Nothing, he reminded himself, but enough evidence to convict Grade of attempted mass murder—all of that evidence now in the hands of the FBI.
The sound of a passing jet broke his concentration, bringing him back to the present in his own kitchen. Brian yawned long and uncontrollably before looking at the kitchen clock. It was 2:21 A.M. He wished he could call Elizabeth, but there was no telling where she was. She had called from an unknown location on Tuesday morning, saying she’d be out of town for several days and couldn’t risk telling him where over the phone.
He imagined her blond hair now gracing the pillow of a reclining first-class seat in some 747 headed somewhere, and hoped she was okay.
He looked back at the steno pad, the word “fingerprints” catching his eye. That was the most difficult problem to explain. If Grade had been innocent, how could his fingerprints have ended up on the file folder and circuit board?
Not prints, plural, but print, singular, he reminded himself.
There was also the matter of the dark car that one of Grade’s neighbors had seen lurking near Grade’s house Friday night just before they heard him leave—the same type of car Elizabeth had sighted just before the explosion.
But why was Grade dead? Had he detonated the explosion accidentally as he was getting ready to slip into Pan Am’s hangar to sabotage another airplane, as everyone was assuming? Or …
Wait a minute! Wait just a minute!
Brian stopped pacing, his eyes staring far beyond the walls of his kitchen.
What if Grade hadn’t come to sabotage another airplane? What if he’d had an attack of conscience and decided to come tell Pan Am what was happening, and what he’d done?
And what if his co-conspirator had found out?
Brian thought back to the meeting with the FBI’s Loren Miller, and their shared conclusion that whoever had bombed Clipper Ten and tampered with Clipper Forty’s electronics had probably not intended to destroy either aircraft, but merely disrupt the airline’s operations. The two near disasters that resulted, however, could have panicked a man like Grade and driven him toward confession—something a more sophisticated co-conspirator couldn’t allow.
Brian returned to the table and began scribbling rapidly on the steno pad, drawing lines connecting various elements of the equation. He put the pen down and sat back again, his mind racing even further down the dark road of logic he had entered.
The dark car fits, too!
Elizabeth saw it enter the Pan Am parking lot and just sit there with the motor running, a perfect position from which to detonate a radio-controlled bomb.
The dark car, the soft side of Grade he’d seen in the house, Grade’s obvious distress as Elizabeth had observed him in his parked car, hunched over with his hands gripping the steering wheel—and the fact that the car had exploded as Grade was getting out—all of it made sense.
And killing Grade would have been a double benefit for his co-conspirator; for with the sabotage supposedly a thing of the past, Pan Am would relax its security, which would leave the airline vulnerable to another attack.
And if that was the explanation, the plan sure seemed to be working. Nothing Brian could say, no arguments he’d been able to raise, had succeeded in convincing Chad Jennings to clamp back down on security.
He turned suddenly, his eyes landing for a fleeting instant on his own wall calendar.
Whatever the bastard is planning, he’ll have to be quick about it. If Elizabeth doesn’t succeed in getting the money, it’s all over on the twenty-seventh anyway—five days from now.
Brian stopped in his tracks and replayed the previous thought, looking at his own words from a different angle, assigning them a different meaning—and realizing suddenly where they pointed.
My God, that’s it!
He lunged for the phone and dialed Bill Conrad’s home number.
A sleepy voice finally answered.
“Bill? Brian Murphy. Sorry to wake you up. You remember our conversation this afternoon?”
There was a brief pause. “Yeah. We were trying to figure out what the bad guys will sabotage next, if they’re still there.”
“Bill, I’d like you to meet me at seven A.M. at Seatac. I know exactly when and where they’re planning to hit us again!”
Wednesday, March 22, 7:05 P.M.
Hong Kong
Jason Ing’s limousine pulled up at the front door of the new Conrad Hotel in Hong Kong as Elizabeth closed her briefcase.
“I’ll see you in the morning, Jason.”
“The car will be here at eight.”
She patted his arm and nodded as she climbed out of the stretch Mercedes and headed to the room that Jason’s staff had rented for her.
Once in the room, Elizabeth double-latched the door behind her and began stripping her way to the shower, leaving a trail of clothes. The water felt wonderful, but hours of uninterrupted sleep would feel even better.
She had developed a deep appreciation of Jason Ing’s capacity for work in the previous eighteen hours as they had negotiated and discussed their way across the Pacific, forging the basic agreement at last on their respective computers. Two hours out of Hong Kong, he had smiled at long last and snapped the lid of his laptop closed, happy with the basic outline. The terms of the loan were a bit lopsided in favor of the lenders, but it would be Pan Am’s salvation if they could fund it.
Elizabeth dried herself and randomly flung away the towel as she stumbled to the bed, pausing only long enough to leave a wake-up call.
She was awake and alert and optimistic when she climbed into the limo at 8:00 A.M.—though a little embarrassed to be wearing the same outfit. She promised herself a quick shopping trip in late afternoon.
The offices of Cathay Alliance, Ltd., were an elegant blend of modern architecture and traditional Mandarin decor. Elizabeth complimented them profusely as she and Jason entered the executive suite and a smiling secretary waved them into the large corner office that belonged to the board chairman. The office was empty.
Elizabeth paused in the doorway, taking in the library along one wall, and the magnificent view.
Jason crossed the room and sat down behind the desk, delighted when Elizabeth’s expression cycled from surprise to an acknowledging nod of her head and a broad smile.
“I must apologize, Jason,” she told him. “I didn’t realize you were the chairman of this firm!”
“You were polite not to inquire,” he said. “I could have been merely a functionary, but you treated me like a chairman all day yesterday—even if you did raise an eyebrow at my tender age.”
She had finally looked him over closely the day before and given up trying to guess. At times he seemed eighteen in face and stature, at others in his late thirties, but he had noticed her scrutiny and guessed her question.
“I’m thirty,” he had told her. “I could tell you were wondering.”
After extensive introductions among the other officers of the company and a quick briefing on their widespread interests, Elizabeth spent several hours with Cathay’s legal staff, finalizing the form of the agreement. A copy would be faxed to Pan Am’s general counsel within the hour, she was told.
At noon, Jason Ing thanked the last of his departing staff and quietly closed the door of his office before turning to Elizabeth.
“I wanted a few minutes alone with you to discuss the source of these funds,” he said.
Elizabeth watched him circle the expansive office with his hands in his pockets as he tracked her reaction carefully. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind him revealed a breathtaking view of the city and the hills beyond. Elizabeth found herself watching a jumbo jet on approach to the airport as she replied with a sudden caution.
“I’m not sure I understand, Jason. You were going to pool various sources for the money, were you not?”
Her heartbeat had accelerated as a sinking feeling began to grip her stomach. Maybe she didn’t want to know whether the money might be from nefarious sources.
He sat down in a leather wingback chair next to hers and gestured to the city, as Elizabeth sought to concentrate on what he was about to tell her.
Jason’s voice was calm and smooth. “We talked briefly yesterday, Elizabeth, about the coming reversion to Chinese ownership in 1997 of Hong Kong.”
She nodded, only half hearing the reference to China. She was well aware of the havoc and panic the end of the British rule was bringing.
“The Chinese government,” he continued, “has no desire to dismantle what the residents and businesses of Hong Kong have achieved. We are, in fact, world traders, world bankers, and manufacturers. While all this decadent capitalism threatens communist ideology, Beijing’s leaders are well aware that there is more to learn and gain financially from leaving us alone and nurturing us as an autonomous island of free commerce than from trying to convert us to something else.”
“I’m aware of the changes in general terms,” she hedged, puzzled by where this was going.
“A few years ago we were planning to flee by 1997, to move to Vancouver. But something none of us had foreseen changed our minds. The minute we put this company in play for sale, we found that certain … shall we say interests … could make it very expensive for us to leave. Those same interests were determined that Cathay would stay in Hong Kong with the same people running it, or it would probably be torn apart financially trying to leave. These interests are in a position to have ruined us if we hadn’t complied, because of real-estate investments and so forth. Essentially, they presented us with an offer that, well …”
“Who was it, Jason?”
“Beijing.”
“Beijing? The Chinese government?”
He nodded, watching her make the connections.
“Are you telling me you’re in business with, or owned by, the government of the People’s Republic of China?”
“Yes. We look for good investments worldwide for them now. Very quietly. They do not wish to be known as investors in the capitalist system, even though they’re going about it in a big way. There’s even a school now in Beijing for training Chinese businessmen on how to prosper in the capitalist system. Sort of a home-grown MBA.”
“Jason, are you saying … that at least one of the principal investors in this loan, if we conclude it, will be the government of China?”
He nodded again. “As represented by another intermediate corporation here in Hong Kong, for purposes of discretion. Does that shock you?”
She sat perfectly still for a second, letting her mind absorb the small bombshell. They had two working days to conclude the loan, but if the Chinese government was in any way involved …
Elizabeth picked up the glass of Diet Coke she had been nursing and sipped it as she stared past him. They had been so close …
“Does this present a problem?” Jason asked. “I know you Americans are very upset over Tiananmen Square.”
She looked at him at last. “Tiananmen Square has nothing to do with it, Jason.” She sighed deeply and replaced her glass on the small table between them. “U.S.-certificated airlines are required by law to clear certain transactions with the Department of Justice and other government agencies in advance. Under the new laws passed last year, I can bring in foreign loan money without going through that approval process as long as, first, I formally report it within ten days; second, we’re not selling or obligating common or voting stock or equity; and, third, we’re not dealing with an arm, an agency, or a business subsidiary of a foreign government.”
“But I barely mentioned—”
She shook her head again, crushed. “I can’t lie about it, Jason. I can’t misrepresent it. Not even to save our airline.”
“Can’t you get an expedited approval from your government?”
She rolled her eyes. “I can try, but we’re looking at a month at the minimum, and by next Monday, without the first payment, we’re out of business.”
Elizabeth wanted to leave. The urge to get up and go find a hole somewhere to crawl into was almost overwhelming, but she had to persist. She had to think. At long last she took a deep breath and dropped her hands from her temples, trying to smile at him as she shook her head. “I guess you didn’t know about that law.”
“I’m sorry, no. Everything was so fast, and we have never dealt with a U.S. airline before.”
Elizabeth got to her feet slowly and picked up her briefcase. “I need to make a lot of telephone calls. And I’d really appreciate it if you would please keep trying from this end in the meantime.”
Back at the hotel, she walked the short distance from the elevator to her room, knowing she had hours of phone calls ahead.
It was 8:00 P.M. in Seattle and 1:00 P.M. in Hong Kong when she reached the airline’s general counsel at home. Jack Rawly had received the faxed agreement and had been upbeat and hopeful. The news that the government of China was involved changed everything.
“Your instinct was right, Elizabeth, I’m sorry to say.”
“Is there any way to accelerate the approval process?”
“Don’t hold your breath,” he told her.
“Then I have no idea what we’re going to do, Jack. We’re out of ideas and time, and I suppose there’s nothing we can do to stop a default declaration on Monday if we don’t pay the revolving-credit group?”
There was a long sigh from Seattle. “Elizabeth, I’ve read that damned contract six ways from Sunday, and had our outside law firm do the same. We’ve been had, it’s as simple as that. At best, I could buy us a day or two with a friendly federal judge. In the meantime, if you get anything I can use—any evidence whatsoever that our lenders have tried to hurt us illegally—let me have it.”
“I will, Jack. Thanks.”
“We hardly know each other, Elizabeth, but I appreciate what you’ve been doing. You’re a tough fighter. I’m glad you’re on our side.”
For some reason she felt tears rolling down her cheeks as she kept her voice steady and answered, “Thank you, Jack. I needed that.”
She replaced the telephone receiver gently, feeling very alone.
So it’s going to end, after all.
Brian’s face popped into her mind, and another wave of sorrow washed over her at the thought that the possible renaissance of their love in Seattle could now be destroyed before it really began.
The phone rang and she picked it up almost instantly, praying for a familiar voice on the other end.
“Elizabeth?” It was Fred Kinnen with news of an unsolicited offer of a new revolving credit line received from a bank in Hong Kong called ITB. “I think they were fishing,” he said. “They wanted an incredible amount of financial information sent by computer transmission, but the man who called Chad Jennings said they would consider a new six-hundred-million credit line.”
Creighton MacRae’s casual comment about ITB popped into her memory instantly. It was the bank used frequently by Irwin Fairchild!
“Give them nothing, Fred, but fax me anything they’ve sent us in writing. I’ll check it out here.”
“Does it sound hopeful?” he asked.
She realized she was shaking her head, an unseen gesture half a world away from her assistant.
“It sounds sinister.”
28
Thursday, March 23, afternoon
Amsterdam, Holland
Jacob Voorster stood for a moment in the outer office of the managing director, his thoughts immersed in the damning evidence he had just given the leader of Van Zanten and Vetter, Ltd.
The receptionist gave him a brief glance and an even more abbreviated smile. He acknowledged her with a correct nod, but held his position, his eyes returning to scan the rooftops of Amsterdam beyond.
Out of habit, he let his right hand smooth the few hairs left on the top of his head. He didn’t feel fifty-eight years old, but apparently he looked his age. Young women were always kind, but he missed the spark of interest he had once been able to inspire in their eyes.
He s
moothed his neatly trimmed mustache and checked his appearance with a sideways glance in the full-length mirror to his left, pleased that he had looked thoroughly professional in the presence of the company’s leader.
Voorster loved Van Zanten and Vetter. After thirty-three years of service, it hurt terribly to have to turn in one of the officers—a senior director—and, by doing so, expose the firm to the possibility of international scandal.
He let his eyes wander to the polished, lovingly displayed artifacts from the two-hundred-year history of the old-line Dutch shipping company: paintings of ships launched in 1798 with the first version of the famous VZV logo; a brass engine telegraph from the company’s first steamer in the 1880s; and a fifteen-foot model of the company’s first supertanker, encased in glass on a mahogany pedestal.
The managing director, Herr Frederick Ooest, had treated him with deference and respect and had called him one of the most capable financial analysts VZV had ever employed. Ooest had listened intently and even taken notes as Jacob described his initial suspicions over his discovery of a sudden, unexplained transfer of millions of dollars to an American corporation from an obscure account—transfers for which he could find no authorization. The managing director had also complimented him highly for working nights and evenings to track down the name of the VZV employee who had triggered those payments—and why.
And Ooest had promised swift action as he showed Voorster to the door.
“I will need, Jacob, all copies and computer disks or anything else that contains working material you used to compile your analysis of this. Everything. Immediately. You are to retain not the slightest trace of this work in your possession. That includes all notes, memos, scratch pads, or other working papers.”
“Yes, sir,” Jacob had replied.
“And you will speak of this with no one, Jacob, inside or outside the company. That is a very solemn order.”
Jacob Voorster nodded to himself and moved energetically toward the big double doors leading to the elevator lobby. He had done his duty. Now it was time to follow through.
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