“You got it.” Ryan replied.
“Where exactly are you?” Donovan asked. “And what’s the closest airport that will handle the Gulfstream?”
“We’re a hundred thirty-five miles east of Kingston, Jamaica.”
“I’ll call when I have more details. Plan on having the helicopter meet me in Kingston.”
“Will do,” Pittman replied and severed the connection.
Donovan ignored the sad state of his reflection in the mirror. He could feel the effects of the liquor he’d consumed the night before and the gritty hollow feeling of not enough sleep. He waited until the water turned ice cold and leaned in and splashed as much as he could stand on his face. The jolt would have to get him through until he could pound down some coffee and properly shower. When he emerged from the bedroom, he found that Montero was on the phone. Donovan moved past her and began loading the coffeemaker.
When Montero finished her phone conversation, Donovan was surprised to find that she looked deflated, both frustration as well as resignation showing in her eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
“That was Burgess.” Montero said. “I have to meet with the shooting review board this morning at nine sharp. It’s routine, but it would be helpful to know what the one eyewitness said in his statement.”
“The truth, that you saved my life.”
“You didn’t mention the intercom mix-up?”
“There was really no proof and it didn’t seem relevant.”
“Thank you for that.” Montero seemed relieved. “Burgess also informed me that there’s an Eco-Watch ship on the scene of what everyone now thinks is the site of the Pan Avia airliner crash. It seems your presence has been requested aboard your ship. I talked Burgess into thinking it’s a good idea for me to stick with you—for your protection. I think he’s relieved I’ll be out of South Florida. So it sounds like we’re going out to your ship.”
“I just heard about all of this myself. We need to get to Kingston, Jamaica as quickly as we can,” Donovan said without any trace of the pleasure he felt at maneuvering Montero out of South Florida into an environment of his making.
“And Nash,” Montero added. “The moment we get any kind of lead on the guy with the white beard and hair, we’re on it. I don’t care where we are when it happens. Do I make myself clear?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Donovan climbed the da Vinci to 37,000 feet, relieved to finally be leaving Florida behind. The rarified air was intensely clear, as if the entire atmosphere had been scrubbed clean by the cold front. Kyle Mathews was seated in the right seat acting as first officer. Kyle had been with Eco-Watch for almost two years and was steadily working his way up to captain. He was in his early thirties, born in the Midwest, down to earth and easygoing. Donovan enjoyed flying with the young man and was impressed with how he’d overseen the maintenance performed on the da Vinci.
Montero was seated in the jump seat, which placed her between and slightly behind the pilots. Donovan and Kyle quickly drifted into the easy conversation of professional pilots at work, which, by design, excluded Montero from most of the conversation.
Donovan scanned the instrument panel, then shifted his view out the side window. From seven miles up he could see the green vegetation and stark white beaches of the Bahamas. Under the gin-clear water were the muted contours of miles and miles of submerged sand dunes, shaped and reshaped by the ceaseless storms and tides of the Atlantic.
Kyle opened a high-altitude aeronautical chart and smoothed it out on his lap. Using a pencil he marked an X between Jamaica and Haiti. From a file, he pulled a sheaf of paper and began organizing.
“What do you have there?” Donovan asked.
“We all saw the latest televised reports of the Pan Avia crash before we left Boca Raton, and I’m trying to fill in some of the blanks. The news outlets want it to sound all mysterious, comparing this accident with that Air France A330 that went down years ago over the Atlantic Ocean. But I don’t think that’s the case.”
Donovan nodded his silent agreement. The Boeing 767 was a proven design that had been flying for decades. Nothing in its history resembled the Air France crash, which was eventually ruled as being caused by a multiple onboard flight computer failure coupled with probable pilot error causing the airliner to plunge into the ocean in stormy weather.
“The only aspect of the Pan Avia flight that was out of the ordinary was the significant course change to avoid weather,” Kyle explained. “Instead of flying the normal track over the Windward Islands, it deviated west to get on the backside of the front. Given the conditions, I say it was a good call.”
“Is this the same weather that you dealt with coming into Florida?” Montero asked Donovan.
“Yeah, same cold front, it just moved offshore.”
“The fact that the crew deviated this far to the west, toward Jamaica, speaks to the core intensity of the thunderstorms.” Kyle said. “San Juan reported radar tops nearing fifty thousand feet at several places along the line. According to the reports from the ship and the Eco-Watch crew on-scene, the wreckage is spread over a large area which points toward an in-flight breakup. But the large volume of raw, unburned jet fuel in the ocean tells me that there wasn’t a large-scale explosion.”
“Go on,” Donovan urged. Kyle had obviously been giving this some thought.
Kyle extracted a stack of papers from the file. “I printed out the archived images from the DMSP F16 satellite. It starts with a multispectral image that combines both infrared and visual aspects. This goes back twenty-four hours and each subsequent page marks a fifteen-minute interval.”
Donovan took the papers from Kyle and flipped through them. The sharp line of thunderstorms tracked quickly across the Caribbean until the frontal system ran out of energy and fell apart as it passed the Virgin Islands.
“I had to extrapolate some data based on available winds aloft and projected speed of the airliner, but here’s a higher-resolution satellite image of the area where the 767 went down at approximately the time the crash would have occurred.” Kyle handed the sheet to Montero.
“That’s amazing,” Montero said. “Where did you get this stuff?”
“What do you mean? We’re Eco-Watch; this is what we do.” Kyle shrugged. “We have access to nearly all of the weather collection agencies in the world.”
Donovan studied the visible infrared image. Its nighttime dark-blue hues seemingly otherworldly, but it clearly showed the gap in the storms the 767 captain had elected to fly through. A yellow outline depicted the islands of Cuba, Jamaica, Haiti, and the Dominican Republic. Donovan agreed with their decision—the estimated flight path looked relatively clear. He’d have made the same choice. Any pilot would have.
“What’s this one?” Montero took the next sheet from Kyle.
“This is microwave imagery that gives real-time rainfall amounts. On either side of the 767, the precipitation rate is roughly one inch per hour. That tells me the closest thunderstorms to the doomed airplane were relatively tame—certainly not the towering super cell it would take to destroy an airliner.”
“At some point, well before they encountered the actual thunderstorms, the Pan Avia crew would have seen the bright discharges of lightning marking the storms. They also would have seen the gap on their weather radar,” Donovan said. “We’ve penetrated similar storms with no ill effects other than turbulence.”
“They probably had a conversation with air traffic control and the decision was made to turn through the hole. Despite what the media has been reporting, I doubt that whatever brought down the Pan Avia flight had anything to do with the weather—which tells me that whatever happened took place quick enough to keep the crew from sending a distress call. The airplane broke up at altitude. In my mind it has to be from a bomb or some other outside source.”
“Who else has this information?” Montero replied. “I mean, how fast does the National Transportation Safety Board come to the same conclusion you
have?”
“I’m sure they already have—it’s not proprietary information,” Kyle explained. “Before the NTSB is finished, they’ll have raised every salvageable piece of the airliner from the ocean floor and painstakingly reconstructed the airframe. Only then will they offer even a preliminary report as to the cause of the accident.”
“I need to get up.” Donovan released his harness. “I want to check on some of the equipment in back. Yell if you need me.”
“Will do,” Kyle replied.
Donovan slipped past Montero into the privacy of the empty cabin. He slowly walked to the back of the plane, looking, listening, and testing the air for the distinct odor made by an electrical fire. Satisfied that everything appeared normal, he sat down at one of the science stations and opened a small compartment that housed a laptop computer. He flipped open the screen and waited. He’d debated using the satellite phone to call Lauren, but a light would illuminate in the cockpit, and Montero might notice and come back and start asking questions. Instead, he’d decided that a short note to Lauren via e-mail might work better.
He clicked his way through the icons until he secured the uplink and then quickly rifled through his in-box. Mostly things that could wait, though there were several he forwarded to Peggy to handle. As he worked down the list, he saw a message from Lauren. Closer inspection revealed it had been forwarded to her from someone at the DIA, no doubt the information he’d asked her for last night. He took it as a good sign that she wasn’t so angry that she wasn’t communicating with him. Though when he opened the mail, he discovered she’d written nothing, only sent the attachment. He registered the obvious omission and began to read.
Subject: Nathan David Strauss. b. 1969–
Facial-recognition search identified the individual in question as Nathan David Strauss, former senior operative with the Israeli Defense Forces. Strauss served with the IDF Special Missions Unit—severely injured in an airplane crash. Deactivated and retired. Divorced, no dependents. Confirmed heavy drug user due to severe hip injuries. Whereabouts unknown. Thought to be living near Haifa or possibly deceased.
“Why is Keller trying to find this guy?” Donovan said out loud. “He’s one of their own.”
Subject: Aaron Benjamin Keller. b. 1968–
Aaron Benjamin Keller is currently diplomatic attaché at large, assigned as a special envoy to the Israeli ambassador in Washington D.C. Current duties include multiple liaison duties between Mossad and pertinent antiterrorist task forces of the United States government. Holds full diplomatic immunity. All other information classified above this clearance level.
Donovan scrolled down and found what looked like a passport photo of Keller. He was legitimate. He printed everything out and then opened a fresh page to write Lauren back.
When he’d finished typing, he gave it a quick read through and was satisfied. He sent the message and then logged out. He looked out the window, enjoying the moment of solitude. When he glanced back up the aisle, he saw that Montero had turned in the jump seat, watching him. He motioned her to join him.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You seem preoccupied. You’re not suffering any aftereffects from last night, are you?”
He had no idea what Montero meant. Was she referring to being handcuffed and thrown in the back of a police car? The three dead bodies? Or the nightmare she’d witnessed? Did she have some inkling how much he hated going out to sea? Could she sense that? He exhaled heavily. The last thing he needed was Montero thinking they’d shared a moment or that she had some sort of insight into his soul.
“I’m fine. How did the review go?”
“It was routine. The statement that you gave, that you were about to be killed when I shot the gunman, made it all pretty perfunctory.”
He handed her the report Lauren had sent. “I got this a few minutes ago.”
“What the hell?” Montero said as she finished reading. “Keller is full of shit. He knows exactly who Strauss is.”
“What we do know for sure is that Keller was playing us. I think Strauss is on the run and Keller can’t find him. The question is: what is Strauss doing and what’s his connection to all of this?”
“I have no idea,” Montero replied. “Is Strauss a Mossad agent hunting bad guys? Or has he gone solo? Either way, I want to talk to him. Whatever game Keller is playing tells me that Strauss knows more than we do. If we don’t find Strauss before Keller does, then I doubt anyone will have a chance to interrogate him. Keller will deport him or eliminate him before he can be any kind of an embarrassment to Israel.”
“We need to leak this information to the FBI,” Donovan said. “They’ll find Strauss.”
“We can’t. They’ll trace it back to you and me and we’ll both be screwed. The only option we have is to find Strauss before Keller does.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Donovan banked the da Vinci over the last of the lush hills and settled onto final approach to Kingston International Airport. He touched down smoothly and then taxied clear of the active runway and fell in behind a battered yellow truck with a weathered FOLLOW ME sign bolted to the roof.
Kyle busied himself with the checklists as they were led past the main terminal to the east side of the Kingston airport. As they rounded the edge of the cargo terminal, Donovan spotted a row of private airplanes. There were two other Gulfstreams, as well as an older Challenger and some smaller airplanes, a Westwind and a Cessna Citation. There was also a Falcon 900, and Donovan noted the tail number as being Brazilian. He surmised it was probably connected in some way with Pan Avia Airlines.
Off to the side, sitting on a separate concrete pad was the EcoWatch’s Bell 407 helicopter. It sported the same blue-and-gold paint scheme as did the da Vinci. Along the slender tail, the words ECO-WATCH were clearly visible. Standing next to the helicopter, hands on hips, was Eric Mitchell, pilot aboard the Atlantic Titan.
The FOLLOW ME truck sped up and swung in a wide arc to show Donovan where to park. The handler jumped out of the truck and positioned himself on the tarmac. He raised red batons, flipping them smartly as he guided Donovan into a spot that placed the da Vinci in perfect alignment with the rest of the corporate airplanes. Satisfied, the handler crossed the batons signaling Donovan to stop. Kyle quickly ran through the process of shutting down the airplane while Donovan moved past Montero and opened the door. The heat and humidity hit him immediately. There wasn’t much of a breeze and the thick air felt like he’d just stepped into a sauna. Within seconds his clothes begin to cling to his skin. A large man, who introduced himself as Javier, welcomed them to Jamaica.
“Javier,” Donovan shook the man’s hand, “I’m not sure how long we’re going to be here, it might be a day or two.”
“Captain,” Javier smiled, “you are welcome to stay as long as you want. I have a driver standing by to take you into Kingston once we’re finished here.”
“Actually, it’ll just be my copilot who is going to stay in town.” Donovan had already discussed the logistics with Kyle. Since living space aboard the ship was limited, it would be best if he remained onshore. “Ms. Montero and I will be leaving on the Eco-Watch helicopter.”
Javier promised to return shortly with paperwork. Beyond a perimeter fence Donovan spotted a cluster of vehicles sporting tall antennas that could only belong to the media. He cursed under his breath, lowered his head, and went back into the cabin. He knew all too well that a dozen high-powered lenses would be focused on the ramp. The images would be broadcast around the world. Though it was already widely reported that Eco-Watch was involved in the salvage process, any thought of he himself being photographed made him uncomfortable.
With the da Vinci secured, Kyle left for Kingston. Donovan took a long look at the airplane, locked the main door, and walked toward the helicopter, careful to position Montero between himself and the media vans. For the most part, Donovan disliked helicopters. They were loud, slow, and vibrated
more than anything operating properly should. As he neared the machine, he reluctantly twirled his index finger for Eric to start it up.
Minutes after liftoff, they’d coasted out and were heading toward the Atlantic Titan. Donovan hated the water more than he disliked helicopters. Attached to the landing skids of the 407 were emergency floats that, if needed, could be instantly inflated. Donovan found no solace in the technical side of the equation, and couldn’t imagine that a helicopter made much of a boat.
When he was just a boy, he’d nearly drowned in the Pacific Ocean. Since that day, he’d done everything he could to keep the ocean at arm’s length. He could never shake the feeling that given half a chance, the ocean would try and finish the job. As the helicopter raced past the beach out over the open water, Donovan felt his stomach churn, his hands clenched into sweaty fists, his entire body tightened, and he was forced to close his eyes to blot out the vast blue ocean. Montero and the threat she represented was the only earthly reason he’d purposely get on a helicopter and fly out to a ship. Donovan wore headphones due to the noise, but he switched off his interphone to tune Montero out, and lowered his head as if asleep. His eyes remained closed, a defense mechanism against everything going on around him. If he couldn’t see or hear his surroundings, then he could control his apprehension at being such an easy target for what he knew was a vengeful sea.
Donovan withdrew into himself and focused on his breathing. He thought of Lauren and Abigail and wished he were home with them. He remained fixed on each precious detail of what it meant to be a husband and father, and how much he missed Abigail. Being a father had changed him, made him a better man. Abigail had introduced him to unconditional love and schooled him daily. She was Daddy’s little girl and they both knew it. He thought of the lengths he’d go to protect them, which were infinite—including going to sea.
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