High Flight

by David Hagberg

  “Take care then, with what you are doing,” Mueller said, but Zerkel had connected his computer to the telephone and was lost in the data stream flowing across his screen.

  Mueller went into the bathroom where he stripped and showered. The hot water relaxed his muscles after the long trip from Washington, and when he turned the stream to all cold, his body screamed in the joy of agony. He was alive. The French had not been worthy opponents. All of his adult life he’d been trained to take the fight to America. He was here now, and he was finally taking it to them. He was going to enjoy every moment of it.

  When he’d dressed in fresh clothes, Mueller went back into the sitting room. Zerkel was staring at the blank computer screen, his lips pursed.

  “Did you find what you needed?”

  “No,” Zerkel replied absently. “InterTech’s mainframe is alarmed, just like I thought it would be. But it’s different.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Zerkel shook his head. “Just different. Better than I thought, but … I don’t know.” He was grappling for a word.

  “Foreign?” Mueller prompted.

  The younger man looked up.

  “Japanese?”

  “Yes. That’s it. The Japs are in. It must be something they cooked up.”

  “It might mean that you are on the right track after all.”

  “There was never any doubt of it,” Zerkel said. “They’re running scared. What do you think about that?”

  “What do you need from the company?” Mueller asked.

  “The schematic for that module.”

  “How about the actual unit itself?”

  This time Zerkel looked up with interest. “What do you mean?”

  “Wouldn’t it be better if you had one of the subassemblies? The entire unit?”

  “Of course.”

  “If you are having trouble getting into the computer, which is what they expect, maybe getting into the warehouse would be easier.”

  “I wouldn’t know where to look.”

  “Who would?” Mueller asked.

  Zerkel shrugged. “My boss, Bob Sutherland. He’d know.”

  “Do you know where he lives?”

  “Yeah,” Zerkel said. “As a matter of fact I do. But he won’t tell us anything. I know him. He’s definitely management. He’d turn me over to the cops in a New York minute.”

  “Allow me to worry about that aspect, Louis. Tell me, how big is this device, whatever it is? Do you know?”

  “No.”

  “Would it weigh hundreds of kilos? Would it be difficult for us to pick up and carry?”

  “Nothing like that,” Zerkel said. “The CPU and its associated circuitry probably fit inside an inch-and-a-half rack. Like a drawer on slides eighteen inches on a side and an inch-and-a-half tall. We may or may not supply the cable harness that would lead out to the sensors on the engines, which in turn would be mounted on some sort of lightweight frame. The whole enchilada—the processor, the harness, and the sensor frame—would probably fit into a medium-size suitcase. Maybe weigh eight or ten kilos.”

  “Then we will ask Mr. Sutherland to help us acquire the device.”

  Zerkel looked at him owlishly. “You will have to kill him afterward.”

  Mueller shrugged.

  “He has a wife and children. They would have to be killed if they got in the way.”

  “Do you have a problem with that, Louis?”

  Zerkel thought about it for a moment, then shook his head, the expression on his face serious, but boyish. “No, I’ve got no problem with that.”

  It was obvious to McGarvey that Dominique Kilbourne was even more strained than she had sounded on the telephone this morning. Her complexion was sallow and her eyes were red-rimmed even behind makeup. McGarvey had spoken again about her with David Kennedy, but with everything going on the airplane executive left the decision of what to do about her up to McGarvey. The crash and subsequent grinding investigation, under the glare of the media spotlight, had pushed everything else into the background, including, for the moment, Guerin’s deal with the Russians, McGarvey’s investigation, and Dominique’s fears.

  “Everyone has a job to do” were Kennedy’s parting words. “Get on with it.”

  “You don’t have to come to this meeting, Dominique,” McGarvey said.

  “It’s what I’m paid to do. I said it before, and I’ll say it again—a lot of companies besides Guerin depend on me to keep their best interests at heart.”

  “This has nothing to do with your work. I’m looking for reactions, nothing more.” She was brittle, McGarvey thought. Like a porcelain doll with stress fractures. “I’ll send you back in the cab.”

  “Don’t you do it!”

  “You don’t belong in this fight.”

  “I’m already in too deep,” Dominique said carefully. She was holding her emotions in check. Nothing like an hysterical female to turn off her warrior. McGarvey could almost see her head working.

  “That’s my point. If you can’t give me the truth, then you’re less than worthless to me. In fact you’re dangerous.”

  “It’s the same in my business. The people I have to deal with on the Hill sometimes don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  “Tell me about that night at your apartment.”

  Dominique looked at him through lidded eyes. “Later,” she said. “After we meet with Yamagata I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  The cabby let them off in front of the Japan Air Lines offices on Connecticut Avenue near St. Matthew’s Cathedral. It was dusk and rush-hour traffic was getting into full swing. The new Congress had been in session for less than a month, and a muted hum seemed to permeate the atmosphere in the capital city. The United States was the only remaining superpower, which seemed to give the rest of the world sniping rights. Most of official Washington was kept very busy because of it.

  They were directed to a third-floor reception area that was stunningly decorated in a mix of Japanese traditional and stark Western modern. Chrome and glass intermingled with lacquered wood and rice-paper screens gave a surprisingly peaceful feel to the offices and open areas. Indirect lighting simulated sunlight, which heightened the pleasant effect.

  A tall, very handsome Japanese man, dressed impeccably in a well-tailored Italian silk suit, came down a broad corridor to them. He was smiling.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. McGarvey, Ms. Kilbourne. Welcome to Japan Air Lines. My name is Arimoto Yamagata.”

  “Good afternoon. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” Dominique said stiffly. She handed the Japanese her business card. “As I explained to you on the telephone, Mr. McGarvey is here as a spokesperson for Guerin Airplane Company.”

  Yamagata shook hands with Dominique and then with McGarvey and handed them both his business card. It identified him as a special representative of the president of JAL. “We are in similar positions, Mr. McGarvey.” His English was perfect.

  “Harvard or Yale?” McGarvey asked.

  Yamagata smiled. “Harvard actually,” he said. “Class of eighty.”

  “You don’t look that old.”

  The Japanese chuckled. “Thanks for that. I am, but I work at it.”

  “What brings you to America just now?”

  “To meet with people such as yourself, Mr. McGarvey. You jumped the gun on me, I wasn’t quite ready to set up shop. But I’m happy to start with you. Guerin is a fine company with an outstanding record.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Yamagata’s expression darkened. “If you will permit me to be un-Japanese for a moment, I will express my sorrow at your unfortunate loss. It was the hand of God, and everyone at JAL shares my condolences to you.”

  The man was a fool or very intelligent. Either way, McGarvey figured he was potentially dangerous. “Our engineers are working on the possibility that our aircraft was sabotaged.”

  “God in heaven,” Yamagata said softly.

  “One of the passengers m
ay have been carrying a bomb.”

  “One of your own people?”

  “Perhaps a Russian. The flight originated in Moscow.”

  The Japanese was shaking his head. “What would they have to gain?”

  “We don’t know, Mr. Yamagata. No demands were made. Nor has anyone made contact with us to admit responsibility.”

  Dominique stood still, a blank expression on her face.

  “When we heard that you were in Washington I was instructed to meet with you as quickly as possible and convey two messages, the first of which concerned the crash.”

  “You knew that I had come to Washington, as well as my purpose in coming?”

  “Everybody in the industry knows, Mr. Yamagata. It’s become a small planet.”

  “Indeed,” the Japanese replied, his expression unreadable. “What of the second message?”

  Two men who sat together in deep discussion across the large reception room glanced toward them. “Could we go someplace more private?”

  “Of course. Forgive me. I was about to invite you to have something to drink and then bring you back to my office. But what you have told me has caught me off balance.”

  I’ll bet it has, McGarvey thought. “Nothing to drink for us. Just a few moments of your time in private, Mr. Yamagata. Then we have another appointment to keep. You understand how it is.”

  “Certainly,” the Japanese said. He led them out of the reception area to an expansive corner office with large windows that looked down Connecticut Avenue toward the White House. Photographs on the broad desk showed a pretty woman and three children.

  “Your family?” McGarvey asked, as they sat down.

  Yamagata glanced at the photos. “Actually this is our Washington director’s office. The photographs are his.”

  “Pretty,” McGarvey said, and he caught the slight look of irritation that crossed Yamagata’s face.

  “Yes, they are.”

  “The second message is a difficult one, Mr. Yamagata. Difficult for us as well as for you. We’re asking that you keep what I’m about to tell you in strict confidence.”

  “Naturally.”

  “If it were to be known publicly, it could create additional trouble for us. Something we don’t need at this point.”

  “I understand. Please continue.”

  McGarvey glanced at Dominique for effect, then smiled ingratiatingly. “The thing is we believe that a group of Japanese businessmen are getting ready to take us over. To buy us out.”

  Yamagata’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t imagine why you are telling me this, Mr. McGarvey, but do you know who these men are?”

  “The Mintori Assurance Corporation.” McGarvey watched the man’s eyes, but there was no reaction.

  “What is it you are asking us?”

  “For help,” McGarvey said.

  “With what?”

  Again McGarvey glanced over at Dominique as if he were looking for reassurances, but she said nothing. Her lack of reaction couldn’t have been better if they rehearsed it. He was in trouble and on his own.

  “Japan Air Lines is in a very strong position, unlike so many of our own carriers. We would like to explore the possibilities of what we might call a silent partnership.”

  “JAL’s cash or loan guarantees to keep the Mintori group at bay, in return for what?”

  “The first crack at our P/C2622, with a healthy share of stock options for a delivery guarantee at a favorable price we could both live with.”

  “You want to sell us some airplanes that for a time will not be offered for sale to any other airline?”

  “That is the possibility my company would like to explore.”

  The Japanese looked at McGarvey with disdain. “The rumor is that Guerin Airplane Company has made an offer to the Russian government.”

  “To build a component assembly facility in Moscow,” McGarvey said. “I must compliment you on your source of intelligence.”

  “The Russian government is unstable.”

  “We would save a very significant portion of the cost per aircraft if the Moscow facility works out.”

  Yamagata fell silent for a long moment, his expression unchanging. “What specifically are you asking me today?”

  “Is JAL interested in principle in opening such a dialogue?”

  “Frankly I don’t know,” the Japanese said. He sat forward slightly. “Would Guerin be interested, in principle, in the same sort of dialogue with a group other than JAL?”

  “I don’t know,” McGarvey replied carefully. “Would this group have any connection with Mintori?”

  “None.”

  “Who are they?”

  “The Kobe Bank.”

  Gotcha, you bastard, McGarvey thought. “I’ll take your offer back to my people in Portland, Mr. Yamagata.”

  “I will be waiting to hear from you, Mr. McGarvey.”

  Bob Sutherland lived in a well-maintained Spanish-style house in San Leandro, about twenty miles from the Oakland Holiday Inn. Mueller had Zerkel rent a Chevrolet Lumina from the Budget counter at the airport, and they drove out in two cars, parking the Thunderbird in the parking lot of an all-night supermarket on 14th Street.

  A plain-looking woman dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt answered the door. A television was playing inside. Mueller smiled pleasantly.

  “Mrs. Sutherland, I’m Michael Larsen with the FBI. I really hate to bother you at this hour, but could we have a word with your husband? He’s at home this evening?”

  She looked over her shoulder at Zerkel standing by the car. “One more time won’t matter, I suppose.”

  “Who’s at the door?” her husband called from inside.

  “It’s the FBI again,” she answered, and she stepped back. “Come on in. No use giving the neighbors a show.”

  Bob Sutherland, looking as if he’d just stepped out of a heath spa in gray sweats, came around the corner at about the same moment Mueller shoved the man’s wife back, stepped into the hall, and closed the door.

  “What the fuck …” Sutherland said.

  Mueller pulled out the silenced 9 mm Beretta Reid had supplied him with and pointed it at the woman.

  Sutherland was struck dumb.

  “I have come for some information for my friend Louis Zerkel. If you cooperate with me, Mr. Sutherland, I will not kill your wife.”

  Sutherland was shaking his head, and his mouth was moving, but no words were coming out. He brought his hands together as he looked at his wife.

  “There is very little time,” Mueller said. Sutherland looked at him, incomprehension on his face. “Why?” he asked.

  “We need information.”

  “But, God in heaven, who are you?”

  “I will kill your children, as well, Mr. Sutherland. Are they dressed for bed?”

  Sutherland looked again at his wife, and he took a half-step forward but then stopped. “What do you want from me? I’ll tell you and then you can leave. My God, I don’t understand.”

  Mueller reached back and opened the front door. A few seconds later Zerkel slipped inside and closed the door. Sutherland stared at him for a long time before recognition dawned in his eyes.

  Zerkel carefully avoided looking at the man or his wife.

  “What do you want?” Sutherland asked.

  It seemed as if Zerkel had not heard him.

  “Louis,” Mueller prompted.

  “I need the PE 171 subassembly. The one we supply to Guerin.”

  Sutherland shook his head. “The heat monitor?”

  “I need both ends, including the harness if we supply it.”

  Sutherland was still shaking his head. “Is that what it’s all about? The fucking Jap subcontract. Are you fucking people out of your minds?”

  “Where do we find it, Mr. Sutherland?” Mueller asked.

  Sutherland looked at him. “Shipping and receiving. The first fourteen of the new order for eighty are going out the day after tomorrow.”

  “Can you find that?
”

  “I think so,” Zerkel said. “Is there anything else going to Guerin in this cycle?” he asked Sutherland.

  “No.”

  “I can find them.”

  “What about security?”

  “A night watchman,” Sutherland said. “Take my card. It’ll get you through the gate. Just get out of here now.”

  Mueller nodded. “Very well,” he said. He shot the man in the face, then he shot the woman in the forehead. “What do you think about that?” he said.

  A small child cried something from the back of the house, and Zerkel flinched.

  “Wait outside in the car, Louis,” Mueller said. “I’ll be right out.”

  “You can’t fight them by yourself,” McGarvey said.

  It was late. They’d come back to her apartment where she made them a steak and salad. Afterward they’d talked about her past, about growing up in Detroit, being raised by her brother Newton, about coming into the airline industry with him, about her brief affair with David Kennedy, and finally about the night her apartment had been broken into.

  “It has nothing to do with personalities,” McGarvey said.

  “What then?”

  “They don’t care who or what you are. At this point there’s little or nothing you could do to hurt them. But if you got in their way they’d destroy you as easily as they would swat a fly.”

  “They came in here and violated my life. It was the same thing as rape. According to you, they’re responsible for the crash in ’90 and now this one. All those people dead. Are we supposed to forget them?” She looked tired, used up, washed out, and very vulnerable.

  “That’s why I was hired,” McGarvey said.

  “I don’t know if I can accept that.”

  “I could have you arrested.”

  “You’ve said that before.”

  “I could call your brother and ask for his help.”

  “Don’t threaten me,” she said tiredly. Her hand shook as she raised the wine glass to her lips. “I’m not going to listen to you any longer. Leave me alone.”

  “I can’t,” McGarvey said.

  Dominique looked out the windows at the Kennedy Center, her profile toward McGarvey. She turned her head to look at him. Her skin glowed as if she were caught in subtle stage lighting. “Why?”