High Flight

by David Hagberg

  Reid poured an Irish whiskey. “He’s unstable.”

  Mueller watched Reid toss the liquor back. “But brilliant. Without him we’d have nothing.”

  “He’s to be eliminated when he’s finished. His safeguards need to be neutralized.”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem. But it’ll have to be soon. Before Sunday. Because afterward we may have to move very quickly.”

  Reid poured another drink, his hand shaking slightly. “You’ll have to be very careful placing the repeaters.”

  “I’ll leave tonight. Oakland first because I know it, Los Angeles, and Portland. On the way back, Chicago and Minneapolis.”

  “How long will it take you?”

  “Three days. Still gives us plenty of time for La Guardia and JFK in New York.”

  “Dulles?”

  “I’ll do that last. Security there must still be very strict.”

  “The blame must fall on the Japanese,” Reid said. “Not so much as a hint of any of this can come back to me. Not if my ultimate plan is to succeed.”

  Mueller looked at him. “All those Guerin airplanes have been sabotaged to be destroyed. Have you given thought to that? Someone has come before us. Someone else has the same plan as you do.”

  “The Japanese.”

  “I don’t think it’s the government.”

  Reid shook his head. “Neither do I, but someone has gone to the trouble. And whatever their thinking is, it’s definitely long range.”

  “To embroil the U.S. and Japan in a war?”

  “It’s possible. But there’s no way of knowing.”

  “Still time to walk away from this, Reid. Let the others do your work for you. Now that you know that every Guerin airplane flying with that device can be knocked out of the sky, you have the advantage.”

  “No,” Reid said, girding himself. “It’s too uncertain. It could be years.”

  “Which you don’t have?” Mueller suggested.

  “Which I’m not willing to give,” Reid responded sharply. “You hold up your end of the plan, and I’ll take care of mine. I’m returning to the city tonight.”

  Mueller glanced toward the basement door. “Do you think it’s wise to leave him here alone?”

  “There’s no choice.” Reid finished his drink. “You have work to do, and so do I. My part in this does not end on Sunday. It just begins.”

  Newton Kilbourne showed up in Kennedy’s office at four. “Tell me we’re postponing the Honolulu flight, and you’ll make me a happy man.”

  “I wish I could, Newt, but I want to talk to you about something.”

  “Sir Malcolm talked to George, said he might have come up with a couple of possibilities. But we’re torn both ways at the Creek.”

  Socrates had split his engineering staff into two teams: one studying the Dulles crash and the other working around the clock in an effort to make sure America would be ready to fly on Sunday. The strain was showing on all of them, including Kilbourne.

  “This is about McGarvey. Has he been told about Sir Malcolm’s call?”

  Kilbourne’s jaw tightened. “I haven’t seen him all day. But he’s no engineer. When he’s out there he gets in everybody’s way. I don’t know what he said to Sir Malcolm, but frankly, David, I don’t give a shit.”

  If you had your way, you’d take him out back and settle your differences with fists, Kennedy thought. Or at least try. “Will we be ready to fly Sunday?”

  “Unless some more unk-unks show up, or unless you can talk some sense into the old man.”

  “If the plane is ready to fly, we go. But this is about McGarvey. You and he have a problem. I want to know what it is.”

  “You know.”

  “Tell me.”

  “He’s in bed with my sister, and he’s got her head so messed up she’s become afraid of her own shadow. No matter what I say to her, or try to do, she tells me to mind my own fucking business.”

  “He didn’t want her involved in the project in the first place. It was my decision, and hers.”

  “That’s right, she’s a grown-up woman doing a damned fine job for us in Washington. Who she sleeps with is none of my business. When it was you, I didn’t approve, but I understood. With McGarvey it’s a whole different ball game.”

  Kennedy held himself in check. He’d never known that Dominique’s brother knew about their relationship.

  “Ah, shit, I’m sorry, David. I was way out of line. But McGarvey is a spook, for Christ’s sake. He’s killed people. Not like a soldier on a battlefield, but like some stinking weasel in the night. Dominique’s no match for him. She’s already been mentally hurt. I’m scared shitless that one of McGarvey’s enemies will try to hurt her physically.”

  “She can’t be protected against her will.” Kennedy’s heart was aching. Twice in two days he had been hit with his affair.

  “Bullshit. Before McGarvey went to Tokyo he saw Dominique at my place in Grosse Pointe. Convinced her to return to Washington because she wasn’t doing anybody any good hiding out. He doesn’t give a flying fuck about her. She’s nothing more than insurance against your firing him. And probably cannon fodder against anybody gunning for him. She needs to be pulled off the firing line, and right now. And we need to get rid of McGarvey—by any means, fair or foul.”

  “What about the Japanese?”

  Kilbourne shook his head. “Maybe Dulles was nothing more than an accident after all. Sir Malcolm admitted that he’s running around in circles. Finding out how an airplane could be sabotaged doesn’t mean someone actually did it.”

  “Do you believe that?” Kennedy asked gently.

  Kilbourne started to make a quick reply, but bit it off. It was clear he was deeply troubled. “I don’t know what I believe anymore, David. All I know is that we seem to be headed hell bent for leather down the toilet. I’ve got this bad feeling that it’s all coming apart at the edges, and I don’t know how long we can hold out.”

  Paraphrased Yeats, Kennedy thought. Just as disturbing then as it was now. “McGarvey warned us.”

  “We shouldn’t have hired him. Greg and the others might still be alive.”

  “He’s helped already.”

  “How?”

  “By identifying our enemies. At least we know who we’re fighting. Maybe he’ll finish it for us.”

  Kilbourne said nothing.

  “Do you have any confidence in him?”

  “No,” Kilbourne said. “Do you?”

  McGarvey telephoned Viktor Yemlin from a phone booth a few blocks from his apartment. It was the blind number the Russian had given him. “Has Abunai given you anything new?”

  “I’m glad you called, Kirk. I’ll be pulling out of Washington in a few days.”

  “What’s happened, Viktor Pavlovich?”

  “Are you aware that the FBI is investigating you for the murder of a CIA operative in Tokyo? And presumably for having some dealings with a former Stasi assassin?”

  “I just spoke with Phil Carrara.”

  “One of our operatives was murdered in Tokyo last night. If you’d still been in Japan we would have suspected you.”

  “Was he working for Abunai?”

  “I’m told he was one of the best. He’d managed to get inside Mintori. His death was made to look like a suicide.”

  “Was he Japanese?”

  “Yes. His double cover was as a MITI operative. But listen very carefully to me, Kirk. In his last drop he said he was getting proof that Mintori was behind the crash of the American Airlines flight in 1990. But he was just as certain that Mintori knew nothing about the Dulles crash.”

  “That means someone else is involved. Another Japanese zaibatsu?”

  “Mintori is just as confused as we are. No one knew anything, except that the Japanese seemed to be getting ready to go to war. Against us. All of their military installations are on alert status.”

  “What about Russian bases along your far eastern coast?”

  “They’ve bee
n on alert since the incident in the strait. But, Kirk, this goes beyond any agreement between my government and Guerin Airplane Company. I’m sorry, but I do not know how much longer I can help you, or even if I should be helping you now.”

  “What about Abunai? Has it been shut down?”

  “I don’t know. But something very strange is about to happen that has us all worried. My suggestion to you is to convince Guerin to ground its fleet. Now, before it’s too late. God only knows what will happen if more of your airplanes fall out of the sky. Are you listening to me, Kirk?”

  “I need more information, Viktor Pavlovich. Before you leave Washington.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The Japanese must have some idea who was responsible for the Dulles crash. Even a suspicion, a hint. Anything. Find out.”

  “I’ll try,” Yemlin said. “It’s all I can promise.”

  Mueller had three new sets of identification. Whatever problems Reid was facing he still had very good connections. So far as Mueller could tell the driver’s licenses and Social Security and voter registration cards were authentic. He’d been assured that they were not on any hot sheet. Even the credit cards were valid and had substantial balances. He packed lightly, and this time since he would be doing most of his travel by air, he took no gun. No real need, he told himself, packing a straight razor with his shaving things. If he was caught with it he would have no recourse except to run. He had a substantial amount of money now, enough for his retirement. But he wanted to see this job to its end. And he wanted to eliminate Louis, and of course Reid, so that he would not have to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder because they talked.

  He took his bag down to the front hall and listened to the silence of the house for a few seconds. The high-pitched whine of computer printers that they’d lived with for the past week or so was gone. Irritating, he thought. A noise he would never have to put up with again. He was old-fashioned. It was his East German upbringing. Time now to step away from a world that had become entirely too modern.

  Downstairs Zerkel was seated at the workbench, drinking a Coke. “I’m finished,” he said.

  “Good. I’m ready to leave.” Mueller walked over.

  “What are you going to carry these in?” The five repeaters were stacked next to a Sony Walkman and earphones.

  “My overnight bag. Will there be a problem with airport security equipment?”

  “Lead foil baffles. They’ll show up hollow. And the radio will look like a radio.” Zerkel picked up the Walkman and switched it on. It was tuned to a country-and-western station. “Switch it to tape play anywhere within a ten- or twelve-foot radius of a closed-circuit television camera and the monitor will freeze on its last image.”

  “How does it work?”

  “This picks the image off the camera tube, digitalizes it, and sends it right back, blocking out whatever’s happening in real time. Seamless.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Zerkel grinned. “What do you think about that?”

  Zerkel finished the last three repeaters a few minutes after midnight. Before he continued he searched the entire house room by room to make sure he was alone. Back in the basement workshop he took a ninth repeater, which he’d built in secret, out of its hiding place, installed a fresh battery, and tested it.

  Sooner or later the President would fly Air Force One to Tokyo for the economic summit. Somehow, against all logic and wisdom, he’d been convinced by traitors in the White House that the Japanese were our friends. The situation was impossible.

  The President’s plane would depart from Andrews Air Force Base southeast of the city. If Dulles were to be shut down after the air disasters, Air Force One would still fly, controlled by the Air Force at Andrews. Louis was not going to let that happen.

  He got up and went to the wine storage room, the walls deeply charred. They’d had a hell of a time stopping the fire from spreading to the rest of the house. It would have been a total disaster.

  “Sorry, brother,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Mueller took the red-eye flight from Baltimore, arriving in Oakland at midnight. An hour later he retrieved his bag, rented a Chevy Lumina from Budget, and drove across the airport to the industrial park. He left the car behind the Mirimax Distributing Company’s warehouse, took one of the Roach Motels, the Walkman, and a small set of tools from his bag, and made his way in the darkness to the rear of the Oakland Airport Commission building. The closed-circuit television camera was stationary, focused on a spot in front of the door, so Mueller was able to approach it from the side without being seen. He activated the Walkman, set it down beneath the camera, and went to work on the security-card door lock. Within a minute and a half he had the cover off and the code reader shunted. The door lock clicked, and he let himself in.

  He went directly to the equipment room in the basement, defeated the security-card door lock, and placed the Roach Motel behind one of the electronic bays, pushing it as far back as he could reach.

  Retracing his steps, he relocked the equipment-room door, and outside relocked the back door, switched off the Walkman, and hurried back to his car.

  By 2:00 A.M. he was on the San Jose Freeway heading south.

  Louis Zerkel presented himself to the Andrews Air Force Base public-affairs office a couple of minutes before eight in the morning. He had telephoned a few days ago about base tours. Nine other people were there, one of them a reporter for a small Midwestern newspaper who kept flashing his press card around and asking if it would be okay to take pictures for his readers. Their young WAF sergeant tour guide gave them packets containing brochures on the base’s history, maps, charts, an Air Force recruiting poster, and a visitor badge. This was the base that protected Washington, and from this base presidents flew to and from the world’s capitals on the “business of democracy.” By 9:30 they had toured the operations center, meteorology, a fighter/interceptor hangar, and then headed to the top of the control tower for a view of the base. Louis held back so that he was the last one up the stairs into the glass-enclosed observation center. There was a moment when the reporter was posing the operators for a picture when no one was looking toward the door. Louis slipped the Roach Motel out of his coat pocket and slipped it behind one of the consoles, pushing it way out of sight with his foot. He didn’t think it was likely that the repeater would be found anytime soon. He’d had a brief look behind the console and had seen at least an inch of dust.

  Mueller got a few hours of sleep at a Holiday Inn outside of Oxnard, then drove into Los Angeles to the public library a few blocks from Pershing Square. He went up to the information desk on the second floor in the nonfiction collection and asked one of the librarians about a history of Los Angeles International Airport.

  “LAX,” the pleasant young black woman said. “Quite a colorful past, what with movie stars and all.”

  “So I’m told,” Mueller replied diffidently, slipping into a thicker German accent. “I’m doing a freelance piece for Die Stern.”

  “I get it.” The woman grinned. “We see a lot of German tourists here. Is there a specific era or subject you might be interested in?”

  “The present-day facility. The terminal, the traffic, the electronic controls, all the safety aspects, you know.”

  “They’re just about done with the renovation. We have some material, but you really should talk to someone at the airport commission. I’m sure they’d be happy to help.”

  “I wanted to stop here first for the preliminary background. I don’t know so much about the airport yet. I’m just beginning.”

  “I’m with you. You don’t wanna look like a fool asking the wrong questions.”

  “Something like that,” Mueller said.

  “Well, you just come along with me, and we’ll see what we can find.” The woman jumped up and hurried off.

  Mueller thought she was shaped like a pear, small on top and large on the bottom. Her skin was ver
y black. Most Germans were just as prejudiced against Schwartzers as was the average rural Mississippian. But this one seemed reasonable.

  She found several files of brochures, pamphlets, maps, photographs, and magazine and newspaper clippings, which she laid out for Mueller on a table. Then she came up with a thick sheaf of blueprints and a bundle of aerial photos.

  “Before and after,” she said. “I brought you both sets, in case you wanted to compare.”

  She stood, smiling shyly, as if she were a waitress waiting for a tip.

  Mueller returned her smile. “You have been very helpful. I can’t tell you how much.”

  She beamed. “You need anything else, you come see me.”

  “I’ll do that,” Mueller said. When the woman was gone he started working his way through the mound of material she had brought to him. It was incredible. No matter how long he was in this country, he never ceased to be amazed at its openness. The material he’d been so freely given would have been highly classified in any Eastern European country less than ten years ago, and still on a restricted list in almost every other country in the world. Now the problem wasn’t so much one of access but one of volume. There was so much information available that espionage had become an endeavor for the computer expert.

  Within the hour, Mueller had what he needed, and he checked into a Hyatt near the airport, after booking a ticket on United to Portland leaving LAX at 11:30 P.M. Los Angeles, tonight, would be a near carbon copy of Oakland, and he was getting the feeling that the others would be just as easy.

  George Socrates felt his sixty-seven years. Working around the clock on two projects at the same time was taking its toll not only on him, but on both of his crews. Tired engineers made mistakes. And in this business mistakes sometimes cost lives, a fact he was reminded of every time he looked at a 522. But it was the safest airplane in the history of aviation. He had designed it that way, and it had been built that way. The learning curve had been very shallow. Before the assembly plant had gotten up to full speed, eighty of the jetliners had gone out the door. At every stage of the manufacture and assembly, Socrates had demanded and gotten perfection. Now Sir Malcolm was telling him there could be flaws in the engine and in the way the engine was installed.