Flight of the Fox

by Gray Basnight

  It was the first bump in the road wrought by his own willingness to lead her along as a lover in exchange for corporate protection and career growth. Because she trusted him, she wanted him to go to Key West and clean up this mess that had caused them all to get their collective tit stuck in the wringer. Him. He could hardly say no.

  Rose rubbed his bleary eyes and tried to reason it out. All he had to do was get to Key West and help Donnursk kill a math professor and a renegade agent named McCanliss. The problem was, he had to do it without getting hurt, which was not guaranteed. And if he pulled it off, there would be follow-up problems. Interim Director Trippler would make certain he received all credit. But then she’d arrange a promotion and transfer him to D.C., where they’d be closer.

  It was a fine example of an office entanglement backfiring. She was nearly two decades older than he, yet was such a fool that she actually believed he loved her.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  I-95, Savannah, GA

  I-95 can be a mean challenge to a driver’s endurance.

  Donnursk pulled over again near Savannah. He filled the tank and checked for any new communications from Trippler.

  Nothing.

  He bought a sandwich and soda. Back in the truck, before eating, he withdrew a foil packet of company supplied amphetamine. This particular packet held two thirty-milligram Adderall tablets. He pushed them from the aluminum backing, put them in his mouth and washed them down with soda. Then he cranked the truck’s engine and headed back onto I-95.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Key West, FL

  It was just the break he needed.

  The news on the co-pilot’s headset clued him in on the looming schedule, letting McCanliss know he still had time for one last night in the saloon.

  It also allowed him to catch up on the facts of his own six-day-old case. While perched at the end of a bar in the Bahama Village section of the island, he watched news on the overhead TV. A shooting in Washington was the latest development. The math professor’s attorney girlfriend had been shot in the leg and was speaking to the media from her hospital bed at George Washington University Hospital.

  But there was something else, something unprecedented.

  Something not good.

  A liberal congressman and a big-name lawyer from New York City were yammering about increasing doubts that Teagarden had killed Billy Carney and about whether he had any role at all in the death of somebody named Danford Shackton. They blabbered endlessly about the possibility that Teagarden was actually a whistle-blower, a potential national hero on the run from “dark forces.”

  And there was more.

  Also not good.

  During the report, there was a quick flash of video showing Svetlana, who the newscaster said “May or may not have been murdered by Sam Teagarden.” And in the background of that video—was his own image!

  McCanliss couldn’t believe his eyes. It meant his preemptive kill of Svetlana was—not—clean, as he had assured Donnursk in the Central Park Zoo. That little piece of video on the mainstream media would send Donnursk and the entire tenth floor straight over the edge.

  “Jesus,” he mumbled.

  With this development, the situation had advanced from clusterfuck to intergalactic fucking among the heavenly bodies. Whole new stars would be born in the Milky Way because of this husbanding of Big Bang imbecility on the part of just about everyone within the Justice Department. Including him.

  “Unbelievable,” he said to the television mounted over the bar.

  It verified his estimation that Teagarden really was smart enough to slip the geniuses on the tenth floor, not to mention the D.C. Metro Police. And why not? Teagarden ducked him in Bethel. It stood to reason that everybody else would lose him, too. Now he knew he was right. This guy had managed to reach Virginia Beach where his daughter was arranging to pick him up in a DC-3 and get him into hiding on Key West.

  Smart. Hell, it was more than smart. It was brilliant. The man was a natural Jason Bourne, but without a gun or a black belt. Still, what was it to him? At this point it was a “so what?” He was done. He’d already made his plans. All he had to do was carry them out. He finished his drink and barked an order to the bartender, “Change the goddamn channel.”

  The TV was switched to a billiards competition without comment from the bartender.

  McCanliss contemplated the time. Because he’d overheard Pangolin’s planned trip to Virginia Beach, he knew he had at least until morning. He withdrew the card from his wallet given to him by the bronzed cabdriver and borrowed the bartender’s cellphone to see if she was available.

  She was.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Southeast Coast, 20,000 Feet Altitude

  During the flight north to Virginia, Eva sat in the co-pilot’s seat of the DC-3.

  “Would you like to talk about it?” Pangolin asked.

  She was in no frame of mind to recount everything, but she was glad to see him. They used sportscaster style headsets with attached microphones to converse over the noise.

  “Oh, Pang, what a horrible week this has been.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “If you watch the news, there’s nothing much else to tell, unless you think he did it. I know he didn’t.”

  “He didn’t do it,” Pangolin said. “I never thought so for a moment. In fact—”

  “Of course he didn’t,” she interrupted. “My dad could no more harm a little boy than he could fly this airplane.”

  “And we’re not the only ones who believe that. I saw a survey on one of the ridiculous news networks. Fifty-eight percent believe he’s being set up. And sixty-eight percent believe he’s some sort of whistle-blower trying to reveal some wildly dark government secret from America’s past.”

  “I saw that, too. Where do they get this stuff?”

  “Your dad is now more of a national celebrity than a fugitive from justice.”

  “But, Pang, that same stupid survey said seventy-four percent believe he’s motivated by stardom on reality TV, selling a book or some entertainment deal for a big paycheck.”

  “I intentionally left that out,” Pangolin said. “There’s other news that some New York lawyer is petitioning a congressional committee to offer amnesty in exchange for whatever information he’s got.”

  “The problem is, people are still trying to kill him. So how does he negotiate amnesty when hitmen are on his trail?”

  “It does complicate things. At least he’s turning a corner in the court of public opinion. Plus, Congress is considering an unprecedented offer.”

  “Congress moves too slowly,” she said.

  “Has Washington called you at all?”

  “No.”

  “Are you being watched?”

  “I think so. I’m pretty sure my phone and e-mail are monitored because things are sluggish and my landline phone is staticky. Plus, there’s one creepy guy. It’s not constant, but I’ve seen him a couple of times loitering around the house. But there are no uniformed police or anything like that, thank God.”

  “What about the media?”

  “They don’t seem to know I exist.”

  “That’s bad,” Pangolin said.

  “Why? I thought it was good.”

  “It’s bad because whoever’s tailing your father and trying to kill him doesn’t want a crowd around you. That would make you more difficult to get to and put the killers at risk of being spotted on somebody’s security video. Spooks don’t like cameras. Neither do cops.”

  “How come the media people haven’t found me on their own?”

  “Maybe because they’re all anchors and no reporters, or maybe because the reporters don’t know what shoe leather is for.”

  Holding control of the DC-3 with one hand, he reached to massage her neck with the other. She was pleased. It had been a long time, and she’d been racking her brain for a way to reconnect.

&
nbsp; “I’ve got an idea,” he said after a few moments. “After we pick up your dad, any chance the Navy will let me land at Boca Chica? Maybe he could claim sanctuary inside the naval air station. You know, like Esméralda did inside the cathedral in The Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

  “Not a chance. They’d lock us both up. Besides, I’ve got to play out this phony drama I’ve concocted about an emergency landing at Key West. That’s why my X-47 is parked in that civilian hangar by the swamp at EYW. Engineers, designers, and grease-monkeys will be on it all weekend.”

  “Are they going to find a problem?”

  “Yes, I made certain of that.”

  They flew in silence at a low altitude over most of South Carolina, past Hilton Head and Charleston. She leaned toward him so he would again massage her neck. At the Outer Banks, air traffic control made him bank right, to stay east of Morehead City and Beaufort. When they were flying over Kitty Hawk, she spoke again.

  “Do you like your new life, Pang?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Except for the part where you’re not in it.” She sighed with appreciation. “The good part is that I own this bird outright. The cost of gas and upkeep is a killer, but I enjoy it. I live on my sailboat. It’s different.”

  “Anyone know that you were once Captain Kasey Landrew, the most feared fighter pilot in the U.S. Navy?”

  “Nope. People know me only as Pangolin, the long-haired hippie who lets passengers sit in the cockpit of a classic DC-3. They always want to buy me drinks afterward. Don’t know why. I guess it’s something about the romance of old-world aviation. Too bad my drinking days are over.”

  “I’m glad for you, Pang.”

  “Which part—liking my life or my drinking days being over?”

  “Both,” she said, giving him the first smile since boarding the plane.

  “Speaking of flying, that’s Kitty Hawk directly below,” he said.

  They strained to look down at the lights illuminating the narrow strip of an outer bank off the coast of North Carolina. There wasn’t much else to see.

  “All it took was a hundred and sixteen years,” he said. “From the Wright Brothers, to completely retooling for robots. Just a hundred and sixteen years. Jesus, Eva, what are computers going to take over next? Doctors? Maybe they’ll put lawyers and politicians out of business. At least that would be good.”

  “I’m sorry,” Eva said.

  “Don’t be. You didn’t cause this.”

  “Listen, I’m not telling you I’m sorry about the program. I believe in FIDROPRO. Sure, it’s a mothballed program, but it’ll be back. Fighter-drones are not the future, they’re the present, and they’re here to stay. What I’m telling you is that I’m sorry I married John Ghent instead of Kasey Landrew. It was the biggest mistake of my life.”

  “May I ask something? Did you rebound to him because I’m twenty years older than you?”

  Without answering, she looked down at the lights of Kitty Hawk, where the first airplane left the earth and flew for twelve seconds. They did not speak for the balance of the trip to Virginia Beach.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  “Mom would be proud.”

  “I don’t know,” Teagarden said to his daughter. “Honey, I’m freaked. It’s been a nightmare. Hard to believe it’s only been one week. Eva, people have been killed. And if your mom hadn’t been taken from us, don’t you think she’d be freaked, too?”

  “She’d be worried for your safety, just as I’ve been. She’d also be proud of you.”

  Pangolin stopped the engines just long enough to refuel. The tiny airport at Virginia Beach was private, out of the way, and virtually unknown to commercial aviation, making it perfect for secrecy. It had a grass landing strip that Captain Eva Ghent, U.S. Navy, knew would be manageable for a DC-3.

  “Dad, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you for real. Let me tell you, I’ve been watching little video snippets of you all week on the news channels. It’s been a dysfunctional travelogue of the East Coast: you dressed as a rabbi in the Woodstock museum, walking through the Walmart parking lot, New York City streets, the garage and elevator in the Watergate building. Did you know they’ve been airing security camera video of you using an old payphone in that Times Square hotel?”

  “The Argonaut?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did the camera pick up the numbers I dialed?”

  “They fuzzed-out the part that shows your fingers pushing the buttons, so, I guess—yes. They could probably make out the number you dialed on the original video.”

  Oh God! That’s why Svetlana was murdered. They read the numbers and knew I’d phoned her. And I thought I was being so clever by outsmarting McCanliss at The Argonaut. Instead, I only caused another murder with my foolish guile.

  He felt the approach of another wave of heavy emotion, which he struggled to fight off.

  “Dad? Are you okay? What is it?”

  “I’ll tell you later, hon. It’s complicated.” He took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice and ward off emotional collapse. “First, tell me, are you being watched or followed?”

  “I think so. That’s why I wanted you to call the P.R. office at the air station. I’ve got a friend there helping me. I figured it was best not to take chances.”

  “Raymond Bakerfield?”

  “No, Petty Officer First Class Joanna Manolo. There is no Raymond Bakerfield. When you asked for him, she passed you to me. It was our code.”

  “Your mom raised a smart daughter.”

  “My dad gets some credit, too.”

  The wave of emotion grew closer. Knowing he couldn’t fight it much longer, he spoke in carefully measured words.

  “If you’re not taking any chances, how’d this plane get out of Key West with you on it?”

  “Simple. I landed my remote bird at Key West International instead of Boca Chica. They may be watching my house, car, and telephone, but it’s kind of hard for them to watch my X-47.”

  “What about the Navy? Won’t they be annoyed that you landed at the wrong airport?”

  “Not if you have a Mayday emergency called ‘leak in the fuel line,’ which I made certain I had. The Navy loves it when you save a hundred-fifty-million-dollar airplane from crashing in the Atlantic. When they’re done fixing it, I’ll sit at the video-game console on Boca and hop it back where it belongs, then get a nice round of ‘atta-girl’ from everybody.”

  “Allow me to be the first,” he said. “Atta-girl!”

  “Thanks, Dad. And by the way, that Dan Jones thing was a clever ruse. How’d you think of it? Dad, what…”

  The wave of emotion finally arrived and slammed full force. He wanted to answer her, tell her that Dan Jones was just another man running from his life, but what emerged was an involuntary full-blown breakdown.

  Sitting next to him in the back of the aircraft, Navy Captain Eva Ghent wrapped an arm around her father’s shoulders, pulled him to her and held him. Below, the lights of Carolina’s Outer Banks flashed past in the night on their way south to Key West.

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” she whispered. “We’re going to get through this.”

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  When his tears stopped flowing, he showed her the thirty-four pages of the fully transcribed Dear John file, still stained with the blood of Dan Shackton and Cynthia Blair.

  She turned on the overhead reading light and adjusted the neck of the antique telescopic lamp to focus on the pages, reading random passages out of chronological order while he slept.

  Dear John,

  So, your Op. Over Easy patsy is back from the Soviet Union. Did Mr. Oswald learn anything worthwhile about that crazy commie, Nikita Khrushchev? Did he, John? Or are you just setting him up for something to come? Why are you keeping this operation in the dark? From the rest of the bureau—ok. But you are keeping it even from me? Me—John? Why do you trust Agent Mark Trippler more than me on this?

  It wo
rries me. One slip up on this thing—and we are walking in waist deep doo-doo.

  I love you,

  CAT

  June, 1962

  Dear John,

  In the limo at Hialeah? Really? The limo, John? You haven’t done that (to my knowledge) since 1938. I’m the first to admit that the new asst. director you posted to the Miami office is a statue of Italian marble straight from the Roman Empire, not to mention luscious. But practicing the Roman arts in the limo while parked within view of the Hialeah racetrack?

  You are taking too many risks. I will punish you tonight, my darling.

  I love you,

  CAT

  February, 1958

  Dear John,

  Do you remember how upset I was about your rendezvous with the asst. director at Miami? Well this is worse, John.

  A recruit? A mere recruit at the house on 30th Place? Making him pay his taxes to Caesar in the middle of the day? And while I was in the office making excuses for you?

  You are so very lucky I love you so much and am willing to cover for all your naughtiness.

  With all my (angry) love,

  CAT

  June, 1958

  Dear John,

  I totally agree with your plan to pursue certain alliances with the president, especially as regards that loud-mouthed hippie John Lennon and that national scourge Jane Fonda.

  But frankly, I think Nixon’s enemies list goes too far. Please do not sign onto his political motives. As the head-shrinks diagnosed during his veep years, that man is afflicted with extreme paranoid personality disorder. He’s a walking Shakespearean tragedy.

  That said, by all means, we must preserve American integrity when it comes to our eventual victory in Vietnam. Thus, class-2 overt surveillance of Lennon and Fonda to scare the crap out of them, just like you did with that Fidel-loving Hemingway, is the right move. Of course, you helped make Hemingway blow the top of his head off, but as the French say, “c’est la vie.”