Gloria’s eyes said more than Pullman ever would. Daggett was being shut out.
“What’s going on?”
“Personal involvement like this is technically conflict of interest.”
“Conflict of interest? This is completely in my interest!”
“First things first. We need you debriefed and we need your full report.”
“That could take days! You’re railroading me?” he asked.
“We’re trying to find Cheysson and your boy. Now do your fucking bit and get down there to debriefing. Now!”
The two men, chests swollen and standing only a few feet apart, both held their ground. Pullman, in as private a voice as he could muster, said, “Don’t do this.”
And with that, Daggett turned around and headed for the elevator.
It was only through the repeated telling of his story, required of him in the debriefing, that the first seeds of doubt were secretly planted. Whispered voices at the back of his mind provoked and challenged a wealth of possibilities. Upon review, the ordinary seemed fantastic, not to those to whom he detailed the events of the previous evening, but to himself, to the investigator who regularly studied the transcripts of such debriefings as these. By the time four hours had passed, he held in his heart the terror of uncertainty, despite his full awareness that he had witnessed it all with the very eyes that looked out at the men who now questioned him. Distracted by his own conflicting thoughts, his explanations tended to wander offtrack, and soon they had him starting all over, the sand in his hourglass turning to water and running freely from top to bottom, the hours racing by.
At ten o’clock that evening, seeing his exhaustion, his inquisitors pardoned him, but warned of renewing the session upon his arrival the next morning. Hours were agreed upon. Hands were shaken, smiles exchanged. No one doubted Daggett, but two men had died, and there was much to explain.
As he passed through the hallways, considerations now chewing holes in his reason, he heard the patter of quick feet approach from behind and turned to greet an anxious Gloria, in whose hand some papers fluttered like broken wings. She stopped abruptly, and in her face he saw his own, for she looked terrified. “I got you what I could,” she explained, handing the papers to him. “There isn’t much yet.”
He looked down at the papers, now transferred to his own hand, folded them into his pocket, and thanked her with his eyes.
“I’ll keep you posted,” she said.
“I have the strangest feeling,” he confessed.
“You need sleep,” she instructed. “Hot soup and sleep.”
36
* * *
With a swollen wrist and broken finger that Kort had splinted for her, Monique drove the Toyota to David Boote’s home at eight-thirty on the morning of September twenty-first. Kort smoked a cigarette in the seat beside her. Boote’s shift didn’t start until ten. He lived only a few minutes from National Airport, outside of Alexandria in a predominantly black area.
Kort screwed the heavy silencer onto the end of the gun and then placed the gun in the nylon holster that carried it under his arm.
“You are not going to use that?” she asked.
“In L.A. we had to protect our methods, in case we failed. We had to take certain precautions to throw them offtrack. Dougherty was perfect for that. He was a known drunk and we injected him with enough booze to knock him out. Who is going to put too much faith in such a man’s statements? We need no such precautions here. This is the end of the line. For us. For Boote. For everyone involved.”
“But he is just a mechanic. He has nothing to do with this.”
“Drive,” he instructed.
The brick apartment complex was in a litter-strewn neighborhood where rusty chain link fences protected lawns with no grass. The air smelled of dog shit and sour beer. “Same thing as last time,” Kort said.
He felt the whites of her eyes.
They approached the door. Kort checked the number one last time and knocked. The man who answered might have been Dougherty’s brother. He needed a shave and a fresh undershirt. He looked hung over. The Greek did good work.
“Airport security, sir,” Kort said, beginning his familiar line. “We’ve had a breach of security and need to check all IDs. You mind getting yours for us?”
Unlike Dougherty, this man needed no convincing. He wanted to get back to the coffee Kort could smell. He wanted this over with.
So did Kort. “You mind if we come in for a moment?”
“Not a bit,” the man responded.
“We can wait here,” Monique objected, interrupting quickly, trying to stop what to Kort was the inevitable.
He stared her down. “We’d like to come in, if you don’t mind.”
But David Boote, which was his name, paid them no mind. He was gone in search of his identification tag. Kort stepped inside. “Wait in the car,” he told her sharply.
She retreated down the path. Her shoe tangled in a plastic grocery bag driven by the considerable wind, and she bent to be rid of it.
Kort pushed the door shut.
Boote rounded the corner, his ID in hand, and Kort’s withdrawn weapon put two holes through the center of his chest and a third in the middle of his forehead once he was down. He knelt, while the body was still twitching, and tugged on the ID from the man’s persistent grip. He felt heady from the kill. Next were Mosner and the others; next he eliminated their manufactured death and destruction while directing the world’s attention to their lies and conspiracies. He smelled victory and it smelled sweet. He slipped the ID into his pocket, put the gun away, and hid the body in the coat closet. He dragged a small throw rug and covered the bloodstains. He left the house and walked to the car, where he found her clutching the wheel with her one good hand, pale and trembling, and he saw the ravages of tears staining her eyes red. “We do what we have to,” he said. He needed her strong.
She said nothing. She started the car and drove off.
“Stop,” he instructed as they passed the huge hangars that were part of Brown’s Aviation. “Pull over.”
She steered the car into the breakdown lane, allowing a van to pass. “What is it?” she asked.
“The wind,” he said, pointing up to the Day-Glo orange wind sock that billowed atop the third hangar.
It took a moment to get his bearings. He spun himself in the seat until he figured he was looking due east. “It’s the wrong wind,” he said, checking his watch.
“What do you mean?”
“The wrong direction! We need them to use runway thirty-six—three-six. This wind will put them on eighteen. It’s no good.” He consulted a cryptic timetable he kept in his shirt pocket, rechecked his watch, and said, “We’ll just have to wait.”
“Wait?”
“We’ll go back and wait. We’ll have to hope the wind will change by this afternoon. There’s another 959 this afternoon. It doesn’t have a chemical cargo, but it’s the only thing we can do. There’s a radio band for the weather.”
“Wait?” she repeated. “No chemical cargo? I thought that was the whole point of this!”
“We have no choice. Turn it around. Take us back.”
“I do not understand. I thought that was the point of the operation—the chemical cargo.”
“Who cares if you understand. Drive the car!”
“You should not have killed him. Do you see? You should not have killed him.”
“No one cares about Boote. He’s but one of many. Believe me, no one cares.”
“I do not believe you,” she said, negotiating the turn. “We all have someone who cares,” she snapped, wishing she did. “Or what is there left to live for?”
37
* * *
“I suppose you think I’m a beast,” Kort said from his perch on the edge of the bathtub.
Her hands were bound in front of her with a long white plastic tie, a variation on the kind used to seal trash bags. It held her wrists together so tightly that her hands had swolle
n. Her left ankle was bound in a similar manner, but with a nylon rope hooked through it. This rope connected at its other end to an unforgiving pipe. Kort had tied both knots in the nylon rope strongly, and then had taken the added precaution of lighting the knots on fire and melting them into a molten mass so that they could not be untied under any circumstance. Her improvised handcuff didn’t stop her from smoking the Sobranie he offered her. But she didn’t answer him, even though her lips were free to speak. She had no words that could express what she thought of him, and only in the last few minutes had she contained her rage so that now, shackled and sitting on the floor of the bathroom with her legs tucked up into a ball, she was wet with the perspiration of anger.
“None of this was planned. None of it. Least of all that I should fall in love with you.” He studied her unforgiving eyes and nodded. “Oh, yes, Caroline. Do you think that you, or the boy for that matter, would be alive right now if that were not the case? I have no desire to hurt you. There’s hurt enough in this world.”
“You’re mad.”
“I’m not going to argue the right or wrong of what it is I do for I need answer only to myself on that score. Only to myself and to Him,” he said, looking at the ceiling, “and I’ve made my peace with Him.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
She had never witnessed his temper before, but it flared, red hot, and he dropped to one knee and pressed his face to hers. “What the fuck do you know about it?” Her face, wet with the spit of his rage, turned away, and behind trembling hands the cigarette found her lips and she sucked hard and cowered as Kort returned to his perch.
He continued nodding, wouldn’t take his eyes off her. He was mad. His hand found his wallet, and his fingers found the photograph tucked inside the leather slot and he leaned forward, frightening her, and slapped it down onto the top of the toilet seat. “This is their work. This was my child,” he said viciously. He withdrew his hand. She could feel him staring at her, willing her to look.
She was afraid to look, but knew it wouldn’t be over until she granted him this. And when she did look, her stomach buckled and bile burned her throat. She turned away, and though trying to contain herself, heard the plaintive cry that escaped her. He had won and he knew it. He continued that strange nodding, as if convincing himself, and without looking at the photo, returned it to the wallet. “We all have our reasons for what we do,” he said.
“You used me,” she managed to say, for this fire had been burning inside her ever since Cam had mentioned the keys.
“I could have taken your keys at any time. I didn’t use you. Not in the way you mean.”
“Then it was the keys.”
“Yes.”
“And now?”
He snubbed his cigarette out in the sink and stood towering over her, looking down at her. He held out another cigarette for her. He waited until she looked up and accepted it. Their eyes met and she wondered how anyone so gentle could do the things this man did. She recalled their lovemaking as if it had been years ago, and she couldn’t stop her tears from falling. She hated him more than any person on earth, and yet her tears were the tears of love.
“There are two kinds of fools in this world. Fools who are fools because they do nothing. And fools who are fools for what they do. But I’m no fool.”
He walked to the door.
“Don’t do it, Carl—or whoever you are. There are other ways … Don’t do it!”
This turned his head, for even she was surprised at the concern in her voice. Slowly a smile took his face. Her tone had clearly impressed him. He stared at her for a very long time, but she felt nothing. Only ice cold. “Not Carl,” he said, widening his grin. “It’s Anthony Kort.” He shut the door.
She knew the name because of Cam. Reality sank in: Anthony Kort. She understood Cam’s relentless determination much better then, and she felt horrible for the things she had said to him. She folded up as once again her insides stung with poison. He had been inside her, this monster. Did it not make sense that a monster should be born to a monster?
“You bas … tard!” she screamed as loudly as she could, until all the air went out of her. Though as she heard the door to the other room shut and their low voices there, she knew her words meant nothing. A man like this only understood actions.
It sounded as if they were leaving. She heard the word airport and she knew something had to be done. Now!
The unlit cigarette remained on the floor at her knees where she had left it. She stuffed it into her lips and frantically drew on it, pressing against it the smoldering butt of her last. She puffed and puffed, desperately trying to get the new one to catch, and finally it did ignite and she swallowed the smoke victoriously.
It wasn’t that she wanted a cigarette. It was that she had a plan. And now that she knew who this man really was—now that she understood—there was nothing she wouldn’t do to stop him.
Less than a minute later the car pulled out and she went to work.
38
* * *
“Do you have them?” Daggett asked Lynn before she was even inside the house.
“Yes, but—” she answered, immediately interrupted.
“Put them over there. I’m on the phone. I’ll be right with you.” He returned to the phone and said quickly, “Sorry about that. Yes. Mechanics, that’s right.” He glanced up at her. She stared at him, wondering where all this energy came from. He motioned for her to put the papers she had brought on the dining room table. “Anyone who doesn’t show up for work this morning … I know that … It’s important … Yes … I’ll give you two numbers. If I don’t answer at the first, try the second. It’s extremely important. It may involve one of your planes … That’s right.”
She hadn’t expected to find him this animated. She thought she would find a man, drinking perhaps, tucked into a corner and cold.
“They won’t let me be part of it,” he explained as he headed straight to her papers, energy exploding from his every movement. “I’ve been put on the sidelines because of my personal involvement. If I go into work they’re going to lock me in a room and interrogate me for the hundredth time. And today’s the day,” he said in a troubled voice. “The meeting. There’s no time for any of that.”
“I think you lost me,” she admitted, putting down her purse.
“I had it in front of me all along,” he explained, running his hand through his hair. He checked his watch for the third time since she had arrived. His nervousness rubbed off on her and she found herself anxious and hot. “Take a look at this.” He slapped down the note Kort had left him on the day of Duncan’s abduction.
“What about it?” she asked, wishing she didn’t have to, but she saw nothing.
“It’s written on my memo pad.” He pointed to the small piece of paper. “That’s my name there at the top. Duncan gave me that pad for Christmas last year.”
“You lost me.”
“I keep that memo pad in my briefcase.”
“So?”
“So Kort fucked up.”
“Cam …”
“Kort asked me to deliver the itineraries. The meeting in the subway station—he wanted the itineraries.”
“Yeah … So?”
“This memo pad was in my briefcase. He got it from my briefcase. He had already seen the itineraries. Get it?”
“No.”
“If he had already seen the itineraries, then why did he ask me to deliver them to him?” He only waited a second before answering himself. She had never seen him like this; she felt afraid of him. “Because he needed a reason—a really good reason—for me to believe he would risk a face-to-face meeting. It’s all double-think. It’s all outthinking the other guy—putting yourself inside his head. Get it?”
“Then why did he ask for the itineraries? No, I don’t get it!”
“Because he needed a witness. It had nothing to do with itineraries. He needed me—the head of the investigation—to witness his death. But he wrote
his note on the wrong fucking memo pad, and it’s going to hang him.”
“He’s alive?” She reached for the edge of table in order to balance herself.
“Damn right he’s alive.” He scattered a bunch of his own papers and thumbed through the ones she had brought for him. He removed the runway map of LAX. “The scale is too big, so we can’t even see Hollywood Park, but take my word for it.” He fished through the debris for a ruler, measured the scale of miles, and then measured off the end of the open map. He signaled her to hand him the salt and pepper. She did so. “Hollywood Park is right here,” he said, placing down the salt shaker.
“I don’t have the slightest idea where you’re going with this.”
He leaned forward and slammed the salt shaker down once again. She jumped back. “This is where sixty-four hit. Right here. Exactly here.” He took the ruler in hand and measured off the distance. “You see the size of Hollywood Park—it’s huge. Barnes was the one who told me,” he said, confusing her. “Barnes told me the simulation at Duhning and the crash of sixty-four confirmed the same flight pattern. The real plane and the simulator flew the same distance; and in both cases landed in the same place. If you transpose the simulation to a real map, then the plane crashes in Hollywood Park. He told me that,” Daggett said, “and it went right over my head.”
“You’re frightening me.”
“Good,” he said, nodded wildly. “The truth is frightening, isn’t it? ‘Physics,’ Barnes said. I wasn’t listening to him. Physics! You remove pilot control and the plane falls. In effect, the 959 pilots were all trained by Ward—they would all perform these first few minutes of flight in the same manner: Kort could count on that. He is counting on that.”
She felt her eyes go hot and scratchy, and she knew she was about to cry. She stepped toward him wanting to comfort him, wanting to give him some peace. He stopped her by taking hold of both her shoulders and waiting for her eyes.
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