Hard Fall (44 page)

“Taken care of.
Everything
is taken care of. Now get down to debriefing and get ready to do your imitation of a broken record. You're in for a long one.”

“What about the initial reports? I'd like to read whatever we have on last night.”

Pullman glanced at Gloria and then back at Daggett. “It isn't going to work like that.”

Gloria's eyes said more than Pullman ever would. Daggett was being shut out.

“What's going on?”

“Personal involvement like this is technically conflict of interest.”

“Conflict of interest? This is
completely
in my interest!”

“First things first. We need you debriefed and we need your full report.”

“That could take days! You're railroading me?” he asked.

“We're trying to find Cheysson and your boy. Now do your fucking bit and get down there to debriefing. Now!”

The two men, chests swollen and standing only a few feet apart, both held their ground. Pullman, in as private a voice as he could muster, said, “Don't do this.”

And with that, Daggett turned around and headed for the elevator.

It was only through the repeated telling of his story, required of him in the debriefing, that the first seeds of doubt were secretly planted. Whispered voices at the back of his mind provoked and challenged a wealth of possibilities. Upon review, the ordinary seemed fantastic, not to those to whom he detailed the events of the previous evening, but to himself, to the investigator who regularly studied the transcripts of such debriefings as these. By the time four hours had passed, he held in his heart the terror of uncertainty, despite his full awareness that he had witnessed it all with the very eyes that looked out at the men who now questioned him. Distracted by his own conflicting thoughts, his explanations tended to wander offtrack, and soon they had him starting all over, the sand in his hourglass turning to water and running freely from top to bottom, the hours racing by.

At ten o'clock that evening, seeing his exhaustion, his inquisitors pardoned him, but warned of renewing the session upon his arrival the next morning. Hours were agreed upon. Hands were shaken, smiles exchanged. No one doubted Daggett, but two men had died, and there was much to explain.

As he passed through the hallways, considerations now chewing holes in his reason, he heard the patter of quick feet approach from behind and turned to greet an anxious Gloria, in whose hand some papers fluttered like broken wings. She stopped abruptly, and in her face he saw his own, for she looked terrified. “I got you what I could,” she explained, handing the papers to him. “There isn't much yet.”

He looked down at the papers, now transferred to his own hand, folded them into his pocket, and thanked her with his eyes.

“I'll keep you posted,” she said.

“I have the strangest feeling,” he confessed.

“You need sleep,” she instructed. “Hot soup and sleep.”

With a swollen wrist and broken finger that Kort had splinted for her, Monique drove the Toyota to David Boote's home at eight-thirty on the morning of September twenty-first. Kort smoked a cigarette in the seat beside her. Boote's shift didn't start until ten. He lived only a few minutes from National Airport, outside of Alexandria in a predominantly black area.

Kort screwed the heavy silencer onto the end of the gun and then placed the gun in the nylon holster that carried it under his arm.

“You are not going to use that?” she asked.

“In L.A. we had to protect our methods, in case we failed. We had to take certain precautions to throw them offtrack. Dougherty was perfect for that. He was a known drunk and we injected him with enough booze to knock him out. Who is going to put too much faith in such a man's statements? We need no such precautions here. This is the end of the line. For us. For Boote. For everyone involved.”

“But he is just a mechanic. He has nothing to do with this.”

“Drive,” he instructed.

The brick apartment complex was in a litter-strewn neighborhood where rusty chain link fences protected lawns with no grass. The air smelled of dog shit and sour beer. “Same thing as last time,” Kort said.

He felt the whites of her eyes.

They approached the door. Kort checked the number one last time and knocked. The man who answered might have been Dougherty's brother. He needed a shave and a fresh undershirt. He looked hung over. The Greek did good work.

“Airport security, sir,” Kort said, beginning his familiar line. “We've had a breach of security and need to check all IDs. You mind getting yours for us?”

Unlike Dougherty, this man needed no convincing. He wanted to get back to the coffee Kort could smell. He wanted this over with.

So did Kort. “You mind if we come in for a moment?”

“Not a bit,” the man responded.

“We can wait here,” Monique objected, interrupting quickly, trying to stop what to Kort was the inevitable.

He stared her down. “We'd like to come in, if you don't mind.”

But David Boote, which was his name, paid them no mind. He was gone in search of his identification tag. Kort stepped inside. “Wait in the car,” he told her sharply.

She retreated down the path. Her shoe tangled in a plastic grocery bag driven by the considerable wind, and she bent to be rid of it.

Kort pushed the door shut.

Boote rounded the corner, his ID in hand, and Kort's withdrawn weapon put two holes through the center of his chest and a third in the middle of his forehead once he was down. He knelt, while the body was still twitching, and tugged on the ID from the man's persistent grip. He felt heady from the kill. Next were Mosner and the others; next he eliminated their manufactured death and destruction while directing the world's attention to their lies and conspiracies. He smelled victory and it smelled sweet. He slipped the ID into his pocket, put the gun away, and hid the body in the coat closet. He dragged a small throw rug and covered the bloodstains. He left the house and walked to the car, where he found her clutching the wheel with her one good hand, pale and trembling, and he saw the ravages of tears staining her eyes red. “We do what we have to,” he said. He needed her strong.

She said nothing. She started the car and drove off.

“Stop,” he instructed as they passed the huge hangars that were part of Brown's Aviation. “Pull over.”

She steered the car into the breakdown lane, allowing a van to pass. “What is it?” she asked.

“The wind,” he said, pointing up to the Day-Glo orange wind sock that billowed atop the third hangar.

It took a moment to get his bearings. He spun himself in the seat until he figured he was looking due east. “It's the wrong wind,” he said, checking his watch.

“What do you mean?”

“The
wrong direction!
We need them to use runway thirty-six—three-six. This wind will put them on eighteen. It's no good.” He consulted a cryptic timetable he kept in his shirt pocket, rechecked his watch, and said, “We'll just have to wait.”

“Wait?”

“We'll go back and wait. We'll have to hope the wind will change by this afternoon. There's another 959 this afternoon. It doesn't have a chemical cargo, but it's the only thing we can do. There's a radio band for the weather.”

“Wait?” she repeated. “No chemical cargo? I thought that was the whole
point
of this!”

“We have no choice. Turn it around. Take us back.”

“I do not understand. I thought that was the point of the operation—the chemical cargo.”

“Who cares if you understand. Drive the car!”

“You should not have killed him. Do you see? You should not have killed him.”

“No one cares about Boote. He's but one of many. Believe me, no one cares.”

“I do not believe you,” she said, negotiating the turn. “We all have someone who cares,” she snapped, wishing she did. “Or what is there left to live for?”

“I suppose you think I'm a beast,” Kort said from his perch on the edge of the bathtub.

Her hands were bound in front of her with a long white plastic tie, a variation on the kind used to seal trash bags. It held her wrists together so tightly that her hands had swollen. Her left ankle was bound in a similar manner, but with a nylon rope hooked through it. This rope connected at its other end to an unforgiving pipe. Kort had tied both knots in the nylon rope strongly, and then had taken the added precaution of lighting the knots on fire and melting them into a molten mass so that they could not be untied under any circumstance. Her improvised handcuff didn't stop her from smoking the Sobranie he offered her. But she didn't answer him, even though her lips were free to speak. She had no words that could express what she thought of him, and only in the last few minutes had she contained her rage so that now, shackled and sitting on the floor of the bathroom with her legs tucked up into a ball, she was wet with the perspiration of anger.

“None of this was planned. None of it. Least of all that I should fall in love with you.” He studied her unforgiving eyes and nodded. “Oh, yes, Caroline. Do you think that you, or the boy for that matter, would be alive right now if that were not the case? I have no desire to hurt you. There's hurt enough in this world.”

“You're mad.”

“I'm not going to argue the right or wrong of what it is I do for I need answer only to myself on that score. Only to myself and to Him,” he said, looking at the ceiling, “and I've made my peace with Him.”

“I wouldn't be so sure.”

She had never witnessed his temper before, but it flared, red hot, and he dropped to one knee and pressed his face to hers. “What the fuck do you know about it?” Her face, wet with the spit of his rage, turned away, and behind trembling hands the cigarette found her lips and she sucked hard and cowered as Kort returned to his perch.

He continued nodding, wouldn't take his eyes off her. He
was
mad. His hand found his wallet, and his fingers found the photograph tucked inside the leather slot and he leaned forward, frightening her, and slapped it down onto the top of the toilet seat. “This is
their
work. This was my child,” he said viciously. He withdrew his hand. She could feel him staring at her, willing her to look.

She was afraid to look, but knew it wouldn't be over until she granted him this. And when she did look, her stomach buckled and bile burned her throat. She turned away, and though trying to contain herself, heard the plaintive cry that escaped her. He had won and he knew it. He continued that strange nodding, as if convincing himself, and without looking at the photo, returned it to the wallet. “We all have our reasons for what we do,” he said.

“You used me,” she managed to say, for this fire had been burning inside her ever since Cam had mentioned the keys.

“I could have taken your keys at any time. I didn't use you. Not in the way you mean.”

“Then it was the keys.”

“Yes.”

“And now?”

He snubbed his cigarette out in the sink and stood towering over her, looking down at her. He held out another cigarette for her. He waited until she looked up and accepted it. Their eyes met and she wondered how anyone so gentle could do the things this man did. She recalled their lovemaking as if it had been years ago, and she couldn't stop her tears from falling. She hated him more than any person on earth, and yet her tears were the tears of love.

“There are two kinds of fools in this world. Fools who are fools because they do nothing. And fools who are fools for what they do. But I'm no fool.”

He walked to the door.

“Don't do it, Carl—or whoever you are. There are other ways …
Don't do it
!”

This turned his head, for even she was surprised at the concern in her voice. Slowly a smile took his face. Her tone had clearly impressed him. He stared at her for a very long time, but she felt nothing. Only ice cold. “Not Carl,” he said, widening his grin. “It's Anthony Kort.” He shut the door.

She knew the name because of Cam. Reality sank in: Anthony Kort. She understood Cam's relentless determination much better then, and she felt horrible for the things she had said to him. She folded up as once again her insides stung with poison. He had been
inside
her, this monster. Did it not make sense that a monster should be born to a monster?

“You bas … tard!” she screamed as loudly as she could, until all the air went out of her. Though as she heard the door to the other room shut and their low voices there, she knew her words meant nothing. A man like this only understood actions.

It sounded as if they were leaving. She heard the word
airport
and she knew something had to be done. Now!

The unlit cigarette remained on the floor at her knees where she had left it. She stuffed it into her lips and frantically drew on it, pressing against it the smoldering butt of her last. She puffed and puffed, desperately trying to get the new one to catch, and finally it did ignite and she swallowed the smoke victoriously.

It wasn't that she wanted a cigarette. It was that she had a plan. And now that she knew who this man really was—now that she understood—there was nothing she wouldn't do to stop him.

Less than a minute later the car pulled out and she went to work.

“Do you have them?” Daggett asked Lynn before she was even inside the house.

“Yes, but—” she answered, immediately interrupted.

“Put them over there. I'm on the phone. I'll be right with you.” He returned to the phone and said quickly, “Sorry about that. Yes. Mechanics, that's right.” He glanced up at her. She stared at him, wondering where all this energy came from. He motioned for her to put the papers she had brought on the dining room table. “Anyone who doesn't show up for work this morning … I know that … It's important … Yes … I'll give you two numbers. If I don't answer at the first, try the second. It's extremely important. It may involve one of your planes … That's right.”