I was already going back through the cabin when I realised with a shock that the left-hand strap on my overalls was still hanging free. Somehow I managed to refasten it as I walked. I passed the goon and raised a hand in polite farewell. He didn’t move.
Now all I had to do was cross the apron. I got as far as the passenger exit – and stopped short.
The Captain and First Officer were at the bottom of the steps, coming up. Their faces darkened as they saw me. The protection guy had been easy to fool; these two knew I had no business to be on their aircraft.
“What you doing here?” the Captain asked, in thickly accented English.
I needed a distraction.
“I look for you,” I said quickly, lifting my voice hoarsely, and hoping that the musical intonation of Mexican English would pass as Colombian. “I find this.”
I reached into a pocket, withdrew the bolt I’d lifted at the aircraft assembly plant, and held it out in my palm.
The pilots looked at each other.
“Where you found?” the First Officer asked.
“I show you,” I said.
Waves of heat rose from the apron and dried the sweat on my face as I led them around the nose of the aircraft and under the starboard wing. I pointed to the ground.
“Just here, I find,” I said. “Is important?”
The Captain raised his eyes to the engine nacelle immediately above where I’d pointed.
“Maybe,” he said.
One of them began to study the vectoring nozzle of the engine while the other scanned the ground for other items of metallic litter. While they were occupied I backed off a little and tried to work out how I could leave the scene without drawing attention to myself. Then I heard the sound of an approaching aircraft – almost certainly George coming in. Moments later it appeared behind the terminal building and flashed by, a few feet above the runway, “Cuprex International” emblazoned above the windows in purple letters. No executive hopper, this; it was a full-size, medium-range passenger liner, presumably a symbol of Mark Ridout’s flamboyant leadership. All around me the ground staff had stopped to watch as the aircraft settled with a puff of blue smoke. Reverse thrust thundered in waves over the airfield as it ran to the very end of the runway. The engine note dropped almost to nothing and it turned to taxi back.
At that moment a series of metallic sounds came from the other side of the Quickstream. The two pilots wandered round to investigate, then hurried forward. Three ground staff were there, one at the top of the stairs. A lively exchange followed, with a good deal of gesticulation. It seemed they wanted to remove the steps – evidently the only set – in readiness for the incoming craft. They were still arguing as I drew quietly away.
I re-entered the terminal and glanced at my watch. I had little over a minute to make the planned departure slot, and I didn’t want to miss it. I reached the toilet, jumped for the top of the locked door, climbed over, and dropped down inside the cubicle. It took only moments to change back into my suit. Then I picked up the soft bag, now crammed with the I.D., hi-vis vest and coveralls, unlocked the cubicle door and pushed it open. Standing there was one of Vlasov’s heavies.
My breath caught in my throat.
Is he onto me, or is he just taking a leak?
I remembered with a lurch that I’d left the spray and cloth on the floor near the sinks, and steeled myself not to look in that direction in case he followed my gaze. Instead I managed a slight smile and stood aside. It was almost a surprise to see him pass me by, heading for the urinals. I hurried to the lobby. Half-way across I remembered the sunglasses and fumbled in the side pocket of the bag without slackening my pace. I was putting them on with one hand as the sliding doors opened and I emerged into the baking heat of the day.
I crossed briskly to the waiting Babochka and climbed in, throwing my bag behind the seat.
“Okay,” I said to the pilot, trying to control my breathing. “Whenever you’re ready.”
It didn’t seem to bother him that I was several minutes late. He flipped a switch on the panel and went through a leisurely exchange with the control tower while I watched anxiously out of the window. The Cuprex jet had taxied into the bay on the other side of the Quickstream Majestic. The argument about the steps appeared to have been resolved, because the front exit door of the Quickstream was now closed and the steps were being wheeled across to the big jet. No doubt they’d return as soon as Cuprex’s entourage had disembarked. My gaze flicked back and forth between the two aircraft and the terminal.
The Babochka shimmied as our propeller turned jerkily, the engine fired, and the blades blurred into a disc. We taxied to the runway. The engine note was rising even before we made the turn. After a short take-off run we were airborne. The pilot banked as we climbed away and I got a final, diminishing view of the terminal and the two parked aircraft.
At last I could sit back and play the little scene through in my mind.
The Vlasovs and their aides return from their tour of the mine and enter the terminal building. George van der Loos gets up to greet them and there are introductions and handshakes all round. They go out to the Quickstream and take their places around the big square table. The pilots are back in the cockpit, having found nothing amiss with the engine and no warning lights illuminated on the panel. The interior is getting hot and they switch on the air conditioning so that both they and the negotiators can be more comfortable.
The cockpit air is on its own independent circuit, but the cabin air flows through the other ventilation system and out through the ducts, carrying with it a hundred or more tiny messengers of death…
The ground tilted away as we levelled out and set course for Medellín. I looked through the windscreen into the open sky.
When they realise they’ve got company they’ll probably clear out and tell the cabin staff to spray the cabin. By then it should be too late. If there’s any justice in this world, the Vlasovs will die from the condition they helped to create, and they’ll take their treacherous ally with them. And should it ever occur to anyone to investigate the ventilation system on that Quickstream, all they’ll find is a short length of polythene pipe that unaccountably got left behind during assembly.
There could be some collateral damage, of course: not the security people – they wouldn’t be allowed on board – but the aides, possibly some of the crew. I didn’t like it but I was reconciled to it. This trade was causing tens of thousands of deaths every year. The politicians wouldn’t lift a finger so what choice did I have? Bob Cressington said it was a matter of keeping an eye on the bigger picture. Well, that’s just what I’d done.
The effects of the adrenaline were subsiding now and a great weariness spread through me. I sank deeper into my seat for the flight back to Medellín.
It was a sharp pinprick of pain near my left wrist. Without thinking I slapped quickly at it. Then I raised the hand to look and a dreadful sensation crawled down my spine.
In the red blotch that had flowered on my skin were the shattered remains of a mosquito.
38
There was a knock on the door to my office. It opened before I could respond. Harken stood on the threshold.
“Ah, there you are, Jim. Been looking for you.” He frowned. “You okay?”
What could I say? That I was waiting for it to happen, interpreting every shiver or flush or joint pain or skin sensation as the beginning of that dreaded fever? No, whatever happened in Colombia had to look like an act of God. Not even he could be told that I’d been the one playing God.
I suppressed a sigh. “I’m all right. Come in, Wendell. What’s up?”
He closed the door, but didn’t sit down. “I have to be in Washington in ten days. The Chiefs of Staff are meeting to review the status of the Special Forces.”
“Sounds serious.”
He shrugged. “They do this from time to time. It may be nothing but I need to be around in case they float some stupid ideas. Anyway, I thought I’d fit in some
annual leave beforehand.”
“Right. When are you going?”
“Later today. Some old friends of mine have planned a fishing trip in Canada and they want me to join them. I could do with the break. Can you look after things here?”
My mind seemed to be turning more sluggishly than usual. All I could think of was that I’d need proper back-up, just in case.
“Tommy Geiger as XO?”
“Yes. I couldn’t find you so I’ve briefed him already.”
“Good enough. Is there anything on at the moment?”
“In the field, the hostage rescue in Kwanza. They’re already deployed. Over here, the big training exercise in Louisiana. Geiger has all the details. Oh, and do have a look at the stuff I left on your desk screen – the new safety legislation. We’ll have to respond or those idiots will emasculate us.”
I nodded slowly. “Will do.”
“Good.”
He turned to go, then looked back at me, frowning. “What the hell happened to your hair?”
“Felt like a change,” I said, running my hand over the stubble. I’d clipped it to the skin to disguise the way I’d dyed it. “I don’t like it much either. It’ll grow out soon enough.”
“Tan suits you, though. You’re looking well.”
That was nice to hear.
“Thanks.”
*
In the next few days I spent a lot of time with Major Tommy Geiger. It turned out the training exercise wasn’t organised as tightly as it should have been. I called in the senior officers and we had several detailed planning sessions. In between times I had to communicate with the squad in Kwanza, who were watching and waiting for the right moment to make their move. Then there was the safety legislation, which included an embargo on the use of live munitions during training exercises. I remembered my own induction, with Drill Sergeant Bill Wicks firing live rounds over our heads on the assault course. At the time we’d have gladly fragged him, but it taught us how to crawl lower than an alligator or change to another cover position under fire. Could he simply have bellowed at us or fired blanks? Of course not. It was one thing to hear gunfire and quite another to know it was coming your way. Training like that could make the difference between coming home as a hero or in a body bag, but how do you convey that to some tight-assed functionary sitting behind a desk in Washington?
It was just as well there was plenty to do because it diverted me from the increasing conviction that malaria organisms were even now multiplying in my body.
Just over a week after Harken left, Max phoned.
“Hi, Jim. Don’t know if you heard but George van der Loos is in hospital. He’s in New York. They say it’s malaria. He’s pretty bad. May not make it.”
My mouth twisted in a grim smile. “Well, well.”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“Why should I be surprised? You went to that airfield in Colombia with him. It’s a malarial area.”
“Don’t say that. Gives me the creeps.”
“You’re okay, though, aren’t you?”
“Oh sure, we’re all okay. It was only George went down with it.”
Only George. What about the Vlasovs? I couldn’t ask; it would look too suspicious. I’d learn soon enough.
“What’s happening to the company?”
“Graham Dexter’s taken over, just temporarily. He’s an old guy but he’s a safe pair of hands. If George doesn’t come back they’ll be head-hunting a new CEO. Someone young and energetic. The sort of guy Mark Ridout was.”
“That’d be good.”
“It sure would. Hey, Jim, have you been holding out on me? My pals at the Bureau say they had to release that Stapledon girl. Say you gave her a cast-iron alibi.”
“Ah, it’s a bit embarrassing, Max. I hardly know the girl but Ridout treated her badly that night and she needed a shoulder to cry on. When you told me they’d picked her up I had to come forward. I couldn’t let her take the rap.”
“So who the hell killed Mark Ridout?”
“Chrissie told me Mark threw her out because he had an unexpected business meeting.”
“Oh yeah, they said something about that. Whoever it was probably gave him the poison. But who was it?”
“Use your head, Max. Who became interim CEO? Who got the approval of the Board the following day to examine the offer from the Russians? And who got a little ahead of himself by meeting them in Colombia?”
“Holy shit. I remember you mentioned George back in the hotel. You think he was selling out to the Russians?”
“I’m damned sure of it. He had his own private deal going with them.”
“I can’t believe it. The guy’s a pillar of the establishment.”
Oh yeah, a real pillar of the establishment! George van der Loos, the man who had an affair with his son’s girlfriend, then tricked her into poisoning his business rival. George van der Loos, who betrayed Abby to the Vlasovs so she could be kidnapped and killed.
“You may just drop the hint to your friends at the Bureau, Max. It sounds like he may not pull through but at least they’ll be able to close the file on the case.”
“And I was protecting that guy!”
“You were only doing your job. Look, I’ve got a deskful at the moment but we’ll talk again. Okay?”
“Sure. Thanks, Jim.”
I clicked off and looked at the phone for a moment. If the initial incubation period was over for George, it was also over for me. At any moment the organisms that had been multiplying in my liver would start breaking out and entering my bloodstream.
Tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, I, too, could be fighting for my life.
39
Life is full of “maybes”. Maybe it wasn’t that sort of mosquito or maybe it wasn’t that sort of organism. Maybe it was someone else’s blood the insect had sucked into its gut. Maybe my antimalarials had worked. Whatever the reason, when Harken got back to the base I was still symptom-free. It dawned on me that I was in the clear, at least so far as the worst form of the disease was concerned. I was like a man on Death Row who’d been tried again and pronounced not guilty.
“How was the trip?” I asked Harken when we met in his office.
“Excellent, thanks. Nice weather. It brought out the bugs. Good for the fishing; not so good for us.”
A cold shiver ran through me. He went on:
“Otherwise, great. Really relaxing. It was a shame I had to go to Washington afterwards.”
“And the meeting?”
“It was okay. I don’t think they had any real appetite for change. They can report that they’ve had the situation under review and as usual everyone will be happy. Bob was there, of course. We had quite a chat. Have you heard about the Vlasovs?”
“What about them?”
“The two of them were taken to a hospital in Moscow about a week ago with a high fever. Malaria, I believe. They died not long afterwards. There’ve been some fulsome obituaries in the Russian media about Leon. His brother was barely mentioned.”
“Has it affected the talks with the Russian Union?”
“Not at all. Positively, if anything. Helena Brooke-Masters wrote to the Russian President, expressing her sorrow at the tragic loss of his valued friend and adviser. In private she’s rather pleased. She suspects Vlasov was whispering unhelpful things in the President’s ear, so the talks may go more smoothly now. And of course it puts paid to the Russian threat to take over Cuprex.” His voice slowed. “They must have contracted it just before I went away. Around the time you came back to base with a nice tan and that interesting haircut.”
I watched him, saying nothing.
“By a curious coincidence,” he continued, “George van der Loos, interim CEO of Cuprex, was hospitalised in New York around the same time, with similar symptoms. He died, too.”
I nodded. “It was reported on line by the US media.”
“That’s right. I gather Ted Zander was quite upset – van der Loos wa
s a long-standing friend. He couldn’t understand how George had contracted the disease. So far as anyone knew he hadn’t ventured into a malarial area.” He raised his eyebrows at me, and a bemused smile played around his lips. “I don’t suppose you can shed any light on all this, can you, Jim?”
I met his eyes. “A little. You know Max Keller was assigned to protect van der Loos after he became interim CEO? Max told me they flew to South America to meet with the Vlasovs. Presumably he was negotiating terms for the takeover of Cuprex by Mirovoi Industries. He wasn’t supposed to be doing that so he kept quiet about it. Unfortunately they were in a part of Colombia where malaria is endemic.”
My coolness surprised even me.
“Why Colombia?”
“Cuprex has a mining subsidiary there.”
“I see.” There was a manila folder in front of him. He took his time, repositioning it delicately with his fingertips, aligning it with the edge of the desk screen. It reminded me of his obsessive attention to detail – and the way his mind worked.
He returned his gaze to me. “Have you spoken to Max recently?”
“Yes, I spoke to him yesterday. He was in good spirits. The company’s in the process of appointing a new CEO. His future’s looking a lot brighter.”
Counterfeit (The Jim Slater series Book 2) Page 25