right, get outta here! Go on. Git! Git!”
Maybe it was a universal thing; Chicago was no different than LA. In both places they used the same language to chase away dogs and bums. Billy hobbled out of the hangar lights and into the darkness.
To one side, in the distance, like a finger pointing heavenward, stood the O’Hare airport control tower. Splayed beneath it were lights, both stationary and moving, a city of people in transit from all quarters of the world.
“Well, we’re here,” Billy said to the air. “Now what?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Sydney couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You? A death watch notice?”
“On the flight from Atlanta,” Hunz said.
“All this time?”
She still couldn’t believe it. From the time she’d met Hunz, he’d been living under the threat of death. At Lyle Vandeveer’s house. At Dykstra Hall. At FBI headquarters. Now it all made sense. He hadn’t wanted to sleep.
“Who knows?” she asked.
“Sol. Now you.”
“You told Sol ”
“When I arranged for this flight.”
“Why not earlier?”
“You saw the way Helen reacted when she thought you had the Death Watch. I couldn’t risk it.”
He was right, of course. Helen was ready to bench her, which explained why Hunz acted so cavalierly when he interceded for her in Helen’s office.
“On the flight in ,” Sydney said, counting back the hours. “That means. ”
“8:47 a.m.”
Sydney looked at her watch. It was after midnight. 12:26 a.m., to be exact. “That means you have.”
“Eight hours, twenty-one minutes to live.”
“And the live interview you promised Sol. It’s not Cheryl.”
“Never said it was.”
“Oh, Hunz.”
“Works out well for you, though,” he said breezily. “That’s why I brought you along, to wrap up the story once I’m gone. You’ll get
international exposure.”
“Don’t joke about that. It’s not funny.”
“Who’s joking? Besides, I know exactly how Lyle Vandeveer felt. Just having you near makes things easier.”
“Don’t you have someone in Germany?”
Hunz looked at his empty hands. “I’ve pretty much sacrificed everything to get where I am. Married the job, no time for a social life. You know the drill.”
“Family?”
“My mother’s gone. Haven’t spoken to my father in a couple of years.”
“You should call him.”
Hunz Vonner’s face turned to granite. The friendliness that had been there a moment before was gone. “Don’t offer advice about things you know nothing about.”
He was out of his chair and walking to the back of the plane before Sydney knew what was happening. She called to him.
He stepped into the lavatory and closed the door.
Sydney looked at her watch, refusing to believe Hunz Vonner had no more than the time of a normal working day to live.
Sydney sat alone, staring out the window of the plush corporate jet, her reflection staring back at her. She looked past it to the lights below. For most of the journey only an occasional light dotted the black prairie beneath them. Now lights were appearing with greater frequency. They came in clumps and strings.
The sound of the engines changed as the plane began its descent. Sydney buckled in, her thoughts and emotions as black as the night outside her window.
She found it hard to give up on the nanotechnology theory. She had no reason to hang onto it; she just wanted to. Not only did it make sense, it was something they could understand, something they could fight. Scientists could come up with something to neutralize the little buggers, couldn’t they? The theory had given her hope. Now that it was gone, hope was gone and they were right back where they started, asking the same disturbing questions. Who was behind this? How were they doing it? What could be done to stop them?
On the other side of the Plexiglas partition, Josh stirred. Taking his feet from the table, he stood and stretched. He said something to Cheryl. She smiled and said something back.
Maybe Sydney was mistaken, but she thought she saw a fledgling love sparkle in their eyes, the kind that gives couples a giddy feeling and makes them smile and laugh a lot. No, they hadn’t known each other long enough. Besides, there was Cori. And what did Josh and Cheryl have in common besides a very short future?
Little Stacy was still asleep. Josh and Cheryl talked.
Sydney sighed. Five passengers on board, not counting the one in Cheryl’s belly. Three marked for death. Later today, after Cheryl was settled, Sydney would fly back to Los Angeles. Possibly alone, possibly with Josh, but he’d be going back to LA to die. For all its leather and polished wood, the Dessault Falcon was a coffin with wings.
Hunz stepped out of the restroom. He joined the others in the conference room. The three adults chatted casually, then both men assisted Cheryl to her feet. It took both of them. Hunz buckled himself into a chair with them, leaving Sydney alone and frightened.
She couldn’t help but feel that an invisible terrorist rode in the plane with them. He sat with the others in the conference room, having claimed them as his own. Somehow, Sydney had to find a way to stop him. But she didn’t know where to begin, and she was running out of time, and soon she would begin losing people she cared for.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The lights of Chicago slid beneath the Dassault Falcon as it made its approach to Midway Airport. Smaller than O’Hare, Midway serviced connector flights for the major airlines and corporate aircraft.
The plane slowed to a stop a short distance from the terminal. Sydney unbuckled and joined the others. Josh was holding a sleeping Stacy upright while Cheryl dressed her in a light jacket. Josh was obviously inexperienced at this sort of thing. The little girl’s head and arms flopped this way and that like a rag doll.
“Do we need to arrange for transportation?” Sydney asked.
“Already taken care of,” Hunz said.
The man was efficient, you had to give him that.
“Evanston?” Sydney asked Cheryl.
The pregnant woman zipped up Stacy’s jacket, then put a hand against her own back to straighten up again.
“I’ve got Stacy,” Josh said to her, picking up the girl.
The girl laid her head on Josh’s shoulder. Hunz looked on attentively, several times making motions to help get Stacy situated. He obviously wanted to carry her.
Cheryl answered Sydney’s question. “I’m meeting my O
B/ GYN at Prentice Women’s Hospital. It’s part of Northwestern Memorial Hospital on Superior Avenue.”
“You’re not going home first?” Sydney asked.
Cheryl shrugged. “I want to get checked in as soon as possible. My doctor’s reluctant to take the baby early. He says all this death watch stuff is nonsense, that once I’m in the hospital I’ll be safe, what with ail their medical resources and stuff.”
That’s what Sydney had told Lyle Vandeveer.
“Don’t let him talk you into waiting too long,” Sydney said.
“I won’t.”
Sydney knew she wouldn’t. Cheryl was quiet, but she was strong and determined. Sydney admired her like no other woman she knew, and felt an incredible urge to hug her. Having had so few close women friends, it pained Sydney to think that now she’d found one, she would soon lose her.
The hatch opened. Single file, they stepped into the brisk September night. A ground crewman pointed them toward the glass terminal door. Josh and Cheryl went ahead. Sydney and Hunz waited for Cheryl’s luggage.
The terminal was surprisingly populated for one o’clock in the morning. The interior was brightly lit with a white, open-beamed metal ceiling.
They made their way down Concourse A, following the ground transportation signs where, according to Hunz, a limo was waiting for them. Josh, Cheryl, and Stacy looked like a family returning from vacation. Hunz stepped briskly behind them.
Sydney had to hurry to catch up. “Are we going with her to the hospital?”
“To complete your story,” Hunz replied. “You can report how the station helped her back to Chicago, then provided for her safety. It’ll make a splash.”
Sydney looked at him. Was he mocking her? Or was he mocking Sol? Or was this simply an attempt at humor? She found it hard to read Hunz at times. Of course, his reason for going with Cheryl to the hospital was 100 percent malarkey. That was the kind of thing that could be confirmed with a phone call. Hunz didn’t fool her. He was concerned that Stacy would be cared for after her mother died, even though he could do little to help given the fact that his time would run out before Cheryl’s less than eight hours from now.
Death Watch Page 17