True Lies

by Ingrid Weaver

  “You know that if anything happens to me, our deal is off.”

  “It’s going to be cramped for you back there under the tarp. It would have been simpler if you had let me do this alone.”

  “And you know why that’s not possible.”

  “Still don’t trust me, Bruce?”

  “About as much as you trust me, Emma.”

  A pale slash on the horizon stretched into a ribbon, then a sheet. In minutes they were heading northeast over the unrolling expanse of the St. Lawrence. The noise of the engine lowered as Emma dropped her airspeed and reduced her dangerously low altitude even further. Islands appeared beneath them, long dark humps sailing past on the dull glitter of the restless water. They were miles away from the regular shipping channel, so when Bruce spotted the lights from the freighter, he knew it was the ship they were looking for.

  Emma circled, flashing her landing lights two times.

  There was no response.

  Bruce leaned toward the side window. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. We're on time. We're at the right coordinates. They should have responded.”

  “Try again.”

  The engine roared as she banked into a steep turn and made another pass over the ship. This time a powerful floodlight burst across the port side, illuminating a surprisingly flat strip of water. The oblong island that lay off the far side of the ship had effectively blocked the swells and the waves from the wide part of the river.

  “Doesn’t look too bad,” Bruce said. “Do you think you can put us down all right?”

  “I'll do it.” Emma clenched her jaw and circled one final time to line up for the landing. The lower she got, the more waves she could see on the water. They glittered on the edges of the floodlit path like moving runway lights. Even if the surface turned out to be calm enough to attempt a landing, she couldn’t see whether there were any obstacles. There could be a waterlogged piece of debris in her path that could catch a pontoon and flip her over. Or the wind patterns could change without warning. Or the poor lighting could cause her to misjudge her altitude and hit the river too fast.

  She called on all of her experience and ignored her instruments, using her instincts and the sense of rapport she had with the Cessna to feel her way down. The airspeed dropped. Ripples on the water’s surface raced past in a blur of silver. The pontoons skimmed, then sliced, then settled firmly on the river as the plane lost its lift. Their forward motion slowed. Miraculously, they were down.

  “I've had bumpier rides on dry tarmac at O'Hare,” Bruce said as he unbuckled his seat belt. “Very impressive, Emma.”

  She exhaled sharply, blowing a strand of loose hair from her forehead. “Thanks.”

  He grunted, as if regretting the compliment. “Keep the nose pointed away from the ship for a minute.” Nimbly he twisted out of his seat and worked his way toward the back of the plane.

  Emma looked out the side window. A small launch was speeding across the water from the ship. “Better hurry,” she said. “They're not wasting any time.” She cut the engines and reached into the storage slot beside her seat to unsnap a large flashlight from its magnetic holder. She swung the beam around the cabin but there was no longer any trace of her passenger.

  Something metallic clanked against the pontoon. Emma got to her feet and stooped over to open the door. Damp, cool air and a glaring light struck her full in the face. She lifted her hand to shade her eyes and could see the outline of the launch that had pulled alongside. The two men on board were little more than vague shapes against the spotlight that was clamped to the side.

  “You Duprey?” The voice was rough, with a trace of an accent that elongated the vowels.

  Emma nodded and braced herself as the wash from the boat’s wake rocked the plane.

  The other man leaned over to hold them in place with a boat hook. Metal scraped again. “This is the plane, all right. Give her the stuff and let’s get out of here.”

  “Keep us steady.” The first man picked up a square, paper-wrapped package and swung a leg over the side. He balanced on the pontoon and looked around the interior of the plane thoroughly before he handed the package to Emma.

  McQuaig had told her what to expect, so she tried to keep the revulsion out of her expression as she fitted the package into one of the empty crates. She pushed it toward the back of the plane and returned to the doorway. The loading continued in silence. When half the crates were filled, the boat hook was withdrawn and the launch drifted away.

  “Is that all?” Emma asked across the widening gap of water.

  “You've got what McQuaig told us to give you,” the man with the rough voice replied. He clicked off the light on the side and spoke to his companion. “Let’s go.” The boat’s motor chugged to life, throwing a frothing wake against the plane.

  Emma fastened the latch on the door and took a deep breath. It had all gone so quickly, so easily. She could hardly believe it was almost over. She felt her way into the pilot’s seat, strapped herself in, and started the engine. “I've got one minute before the ship turns off that floodlight,” she called. “I'm taking off now, whether you're in your seat or not.”

  Bruce was already behind her. He squeezed her shoulder, then slipped into his seat and clicked his belt shut.

  The illuminated path stretched in front of her, the surface of the water stirring menacingly. She couldn’t think about the risks. She had made it down, she would make it back up. She nosed the plane into position and opened the throttle, dropping the flaps to shorten her takeoff run. She had to compensate for the sharper angle by increasing her power, and the Cessna responded beautifully, climbing sharply into the vast blackness, soaring away from the launch and the dark bulk of the freighter as if it were as anxious to be away from this place as she was. When she reached her cruising altitude, she leveled off and eased back the throttle. Before long they left the St. Lawrence and were heading south once more.

  It was several minutes before Bruce spoke. “That was smoother than I could have guessed.”

  “You didn’t really believe that I would give you away, did you?”

  “No. Whatever else you are, Emma, you're not stupid.” He clicked on his flashlight and twisted around. “The whole operation didn’t take more than eight minutes from the time you signaled the ship. Flying under radar, maintaining radio silence, hell, no wonder the coast guard hasn’t been able to catch them at it.”

  “You sound as if it’s all a big game to you,” she said.

  “It’s no game. It’s my job.”

  “Right. Upholding the law, putting away the bad guys, that’s what you live for, isn’t it?”

  “We're on the home stretch, Emma. Don’t start up now, okay?”

  She glanced at the darkness beyond the windshield, watching for the patch of paleness that would indicate the first of the lakes she was using for landmarks. The moon was high in the sky now, providing more than adequate illumination. As long as the favorable winds held, the flight back would be far easier than the flight out. “I didn’t see any patrol boats near the freighter.”

  “They're keeping their distance, but they're there. Units will already be setting up around the warehouse so no one slips away when we're ready to tighten the net.” He unfastened his seat belt and maneuvered his way out of the cockpit.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking our cargo.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. He crouched beside one of the crates, the small flashlight held between his teeth. He took out one of the paper-wrapped packages and weighed it in his hand. A frown creased his face.

  “What’s wrong?” she called.

  He set the flashlight down and put his foot on it to keep it from rolling away. “Doesn’t feel the right weight for this size.”

  “So?”

  “This was a smaller load than usual, wasn’t it?”

  “Smaller than last time.”

  He shifted to another crate. One by one, he lifted the pa
ckages out and inspected them. “None of them feel right.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Instead of answering her directly, he pulled a knife from a buttoned pocket of his shirt and unfolded a stubby blade.

  “Hey. I don’t want you tampering with that. I don’t want any trouble from McQuaig when I deliver it.”

  “Don’t you want to know what you're delivering?”

  She set her jaw and returned her gaze to the instruments, verifying that they were still on course. The homestretch, he had said. And that’s what it was. Once she took the cocaine to the warehouse—

  “What the hell is going on?” Bruce said suddenly.

  Emma looked over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  “You tell me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He picked up the package he had opened and worked his way toward her. “Look at this.” He braced one hand against the back of her seat and extended his other hand in front of her. “Is this what Harvey told you to pick up tonight?”

  In the stark beam of his flashlight she saw that he had cut away the brown paper wrapping. Instead of smooth plastic underneath, there was more paper. While she watched, he inserted the tip of his knife into the opening and sliced through several more layers of nothing but newsprint. Why would they do this? Was this flight nothing but a test? Didn’t they believe that she would follow their orders for her brother’s sake?

  “I know that you haven’t had a chance to tip them off since we left the warehouse. What’s going on, Emma?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I had a deal with them. I don’t understand why they would change their minds.”

  He tossed the worthless package onto his vacant seat and moved back to inspect the others. Tense minutes passed as he checked the contents of each crate. Emma couldn’t take her attention away from the controls for more than a few seconds at a time, but whenever she glanced over her shoulder she could see the scowl on Bruce’s face deepen. Finally, though, he slit open a package that wiped all expression from his face.

  Emma felt her stomach do a roller coaster glide downward. “What is it? What did you find?”

  He sat back on his heels and slowly turned toward her. “Where are we now, Emma?”

  She glanced out the window and saw a curving gleam between the dark hills. It was shaped like a bird’s foot. “About halfway home.”

  “Can you land here?”

  “On water I don’t know? Why?”

  “What’s the closest place to put down?” he persisted.

  “Why?”

  He tilted his flashlight toward the package he had just opened. “It looks as if you weren’t the only one who wanted to terminate your business arrangement.”

  Emma craned her neck. There wasn’t any plastic bag full of white powder in this one, either. Nor was it packed with newsprint like the others. It appeared to be a handful of wires and a clock, of all things. A clock.

  “This explains why McQuaig’s group didn’t want to give you the real thing,” Bruce said. “They didn’t want to waste it.”

  The roller coaster did another swoop through her stomach. “What the...”

  “I'll wedge myself in back here and keep it steady, but I strongly advise you to find a place to bring us down as soon as possible.”

  The significance of what she was seeing dawned on her all at once. “Oh, my God!”

  It was a bomb.

  Chapter 9

  Bruce used every shred of his wavering control to fight down the instinctive flash of panic. He had to think, to plan, to reason, to stamp out the gut-level terror evoked by what he was holding. He couldn’t let himself remember the other time. He had to do his job.

  He moved his flashlight, forcing himself to study the explosive device. The dynamite would be enough to blow off the tail of the plane, virtually guaranteeing a fatal crash. He focused on the glowing red numbers on the timing mechanism. They had less than fifteen minutes left. Evidently the bomb was timed to go off while they were over the sparsely populated region of the north woods.

  “Throw it out of the plane!” Emma shouted.

  “No.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “What if it hits a camper? Or a lumberjack? What if it starts a forest fire? I'm not going to be responsible for the death of some innocent bystander.”

  “Then pull out the wires or something.”

  “I won’t risk disarming it while we're in the air. If something went wrong, neither one of us would have much chance of surviving. Stop wasting time, Emma. Land the plane.”

  “You're crazy. I'm calling for help,” she said, reaching for the radio.

  “Don’t do that, or they'll know you found the bomb.”

  “So what?”

  “McQuaig’s people want you dead. If they find out you're not, they'll try again.”

  “This isn’t one of your games, Bruce. I'm not going to risk my life to play along.”

  “We have fourteen minutes left. The risk is minimal if you can find somewhere to land.”

  The background noise that they had been shouting over wasn’t loud enough to drown out the string of four-letter words she uttered. She shoved the hand mike back into its cradle and nosed the plane downward.

  Nausea threatened as Bruce propped his feet against the side of the fuselage and steadied the bomb between his palms.

  “I'll try for the lake we just passed,” she said. “It’s small, but it would take us too long to find a better one. How much time?”

  “Twelve minutes.”

  She swore again, but didn’t waste her energy by arguing. She made one quick pass and banked smoothly. Moonlight flooded into the cabin for a breathless, silver instant before the plane completed the turn and began to descend.

  Bruce pressed the back of his head against one of the wooden crates and braced himself. The noise of the engine dropped. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he tightened his grip on the bomb. There was no floodlight to illuminate a path for landing, no time to check the surface for obstacles, yet he had complete faith in Emma’s ability to get them down safely.

  The pontoons struck the water and the plane slewed like a car going through sand. A crate toppled over. Bruce curled forward to prevent anything from striking the explosive. His flashlight bounced and another crate fell, catching him on the shoulder.

  “It’s going to be close,” Emma yelled. “Hang on.”

  From his position on the floor he could see a dark outline looming in front of the starry horizon. The outline shifted and grew until it became a ridge of trees. The plane bucked as Emma fought to rid them of their forward momentum. A precious minute went by as they slowed. By now the entire sky was filled with nothing but huge pines.

  The plane shuddered to a stop with a dull thud of metal against wood. Emma shut down the engine and was out of her seat before the echoes died. She wrenched open the door. “Okay, we're down. Now throw that out of my plane.”

  Bruce left the bomb where it was and pushed himself up. “Grab whatever you can. Maps, compass, flashlights. Have you got an emergency kit?” He leaned over to take a look outside. They were less than twenty yards from the shelf of pale rock that marked the shore. One of the pontoons had ridden up on a half-submerged log. If they had been going any faster when they struck it, they would have flipped over. “Wrap them in the tarp to keep them dry. We've got seven minutes left.”

  She lunged toward him and grasped his arm. “What are you doing?”

  “In seven minutes this plane is going to blow up, just like your friends expect it to.”

  Her grip tightened. “You're insane. I'm not going to stand by and let my plane be destroyed.”

  “This is the only way. For whatever reason, you've been set up. They'll be checking, and they have to believe they succeeded. With my people set to move in within twenty-four hours, I can’t jeopardize—”

  “To hell with your investigation, Mr. Policeman. I'm saving my plane
.” She tried to slip past him. When he didn’t move, she shoved at his chest. “Get out of my way.”

  He knew by her tone there was no reasoning with her. He moved swiftly, grabbing her around the waist before she could guess his intentions. Swiveling around, he squeezed out of the plane, hauling her with him. As soon as he stood solidly on the pontoon, he swung her over the water and released his grip.

  She shrieked as she splashed into the lake. He paused only long enough to be sure she resurfaced before he ducked back into the plane. A clock in his head was counting off the minutes. Wasting no more time, he took the tarp that he’d concealed himself with and laid it flat behind the cockpit. He snatched up everything that was loose and piled it into the center, added his holster and his gun, then drew the corners up and fastened the whole thing closed with a length of rope.

  The plane rocked as Emma clambered onto the pontoon. Bruce stepped to the open door and tossed the bundle to her. “Here, catch.”

  He heard her hit the water again. This time instead of shrieking, she splashed in rhythmic strokes toward the shore. He picked up his flashlight and shone it one last time around the cabin, looking for anything else that might be useful. Open packages of worthless newsprint littered the floor. Several wooden crates lay on their sides. The numbers on the bomb’s timer glowed red as they worked their way downward. Pausing only long enough to grab the nylon sleeping bag from the jumble of Simon’s camping equipment, Bruce stepped out of the plane for the final time and eased himself into the water.

  The cold was a shock, stealing his breath and sending icy needles through the shoulder that the crate had fallen on during their landing. He raised himself up enough to fling the tightly rolled bag onto the shore, then lowered his head and stroked after it.

  Emma sat at the edge of the water, the bundle he’d tossed to her rested high and dry on the rock ledge behind her. Her fingers were a pale blur as she unlaced her boots. She yanked them off, threw them toward the bundle and stepped into the lake. In the moonlight her eyes seemed huge, her face leached of color as she looked toward the abandoned Cessna.

  Bruce felt the bottom under his feet and rose in front of her. “Get back, Emma.”