Hard Fall (4 page)

“You made a few mistakes. I won't bother you with all the details, but this thing you and Sarah Pritchet have for furniture … for positions … and your neglect, I suppose due to … excitement? … to close the blinds on several occasions. Well … what is it about a picture being worth a thousand words?” He tapped a manila envelope on the seat between them. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Ward's attention fix on the envelope.

He stopped at a red light. Ward seized the envelope, punched the seat belt release button, popped the door open, and got one leg out, only to find himself still strapped in the seat. Kort placed a firm hand on the man's left forearm and now looked over at him, waiting for eye contact. Ward continued to wrestle with the seat belt. “Close the door,” the captor said sternly. Ward wheezed in defeat and obeyed. Then he looked into Kort's unflinching eyes.

Kort said with deliberate calmness, “We should talk for a minute before you go running off.” The light changed, Kort accelerated strongly and threw Ward's head back. Disorientation was equally effective. “If you run out on me, I won't have any choice but to go to your wife, will I? And how would your supervisor over at Duhning feel about you snaking your assistant? Mm? My experience is that they tend to frown on affairs within the company. Mm? In a perfect world they'd let us snake whomever we damn well pleased, wouldn't they, Roger?” He waited a second and then added, “Mind if I call you Roger?”

Ward tentatively slipped the black-and-white photo out of the envelope. The shot wouldn't win any prizes for lighting or composition, but the two lovers had been caught in perfect profile in a particularly frantic moment: Sarah Pritchet's back arched, legs spread across him as Ward sat submissively in the chair. Their faces clear as day. “Picked that out myself,” Kort said. “You can keep it if you like.”

Ward breathed heavily as if about to cry. He asked, “Are you working for Karen?”

“Not working for anyone,” Kort replied. “I need access to the 959-600 simulator. Thirty or forty minutes is all. I need you to put it through a few moves. Forty-eight hours from now you'll have the negatives.”

“The simulator?” Ward asked, as if to say, “That's all?”

“Thirty minutes. The 959-600. I need you to run a few tests.”

“Industrial espionage? You're blackmailing me?”

Kort hesitated a moment. He couldn't be certain how Ward would feel about industrial espionage, but he thought he could predict the reaction to blackmail, and so he said, “Yes, I am.” When Ward failed to say anything, he added, “I'm interested in you putting the 959 through a few takeoffs, that's all.” He paused to give Ward a chance to think. He knew what happened to people in these situations: Their minds ran out of control; all the compartments popped open at once and the bottlenecked information tended to shut the system down; the ability to think slowed to a crawl. He thought Ward was probably lost back in that black-and-white photograph of him and Pritchet in the chair. Besides, he wanted Ward to understand the depth of his preparation; the more overwhelmed he could make the man feel, the higher his chance of success. After the pause he said, “We'll take your Taurus, because of the parking sticker. If we make good time, we may get you back for that drink at the Kingdome.” With that he punched the radio's volume knob and the game came on. They listened while Ward collected his astonishment and repaved his face to a smoother surface. “Still the top of the eighth,” Kort noted with the lilt of optimism in his voice. “Let's hope they make a game of it.”

He gloated privately at Ward's reaction. Complete submission. Like a child with a parent. No objection. No questioning. One-on-one and he was outnumbered. Kort had written the script, and without the gift of improvisation, Ward found himself betrayed by his own inabilities. He turned to face Kort twice, as if about to say something, but apparently reconsidered or experienced a failed synapse, settling back in the seat with a dulled expression. Kort had to smile.

“This is a beautiful city,” Kort said, admiring the lush vegetation in the headlights, the cool evening air. “I could live in a place like this.” Ward wasn't listening. His privacy had been stripped to the bone in a matter of minutes. There was nothing quite as disturbing. He would never realize that someone had followed him to Sarah Pritchet's and on to the Kingdome, had pieced his alibi together by simply staying with him for a few short hours on only a few nights. But are any of us protected from such discoveries? Kort wondered. Without living in complete paranoia, is there any way to find true privacy? In his line of work one
existed
only through such privacy and anonymity. But this was not the result of paranoia; it came at the price of never repeating one's actions, never staying too long in the same place, never contacting anyone else. Staying ahead of those behind you. It came in the form of a solitary world of self-discipline and silence.

Kort wanted to lessen the chance of Sarah Pritchet seeing the two of them, so they made the switch from his rental to Ward's Taurus quickly. The Pay-and-Park, void of lights, provided a perfect spot to make the transfer. Ward was told to drive. Kort removed the potato from the exhaust pipe and tossed it into the bushes on the west edge of the lot. As he took the passenger seat he explained, “Causes enough back pressure that the car won't start. Muggers use the technique in parking garages. Always check your exhaust pipe
before
you get in the car. It may save you your wallet.” Then he added, “Or your life.” Kort mentally checked off another step from his itinerary, pleased with how well things were going. He needed his full attention and concentration for the minutes immediately ahead. They drove onto Aurora Avenue and headed south to where it would become East Marginal Way, with the worldwide headquarters of Duhning Aerospace only a few short miles ahead. There, the random elements of this operation would multiply like breeding rats. Kort prepared himself for it.

“Slow down,” he instructed Ward, “you're driving too fast. If it's intentional, you're stupid; if it's not, you're nervous. I can't afford for you to be either. Understand, Roger? You're simply going to work. You've done this a thousand times. I'm a visitor in town from Europe who is interested in the 959-600. That's all that needs to be said. Now pull yourself together, friend, in case we have to speak to someone.”

Ward glanced over at Kort from the driver's seat, a bit more wide-eyed than Kort had hoped. But then he nodded, exhaled, and seemed to settle down.

“That's good,” Kort said a few seconds later. “Now let's go to work.”

For the next few minutes they drove along a road bordered to the right with derricks and loading cranes. Kort rolled down his window and inhaled some of the pungent salt air of the wharfs. He wondered what it would be like to be a crane operator, a fisherman, a captain, or a deckhand. So different from his own life. He thought of the bizarre twists and turns that had led him to this particular place on this particular night. The air felt as if it might rain. In a perfect world the rain would hold off for another few hours.

When Ward signaled for a right turn, Kort mustered a sense of authority in his voice and said, “Where do you think you're going? Not here. Not yet. The badge room first.”

“There's no security at Simulation,” Ward protested.

“No security inside,” Kort corrected. “I know that.” In fact, this blatant lack of security had led them to select a Duhning aircraft as their target. Simplification bred success; he knew it to be true. For unexplained reasons, the human mind tended toward complication. Chaos over order. Kort played the part of mathematician, constantly seeking the lowest common denominator; he continually reassessed the operation, searching out the lower ground in order to circumvent the foothills of potential problems. “But if you don't check in, then the patrol may question why you are parked over there. And anyway, all guests must be issued a pass.” Ward's frightened eyes found Kort—knowledge often proved the most powerful tool of all. He continued on and turned the car left at a small guard booth. Seeing the sticker on the car, the guard waved him through. They drove through several large parking lots and stopped outside a well-lit office, all glass and steel.

“You needn't worry,” Kort reminded before leaving the safety of the vehicle. He said it as much for himself as for Ward.

“They'll ask for identification,” Ward worried aloud.

“And I will present identification.” Then, in the clear voice of confidence, Kort told Ward, “Doctor, it is quite possible—probable even—that I know more about their jobs than they do. Yes? There will be no surprises.” He dug into his pocket and came up with the fountain pen he sought. “You will remember as a child, disappearing ink?” He faked a smile, attempting to comfort the man. “We will use this pen in signing me in. Yes?” He handed it to Ward. So simple when you planned ahead; such disaster when you did not.

Two men in dark blue uniforms with arm patches showing an airplane silhouetted by a gibbous moon, sat behind the Formica counter. Kort heard the low-volume soundtrack of a movie, indicating a television kept out of sight below the counter. One of the men passed them a visitor's badge as Ward signed them in.

“You have some form of ID?” the bigger of the two asked.

Kort produced his shiny new wallet and opened it to the German driving license. As he offered it, the guard, apparently satisfied by the likeness of the photo, waved him off. “That's okay. Thanks.”

Kort and Ward left them to the late show. As they reached the car, Kort asked for his pen back. He slipped it into his pocket. Everything in its place.

Ward set the turn signal and a red light pulsed across his face. He turned right onto Marginal Way and then negotiated a quick left onto a narrow road a block north of Duhning's main office. The car bumped over an obsolete railroad track. Huge corrugated steel buildings rose out of the darkness, their skylights lit brightly as the night shift continued the day's work. Ward turned left and left again, parking at the side of a smooth-metal building with curved corners and narrow glass windows that reminded Kort of an aquarium or a science center. It was labeled in bold black letters: E-17.

The interior of the building proved unimaginative. The center of the mustard-colored carpet was worn smooth by decades of foot traffic. The walls held the mandatory, self-indulgent color photographs of Duhning's history. The lighting was good, the air a bit stale. The place needed a face-lift.

Ward was walking too fast. “No hurry,” Kort said quietly, both hands held in his pockets to hide the gloves. “Let's stop by your office. Yes?”

Kort shut the door. Piles of paperwork dominated both the desk and bulletin boards. A computer occupied the desk's return that fronted a window framing the dreary southern parking lot. On the far wall, a series of color photographs showed Ward alongside a variety of private aircraft. He looked much, much older at the moment: his eyes puffy with worry, his shoulders slumped forward in defeat. Ward consulted the simulator schedule. He confirmed that Kort's information was correct: the 959-600 was free until maintenance took over at two in the morning.

“Are we likely to run into anyone?” Kort asked.

“No. Not at this time of night.”

“If we do, I'm nothing but another visitor. That won't be too difficult, will it?”

“I don't see why it should be. As you said in the car, we have hundreds of visitors a year, and at all hours. No. I don't see it as being any problem.”

Kort noticed that the man's attention was fixed on the photograph of a middle-aged woman with waxy brown hair, and beside her a young girl of six or seven in a bathing suit, her face wreathed in a big smile for the camera. Kort said, “They needn't ever know about it. I'm a man of my word.”

“Oh, I'm
sure
you are.”

“You don't believe me …”

“Does it matter?” Ward asked. “I don't know what you're after, but if you intend to string me along, it won't work. Just so we
understand
one another.” He was gaining his strength back, a result of his familiarity with his surroundings, no doubt. Kort needed him strong, but not to the point of rebelliousness. “Tonight is all you'll get from me,” Ward said defiantly.

Kort couldn't risk giving the man any more time to pull himself together. “If need be, you'll introduce me as David Anthony, a pilot's representative of Belgian Airways. We've broken off negotiations with Air Bus and are considering buying four of Continental's 1996 options on 959s for our shorter routes. If we take the deal then we'll need a simulator and an instructor course. Easy enough?”

“You've thought it all out, haven't you?” Ward asked bitterly.

Kort said confidently, “I wouldn't be here if I hadn't.”

They passed down a long hall, climbed a set of metal stairs, and stopped at the steel door, which had a keypad cipher lock requiring that a number be entered. Ward hesitated; it seemed to occur to him that he could still prevent this from happening. Kort said, “I'm aware of the nonsecurity access on the first floor.” He knew that the irony of this building was that where the second floor used the special locks, the first floor did not.

Ward entered the code without argument and opened the door to an enormous, brightly lit room with a high vaulted ceiling. Like a giant gymnasium.

They stepped out onto the catwalk that ran some forty feet straight ahead into the tremendous open space. To the right of the catwalk, rising on hydraulics from the cement floor like ambulatory space pods, were four enamel-white simulators. The space was immaculately clean. Each simulator had a large “elephant's trunk” carrying the mass of cables to a hole in the floor. Three of the pods moved silently, rising slightly up or down, careening left or right. The sophisticated hydraulics realistically duplicated the flight as unseen trainees worked the controls. Wrapped off the far face of each pod like opaque sunglasses, a series of flat metal surfaces indicated the screens for the computerized visual effects, so that once inside, trainees witnessed real-time moving images in a sweep of 190 degrees around them. These were among the most sophisticated flight simulators in the world.