Phoenix Rising

by Nance, John J. ;

  “Hasn’t anyone told him we have the court order?”

  “Judy did, but he ignored her.”

  TV lights shone from behind the glass of the boarding lounge above them. Elizabeth resisted the temptation to look up and check whether the cameras were trained on her as she walked up to Collins.

  “Mr. Collins, I’m Elizabeth Sterling, chief financial officer of Pan Am.”

  Collins kept an even expression as he checked his watch and raised his eyebrows. He extended his hand, and Elizabeth slapped the court order in it.

  “I would suggest you read that. And then leave. Immediately.”

  The time was exactly 5:00 P.M.

  Elizabeth prudently omitted the details about the shocking revelations Jacob Voorster had brought from Amsterdam as she briefed the media in the boarding lounge.

  “Our public affairs people will make the formal announcements,” she said on camera, “but I can tell you that we have, today, utterly defeated what we can now legally prove has been a major coordinated campaign by offshore corporate interests to put Pan Am out of business. That campaign has failed. We’re here to stay with the best service in the world, and the flying public is the beneficiary!”

  She smiled and stepped away from a barrage of follow-up questions as the outbound crew appeared with Judy Schimmel, giving the reporters someone else to interview.

  Elizabeth took the chance to slip away with Brian, who had already borrowed the key to a small VIP room down the concourse, with privacy in mind.

  He locked the door behind them, then drew Elizabeth into his arms in a long embrace which evolved into a deep, passionate kiss filled with stored-up longing. She responded in kind. After a few long, dizzy moments, she could no longer control the trembling in her knees.

  They sat on the couch then, Brian touching her cheek lightly with his fingertips. From the changing expressions on his face, she could tell he was in turmoil over something. He was trying to decide how much to say, and she could see he’d reached a decision as he suddenly repositioned himself on the couch and lightly touched her knee. His voice came out forceful, hopeful, and pleading all at once.

  “Elizabeth, let’s start over again. We got off to a rocky start with all the pressure, and I—”

  She pulled him to her, speaking low in his ear. “After I see Mother and Kelly, the first night back in the condo is ours, and the phones will be turned off.”

  He laughed. “I’ll look forward to that, but you don’t have to do that. I just have to get used to things.” He pulled back and looked her in the eye. “I am getting used to things, like the fact that you’re the most capable executive we’ve got, and I’m proud of you … and I love you.”

  “I love you too, Brian.”

  The words almost caught in her throat, and she hoped Brian hadn’t noticed. She sat back suddenly, remembering that he was heading back to Seattle prematurely.

  “Now tell me why you’re rushing back.”

  He sighed and nodded. “Okay. This isn’t over yet, with the death of that impostor, I mean. There’s at least one more rat in the woodwork.”

  “Rat?”

  “I think the company’s got a mole. I’ve thought so all along, and so does the FBI.”

  “You mean ‘mole’ as in espionage?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

  “As in sabotage, from within the company.”

  “How high up?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “But why do you have to go back so quickly? Can’t the FBI handle it?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “I found something on the body of that guy—something I recognized. A business card with a familiar logo that I’ve seen before, from a condominium rental agency in Seattle. In fact, I’d swear I’ve had a card from the same company given to me sometime in the past, but I just can’t remember when, or by whom. If I’m right, though, that card—and the handwritten address on the back—could lead to whoever hired that bastard I caught on my plane today.”

  “You think he was a hired gun?”

  Brian nodded solemnly. “I think he’s the one behind the computer dirty tricks, all the sabotage, and that explosion. Remember my theory about the fingerprint?”

  Elizabeth remembered the explanation of the rubber-stamp fingerprint, but it had seemed farfetched. Brian fished out the small plastic bag with the latex stamp. Elizabeth looked at it in complete surprise.

  “Whose is it?”

  “A thousand-to-one odds you’re looking at the index fingerprint of the late Marvin Grade.”

  Her eyes returned to his, her memory mingling the chances Creighton had taken playing detective with her own frightening experience in Hong Kong.

  “Promise me you won’t take unnecessary risks!”

  “I promise.”

  Elizabeth had agreed to substitute for Ron Lamb at the formal initiation of the new service. Speaking to the crowd with a false-front smile was the last thing she wanted to do as she watched Brian wave her goodbye and hurry down the concourse toward his Seattle flight. She forced herself to say the appropriate words just before cutting the ribbon to launch Pan Am’s first round-the-world flight service. But the sight of Clipper One, pushing back on time with a full complement of eager passengers on board, was beautiful, and she was teetering on the verge of tears when a large, gentle hand closed softly around her right shoulder.

  “That 747 you’ve launched represents the salvation of your whole airline. You did it, Elizabeth! Congratulations!”

  Creighton MacRae had a broad smile on his face as she turned into the sunshine of it, at once thrilled to see him and feeling guilty for reacting that way. Brian, she reminded herself, was probably not even away from his gate yet.

  His hand had progressed from her shoulder to encircle her waist, and he kept his arm around her now as they both stared at the departing jumbo.

  To the others in the departure lounge, they were two happy Pan Am people sharing a side-by-side victory hug.

  To Elizabeth, his touch triggered a crisis of confused longings.

  “I have a message for you from Jason Ing, by the way,” he said.

  She brightened as she looked around at him. “Oh?”

  “He’s recovering quite nicely. He thanked us for the small florist shop you sent, and he said to assure you that the papers for the one hundred forty million have already been faxed to Seattle as per your instructions. Jeremy expects they can transfer the funds by midnight our time. Jack Rawly tells me the suits he’ll file tomorrow will make it unnecessary even to pay interest to Intertrust for the next few years while this stays in litigation.”

  “Good heavens, Creighton, do you realize that gives us a totally new five-hundred-million credit line?”

  “I do. Jack says to tell you he doubts that we will—excuse me, that you will—ever have to pay a cent of that back. Four hundred thirty million in damages would sound about right under the organized-crime statutes.”

  Elizabeth was regarding him quietly, her eyes gazing into his.

  “Creighton, you’ve been so invaluable to us, it almost scares me to have you leave.”

  “Jack Rawly and the rest of you can handle things from here. You’ve got the buggers dead to rights, and I’ve got to get back to Forres, Elizabeth. I have business to take care of, a meeting in London tomorrow that I was afraid I was going to have to cancel, and besides that”—he dropped his arm from her waist and held her elbow instead as she turned to face him—“I left my poor housekeeper on the doorstep stunned and speechless when I dashed out the door last week, and that’s frightening. I’ve seen her stunned before, but I’ve never seen her speechless.”

  She looked down and placed her finger on his chest.

  “I guess I also … hate to see you go personally.”

  She looked up at him, part of her mind screaming at her to consider the signals she was sending, while the other part urged her on.

  Creighton was smiling. “Well, if you want me, just call. Of course, after you get my
bill, I doubt you’ll be calling anytime soon.”

  “I couldn’t have done this without you, you know.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “How about your successful sleuthing around the other night? That gave us the extra time and kept us alive.”

  He cocked his head slightly, smiling a conspiratorial smile. “It did work out rather well, now that you mention it.” He looked over his shoulder at the departing 747 before looking back at her.

  “Well, we got that bloody beast from Boeing launched, at least,” he said.

  He let go of her elbow and gestured toward the concourse.

  “Why don’t you walk me to my gate, then, Elizabeth Sterling, CFO? Unless you’ve got something else you need to attend to …”

  “I wouldn’t think of letting you depart without waving goodbye.”

  She took his arm as she walked with him toward the adjacent terminal, both of them speaking rapidly of the things left undone.

  “Jacob Voorster wants to see the cabdriver who saved his life, so Jack Rawly is planning to arrange police protection for Mr. Voorster and take him over to the hospital.”

  “How’s the man doing?”

  “Voorster?”

  “No. The cabby.”

  Creighton nodded. “Brave fellow. Nothing wrong but a mild concussion, fortunately.” He looked at her with a worried expression. “I warned Jack to find a safe house and keep Voorster guarded twenty-four hours a day until he’s been fully debriefed on the record—until he’s testified. He’s agreed to stay here until it’s all over.”

  All too soon they were standing in another departure lounge, watching the last of the passengers board a British Airways 747 to London as Creighton took his boarding pass from the gate agent and walked with Elizabeth to the door.

  She was having trouble meeting his gaze, and he gently raised her chin until their eyes were locked on each other.

  “Scotland’s rather beautiful in the early spring, you know.”

  She smiled. “Yes, I do know.”

  He looked at her in silence again, his smile slowly fading, his carefully guarded emotions finally overwhelming his resolve to stay thoroughly in control.

  “Elizabeth, I … come with me.”

  He saw the look of surprise and the startled turmoil in her eyes, but he was also aware that she hadn’t pulled away.

  “What … do you mean?” Elizabeth asked softly.

  He felt himself swallow hard. “I … just mean this shouldn’t be goodbye.”

  She smiled, a little too sadly, he thought. He knew a little about her history with Brian, and he could see she was struggling with herself.

  “Creighton … I have a commitment in Seattle …”

  “No strings, Elizabeth, just an open invitation.”

  He had reached a truce with himself. She could see it in his eyes, and knew the invitation was permanent. He was okay alone, but he would be waiting.

  She smiled. “Like our connecting doors in Vancouver, then.” Her words formed no question. The image was clear, and they both knew.

  He nodded, closing his eyes as he leaned down to kiss her.

  Epilogue

  Tuesday, March 28, 11:00 A.M.

  Seattle

  Brian Murphy sat quietly in a wooden rocking chair facing the door, listening to the sound of footsteps in the hallway of the condominium. He knew how long it would take to drive to the Redondo Beach area, a few miles to the southwest of Seatac Airport. The recipient of the single-page fax he had sent should be arriving any minute.

  The sound of a distant door opening swallowed the footsteps. Quiet once again settled over the building.

  Brian looked around at the expensive interior. For an attempted mass murderer, the renter of the condo had shown elegant taste in his choice of furniture and decor. It was hard to believe such a man would be careless enough to leave the handwritten address of his base of operations on the back of a card in his wallet. But he had done exactly that. It had been simple for Brian to obtain a key, using a carefully constructed lie to the rental firm.

  He had entered gingerly, just as unsure of what to expect as he’d been in Marvin Grade’s house—but here there was a world of difference. The condo was full of electronic equipment, computers, printers, scattered electronic components and tools, and a fax machine with ten memory buttons. Marvin Grade’s little house had contained no such incriminating evidence. This must be the right man!

  Brian had counted on finding a telephone with a dialer memory, or some record of who the renter normally called. But the fax memory provided something more: a record of all the numbers to whom documents had been sent in the previous few months—even local numbers. One number in particular kept reappearing time and again.

  Its owner hadn’t been difficult to trace, but the realization of who it was had provided quite a shock.

  The distant slamming of a car door filtered into the darkened room. Brian felt himself tense slightly and feel for the switch on the power cord he’d connected to several floodlights on a stand.

  The rubber-stamp fingerprint had been Marvin Grade’s, after all. Loren Miller, the FBI agent, had apologized to Brian for his previous smug denial that the fingerprints could have been faked. They agreed that at worst, Grade had been only a co-conspirator. Less than an hour later, while searching the condo, he had found enough evidence to prove that Marvin Grade had been nothing more than an unwitting pawn.

  Brian thought back to the lonely little house and the calendar with the birthdays of Grade’s children so lovingly inscribed. For the first time he felt true compassion for the man. Apparently he was exactly what Brian had come to believe: an innocent victim.

  There were new footsteps on the stairway.

  The wording of the fax had taken some time, but he’d decided to keep it terse and simple, searching for the shortest number of words that would strike the greatest amount of terror into the heart of the unidentified co-conspirator—a co-conspirator who also carried a Pan Am ID.

  We’ve got major problems that could lead right to your doorstep. Meet me at the Redondo location at 11 A.M.! I’ll leave the door unlocked. I’m not answering the phone, so just be there—or I’m heading south w/o a forward.

  Urgent, rapid footsteps thudded down the hallway, becoming louder with each report. Suddenly they stopped. He heard the sound of the doorknob turning.

  The door to the condo opened and then slammed shut as the man moved angrily into the room, spotting no one until Brian snapped on the bright lights.

  The man stood in the entryway, holding his hand over his forehead and trying to peer beyond the glare.

  “Turn those fucking lights off!”

  Brian altered his voice before speaking in an approximation of the saboteur’s voice. “I’ve got a loaded, cocked Uzi aimed right at you. Don’t move!”

  “What is this with the lights, Hansen? What are you doin’?” he growled.

  Okay, the man’s name was Hansen, Brian thought.

  Brian began again. “I’m watchin’ your reactions. I want to see if you’re going to lie to me again.”

  “What? About what? I haven’t lied to you!”

  “Answer me yes or no. You hired me to screw up your airplanes, cause delays, and make your airline look incompetent, right?”

  “Christ! You’ve already been paid for all that, Hansen! The money’s in the bank on Grand Cayman, just like you said. Now what do you want?”

  “You didn’t tell me your goddamned chief pilot was gonna play detective. I got jumped yesterday at Kennedy.”

  He seemed stunned. “What the fuck were you doing at Kennedy? I told you the job was over. You could go home to your island bank account and forget this ever happened. I told you we had gone too far with the airplanes. What’s with these damn lights?”

  Brian snapped the lights off and watched as Pan Am’s vice-president of operations, Chad Jennings, stood in complete confusion, his eyes focusing at last on Brian Murphy, but his brain refusing to co
mprehend what had happened.

  “You’re right, Chad. It’s all over.”

  Four FBI agents who had been waiting in the adjacent room entered, guns and handcuffs at the ready.

  Wednesday afternoon, March 29

  Washington, D.C.

  Jack Rawly sat on the edge of a borrowed desk in the office of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, giving a brief update to the board members in Seattle by speakerphone. With the formal announcement of the lawsuits Pan Am was filing, the company had suddenly found itself in the eye of an international political hurricane.

  “Well, as Ralph Basanji can tell you,” Brian said, “we’re being beneficially portrayed as a giant-killer. The mouse that roared, if you will. Congressional hearings are pending into the illicit foreign control of our airlines. The Dutch government is moving rapidly against VZV. We’ve filed a stack of lawsuits. And—the most galvanizing news of all, I think—the Justice Department and the CIA believe Jacob Voorster has solved a long-running puzzle. Remember the billions of dollars missing from BCCI in the Bank of Credit and Commerce International scandal? No one in Washington could figure out where all of that money from Noriega, the Medellín Cartel, Saddam Hussein, and every other badass criminal on the planet ended up. Well, it’s beginning to look like VZV was the conduit. The money went, in part, to buy up secret controlling interests in our big three airlines through that stack of holding corporations they created.

  Justice has a grand jury working overtime on indictments this morning. As for Nick Costas, let me just say things are in motion.”

  “Are … are w-we going to win those suits, Jack?” Ron Lamb’s voice crackled over the connection to Washington, triggering a smile on Jack Rawly’s face. Ron’s voice was still hesitant, but getting stronger by the hour.

  “Speaking as your highly conservative general counsel, Ron, the answer is an unqualified yes!”