Hard Fall

by Ridley Pearson

  “Love to,” Daggett said, slapping his damp hand inside Tuttle’s huge mitt, freeing his arm. “I’ll be in touch.” He escaped.

  He had lost precious time. He felt both frantic and silly, unsure which to trust.

  He scanned the crowd for smoke.

  There! Just ahead of him another cloud ascending from a pack of suits and dresses. He wedged his way past a fat woman with broad shoulders, forced against her so that he made full contact with the spongy warm skin of her back, damp at the spine. She threw a practiced elbow, a cow’s tail dealing effectively with the annoyance of flies. His hopes rose as he attached the cigarette smoke to a face—an average face of a man of average height. Daggett’s view of the cigarette was blocked. But then it came into view: a white cigarette with a brown filter.

  He moved on.

  Anthony Kort found himself eye to eye with Cam Daggett. He had walked willingly into the hornet’s nest and now he felt like a fool for allowing Monique to manipulate him this way. He had wanted to arrive, make contact with the Greek, leave. Monique, on the other hand, believed that for the sake of appearances they should spend at least a few minutes before attempting the contact. She had talked him into it.

  He poked her in the back. “How about another drink?” he asked her. His bad temper was due in part to his present brand of cigarette. He had finished his last Sobranie not five minutes earlier and was now smoking a poor substitute, Camel filters. In a city this size, this continental, there had to be Sobranie for sale somewhere. He would put Monique on that.

  “I will come with you,” she said, excusing them both from the group.

  “That was Daggett,” he whispered only inches from her ear. “Let’s get this over with now.”

  Monique’s eyes followed Daggett until he disappeared. She took Kort by the hand and led him through a swinging door into the kitchen, the two of them immediately swallowed by the chaos there. She pointed out the door to the cellar. Kort headed down the steps into the dank darkness, where a single unlit bulb hung from a dust-encrusted electrical wire like the bald head of a hanged man. He touched it as he passed beneath it and it swung back and forth like the pendulum to a clock.

  In the far corner, to the right of a soapstone sink, was a pair of storm cellar doors with four poured concrete stairs leading up to them. Kort unbolted the doors and, pushing the left door open to the night air, insured himself a means of escape.

  The success of the operation relied on the Greek’s information. If he couldn’t get the exact date of the meeting, then all was lost. Bernard’s death meant nothing; Michael’s arrest meant nothing.

  A pair of heavy feet clumped down the stairs and a thick Greek accent complained in a forced and angry whisper, “I told you in my messages, you and I have nothing to discuss! This is an outrage.” Kort pressed back into the shadows as the light came on. The floor became animated with the movement of shadows as the bulb swayed back and forth.

  Monique had maneuvered the Greek to the near side of the stairs.

  “I will only speak with him. That was the arrangement.”

  “Then it’s time we should talk,” Kort said from the shadows.

  The Greek spun around, nervously. A big man with a swollen chest, thin gray hair and bad teeth, his hands appeared over-inflated. He had the shifting eyes of a salesman and the red nose of a competent drinker.

  Monique flew weightlessly up the stairs and threw the door shut behind her. By agreement, she would remain there to signal if necessary.

  A wide grin taking his face, the Greek said, “I wondered how this catering job came my way at the last minute—and so well paid. I should have realized …”

  “What’s this about the meeting?” Kort asked.

  “I have the name for you—the flight mechanic you wanted. His name is David Boote.”

  “I’ll need his address, working schedule, and a recent photograph,” Kort said. “We’ll set up a dead drop for tomorrow. You’ll be notified using the computers. Now what about the meeting?”

  “I can’t get the date for you. We had it for you—it was to be three days from now—the fourteenth—but they’ve rescheduled, postponed it at least a week. Both Sandhurst and Goldenbaum are unavailable until the twenty-first of this month. It’s the twenty-first at the earliest. I’m told the FBI is to blame. We cross-referenced the travel itineraries of these executives in order to identify the date for you. Everything was all set. But then the FBI requested the same itineraries, and a few hours later the meeting was postponed. There’s nothing I can do about it now. There’s simply no way.”

  “There must be a way,” Kort demanded. “You’re not thinking this through.” He took another step toward the man. “You have been paid for this information. You will deliver. You understand?”

  “What am I supposed to do? You think I didn’t try? I’ve been throwing money around everywhere trying to get this for you. All I have are a few worthless rumors.”

  “Such as?”

  “They’re nothing.”

  “I want to hear them.”

  “I have no second source for any of this.”

  “Even so, I want to hear it.”

  The big man shrugged. He patted his pockets. Kort offered him a cigarette and they both smoked. “Even the executives themselves don’t know when the meeting is to be. That’s what I’m told. They were asked to leave five different days open for travel, beginning the twenty-first. It could be any one of those days. I don’t know. Arrangements—new itineraries—have been drawn up for each of the executives, but from this end this time.”

  “I can’t wait until the last minute. I need to know in advance. I want those itineraries.”

  “I understand. I told you—this doesn’t help you one bit.”

  “What else?”

  “It’s nothing solid.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Tell me!” Kort demanded, stepping even closer to the man. He smelled like olive oil.

  “I’ve been told that Buzzard Point—you know Buzzard Point?”

  “No.”

  “FBI field office here in Washington.”

  “WMFO?” Kort said.

  “Exactly. Same thing.”

  “Go on.”

  “Buzzard Point is going to handle security for the executives. Counterterrorism—an agent named Daggett.”

  “Daggett? Impossible!”

  “You know him?”

  “I know of him. Security? It’s not his kind of work. He’s already on something else.” Kort had to be careful how much he revealed.

  “That may be, but I paid good money to learn that someone saw the head of WMFO hand Daggett an Eyes Only file folder, and that the word itineraries was mentioned. That same source says that file is the only copy outside the Pentagon. And if Daggett had locked it away in-house, in the tenth-floor safe, as he was evidently supposed to have done, then I would presently be out some serious cash, and you would already have whatever is in this folder.”

  “But he didn’t lock it away,” Kort said.

  “But he didn’t,” the Greek confirmed.

  “Because of its sensitivity. You don’t lock something like that away in a communal safe, even at the FBI.” Kort’s mind was racing ahead of him. This made some sense to him. “You keep it with you.”

  “His home? You want me to arrange a break-in of Daggett’s home? I could do this for you.”

  “No,” Kort said. He was thinking: Not you. He didn’t like this man at all. If the job was bungled, then they would postpone the meeting again and Kort would have to start all over with this.

  “Or maybe he carries it with him,” the Greek said, thinking too much. “Maybe I could have his briefcase stolen.”

  “Don’t you do anything,” Kort instructed, his words carrying smoke from his lungs. Kort toyed with the possibilities. The man had a son. Pressure could be brought to bear.

  The Greek continued to think aloud. “No, it’s no good. To steal t
he briefcase would alert them. They would simply reschedule the meeting.”

  “You say you don’t trust it. How reliable is this information?” Kort liked the sound of his voice down here in the basement. It sounded dangerous. He was thinking: Daggett’s briefcase? Daggett a single man. Perhaps Monique could use her womanly charms to waylay the agent briefly while he took a look inside …

  “Not easy getting one of your people inside WMFO, even in office positions, I wouldn’t think. It’s hard enough at some of these corporations, I’ll tell you that. This person, my contact, is a dear friend. He and I have done business many times before. Even so, I wouldn’t trust it. Without a credible second source, some support, you can’t trust information like this. You have to have a second source. It could easily be disinformation we’re dealing with here. Then again, it’s all I have.”

  It made sense to Kort. Bernard had been Daggett’s assignment—his ticket, as the FBI called it—for the better part of the last two years. Kort had used a Bernard detonator on AmAirXpress flight 64. Did the FBI already know that? Was that possible? They had caught Bernard here in Washington. Had they made a connection between the two? Exactly how much did they know about his plans? The idea of getting a look inside Daggett’s briefcase suddenly seemed a matter of self-preservation. Know thine enemy. Monique was a possibility, though a long shot. He would rather do this himself. He didn’t trust other people. “How much do you know about Daggett?”

  “What do I look like, James Bond? I’m in corporate consulting, not that other stuff. You want to know about Donald Trump, I’ll tell you his shorts size. His daily vitamins. An FBI agent? I don’t know shit.”

  Kort blew past him and was half way up the stairs when the Greek called out, “Hey! Is that all? I got baklava in the oven.”

  Kort stopped. “We’ll contact you about the drop. We need that information on this flight mechanic, this David Boote.” He started up the stairs again and stopped. “And something else … I’ll need the cargo manifests for all Quik-Link flights out of National Airport for the next four weeks.”

  “That I can do,” he said defensively. “No problem.”

  “Do it.”

  “But what about Daggett?” the Greek asked.

  Kort didn’t answer. The less the man knew, the better.

  “Do you have a guest list?” Kort asked Monique as he reached the top of the stairs and the busy kitchen.

  “For tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “There would be one at the front door. I’m sure I could check it.”

  “Do that.”

  She clearly didn’t like his tone. “Who am I looking for?”

  “Daggett.”

  This confused her. “But we already know he’s here. What’s the point?”

  “Not him. His date. Everyone brings someone to these affairs. Even FBI agents. This is a social event. With whom did Daggett come? They would be listed together, wouldn’t they? See if you can find a name for me.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Do it!” he snapped. “I’ll be waiting by the bar.”

  By the time she returned, Kort had located Daggett in the crowd and had followed him with his eyes until he ended up in discussion with a woman in a peach dress. There is something unique, he realized, in the way two lovers converse, for these two were clearly lovers. He prided himself on his powers of observation. Such powers were essential for his survival. He had no doubt of Daggett’s relationship to this woman, nor that that relationship was, at the moment, under a great deal of strain.

  “What’s her name?” Kort asked Monique, knowing he was right, swelling with the conceit of his success.

  “Caroline Stevenson. Is that her?”

  “Don’t look at her. Use your head!” he scolded.

  She grew restless with the reprimand. “So you know her name. We should be leaving. We have been here too long. You said so yourself.”

  “We’re not going anywhere.”

  “What? But I thought—”

  “Fix yourself a drink. Relax. Mingle. We’ve barely just arrived.”

  Her confusion arranged itself on her face as anger.

  His timing couldn’t have been better. Daggett walked away from the woman in the peach dress—Caroline—and she immediately reached into her purse and came out with a cigarette. That purse was likely to contain a set of keys. And one of those keys would admit him to Daggett’s house. Kort took his pack of Camels from his pocket and stuffed them into Monique’s hand, closing her fist around them. “Hold on to these,” he said. “I feel like a cigarette.”

  She looked down at her hand. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “No, I’m not, am I?” He patted her on the cheek, and cut through the dancers.

  “I wonder if you would have an extra one of those?” he asked the woman. She looked up. They met eyes. Hers were fogged with either emotion or booze, or both. She forced a polite smile, searched her purse and came out with one. She struggled with the lighter, finally ignited it, and did her best to steady the flame. Kort interceded, taking her hand gently in his, and directed the flame. He kept her hand a moment longer than necessary before releasing it. She blushed, and he felt the thrill of success.

  “I must confess,” he lied, “that I have been watching you for some time this evening, wanting to come over and introduce myself.”

  She looked away uncomfortably. Did he dare push further? His eyes wandered to the purse. If he could only make her drop it, get her to spill it.

  “Are you British?” she asked when he didn’t go away. “You sound vaguely British to me.”

  “How perceptive of you,” he said. “Schooled in England in my formative years. Living in Belgium now. I’m Carl,” he said.

  “Caroline,” she returned, now looking at him again.

  His heart pounded with success—Caroline, the name he had hoped to hear.

  “Do you live here in Washington, or are you just visiting?” she asked.

  “I’m over here trying to steal as much information as I can from you Americans on how to run an airline catering company. Food service industry.”

  “Oh, a spy are you?” she said, accompanied by a lilting laugh.

  “Yes,” he said, joining her laughter, enjoying the irony. “A spy.”

  She took a drag on the cigarette, closed her eyes, and stumbled backward. It was his first real indication of just how inebriated she was. He glanced at the purse again. In her condition it would be like taking candy from a baby. She had failed to latch it closed. One good bump and he could spill its contents.

  He found the same physical chemistry he had experienced with Monique at work here. She’s dangerous, he cautioned himself. Get her off to one side, get her to spill her purse, and get it over with. How long would Daggett stay away? He checked the crowd. He didn’t see Daggett anywhere.

  But there was Monique, looking right back at him. He cautioned her with his eyes and she looked away.

  “A friend of yours?” Carrie asked somewhat bitterly.

  “A business associate.” He leaned in close to her, the purse within reach. “She’s an incredible bore.”

  Carrie erupted in drunken laughter, spilling ashes onto her dress and quickly swatting them away. “I know what you mean,” she said. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  Daggett dug through an ashtray looking for any more Sobranie butts. “What the hell are you doing, Michigan?” It was Mumford, the head of WMFO.

  An explanation seemed too complicated. “You made it,” Daggett said.

  Thankfully, Lynn Greene approached at a fast pace. She caught Mumford’s eye well before she said, “Could I speak to you a minute, Cam?” Daggett introduced her to Mumford, at which point Lynn explained to both of them in a low voice that the FAA intended to listen to the long-awaited cockpit voice recorder this evening. She had just been paged, and was headed downtown.

  Mumford cautioned, “I don’t want this to get out. Not here. Not tonight. The
re’s press all over the place. Let’s see what we’ve got first.” To Daggett he said, “Why don’t the two of you disappear quietly. I’ll make any necessary excuses. Let Paul know if and when you have anything.”

  “Will you humor me?” Daggett asked the man.

  “Meaning?”

  “If you would lend your authority to something, I could rest a little easier leaving here.” He glanced around. The party seemed to be thinning. He knew for a fact that most of the VIPs had made only a brief appearance and had left by the time Daggett had arrived. “Have the security people sweep the grounds and vehicles one more time. I’d rest a little easier.”

  “Have we got a problem?” Mumford demanded.

  “A coincidence is all. No hard evidence. Probably nothing. But an ounce of prevention …”

  Mumford nodded. “I’ll pass that along.”

  A minute later, Daggett found Carrie in the company of a fellow smoker. They were laughing. At the sound of her laugh, he felt a twinge of jealousy.

  Daggett acknowledged the stranger with a nod and said to Carrie in a lover’s apologetic voice, “Believe it or not, I have to go. There’s a meeting …” He searched her eyes for a glint of understanding. He saw pain.

  “Sure,” she said with all her strength. “These things happen, don’t they?” She managed to keep the hurt out of her voice, though her eyes divulged the truth, and he thought that if he failed to make this up to her, he might lose her. She stood poised and controlled, an image of dignity and restraint, and he thought himself very lucky to have such a person.

  “What about Duncan?” she asked. “Would you like me to sit Duncan?”

  He hadn’t thought about those arrangements. The meeting could run for hours; he wasn’t sure how long it might take. “You could call Mrs. Kiyak. That would be a big help. I can do it if—”

  “No, I’ll do it. It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine. He knew this, but she concealed the truth, an image of strength and endurance. He taxed her. It bordered on psychological abuse, he thought, the way he danced from one failed promise to the next. But this was his expertise, this dancing. It had driven his wife, the mother of his son, into drunken escape. Had driven her away for good. Now he watched as he picked up where he had left off. He watched himself, unable to change—a ship heading straight for the rocks, the currents refusing a different course. “Do you have a ride?” she asked, searching her purse. “You can use my car.”