“This guy wants to talk to you,” the loadmaster said.
The pilot looked at Corley’s ID. Kabakov could detect no expression on his dark brown face.
“Can we go in the shack? You too, Mr. Maginty,” Corley said.
“Yeah,” the loadmaster said. “But look, this eggbeater costs the company five hundred dollars an hour. Can we sort of hurry this up?”
In the littered construction shack, Corley took out the picture of Fasil. “Have you—”
“Why don’t you introduce yourselves first,” the pilot said. “That’s polite, and it’ll only cost Maginty here twelve dollars’ worth of time.”
“Sam Corley.”
“David Kabakov.”
“I’m Lamar Jackson.” He shook their hands solemnly.
“It’s a matter of national security,” Corley said. Kabakov thought he detected a glint of amusement in the pilot’s eyes at Corley’s tone. “Have you seen this man?”
Jackson’s eyebrows raised as he looked at the picture. “Yeah, three or four days ago, while you were rigging the sling on that elevator hoist, Maginty. Who is he anyway?”
“He’s a fugitive. We want him.”
“Well, stick around. He said he was coming back.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. How did you guys know to look here?”
“You’ve got what he wants,” Corley said. “A helicopter.”
“What for?”
“To hurt a lot of people with. When is he coming back?”
“He didn’t say. I didn’t pay too much attention to him to tell you the truth. He was kind of a creepy guy, you know, coming on friendly. What did he do? I mean you say he’s bad news—”
“He is a psychopath and a killer, a political fanatic,” Kabakov said. “He has committed a number of murders. He was going to kill you and take your helicopter when the time came. Tell us what happened.”
“Oh, Christ,” Maginty said. He mopped his face with a handkerchief. “I don’t like this.” He looked quickly out the door of the shack, as though he expected the maniac momentarily.
Jackson shook his head like a man making sure he is really awake, but when he spoke his voice was calm. “He was standing by the pad when I came over here for a cup of coffee. I didn’t particularly notice him, because a lot of people like to watch the thing, you know. Then he started asking me about it, how you make a lift and all, what the model designation was. He asked if he could look inside. I said he could look in through the side door of the fuselage, but he shouldn’t touch anything.”
“And he looked?”
“Yeah, and let me see, he asked how you go back and forth from the cargo bay to the cockpit. I told him it’s awkward, you have to lift one of the seats in the cockpit. I remember I thought it was a funny question. People usually ask, like, how much will it pick up and don’t I get scared it will fall. Then he told me he had a brother who flies choppers and how his brother would love to see it.”
“Did he ask you if you work on Sundays?”
“I was getting to that. This dude asked me three times if we were going to work through the rest of the holidays and I kept telling him yeah, yeah. I had to go back to work, and he made a point of shaking hands and all.”
“He asked you your name?” Kabakov asked.
“Yes.”
“And where you are from?”
“Right.”
Instinctively, Kabakov liked Jackson. He looked like a man with good nerves. It would take good nerves to do Jackson’s job. He also looked as though he could be very tough when he needed to be.
“You were a Marine pilot?” Kabakov asked.
“Right.”
“Vietnam?”
“Thirty-eight missions. Then I got shot up a little and I was ‘ree-tired’ until the end of the hitch.”
“Mr. Jackson, we need your help.”
“To catch this guy?”
“Yes,” Kabakov said. “We want to follow him when he leaves here after his next visit. He’ll just come and bring his fake brother and look around. He mustn’t be alarmed while he’s here. We have to follow him for a little while before we take him. So we need your cooperation.”
“Um-hum. Well, it so happens I need your help too. Let me see your credentials, Mr. FBI.” He was looking at Kabakov, but Corley handed over his identification. The pilot picked up the telephone.
“The number is—”
“I’ll get the number, Mr. Corley.”
“You can ask for—”
“I can ask for the head dick in charge,” Jackson said.
The New Orleans office of the FBI confirmed Corley’s identity.
“Now,” Jackson said, hanging up the telephone, “you wanted to know if Crazy Person asked me where I’m from. That means him locating my family if I’m not mistaken. Like to coerce me.”
“It would occur to him, yes. If it was necessary,” Kabakov said.
“Well, I’ll tell you. You want me to help you by playing it straight when the man shows up again?”
“You’ll be covered all the time. We just want to follow him when he leaves,” Corley said.
“How do you know his next call won’t be time for the shit to go down?”
“Because he’ll bring his pilot to look at the chopper in advance. We know the day he plans to strike.”
“Um-hum. I’ll do that. But in five minutes I’m going to call my wife in Orlando. I want her to tell me there is a government car parked out front containing the baddest four dudes she has ever seen. Do you follow me?”
“Let me use your telephone,” Corley said.
The round-the-clock stakeout at the helipad stretched on for days. Corley, Kabakov, and Moshevsky were there during working hours. A three-man team of FBI agents took over when the helicopter was secured for the night. Fasil did not come.
Each day Jackson arrived cheerful and ready to go, though he complained about the pair of federal agents that stayed with him during off-duty hours. He said they cramped his style.
Once in the evening he had a drink with Kabakov and Rachel at the Royal Orleans, his two bodyguards sitting at the next table dry and glum. Jackson had been a lot of places and had seen a lot of things, and Kabakov liked him better than most of the Americans he had met.
Maginty was another matter. Kabakov wished they had avoided bringing Maginty into it. The strain was telling on the loadmaster. He was jumpy and irritable.
On the morning of January 4 rain delayed the lifting, and Jackson came into the construction shack for coffee.
“What is that piece you’ve got back there?” he asked Moshevsky.
“A Galil.” Moshevsky had ordered the new type of automatic assault rifle from Israel at Kabakov’s indulgence. He removed the clip and the round from the chamber and passed it to Jackson. Moshevsky pointed out the bottle opener built into the bipod, a feature he found of particular interest.
“We used to carry an AK-47 in the chopper in Nam,” Jackson said. “Somebody took it off a Cong. I liked it better than an M-16.”
Maginty came into the shack, saw the weapon, and backed out again. Kabakov decided to tell Moshevsky to keep the rifle out of sight. There was no point in spooking Maginty any further.
“But to tell you the truth, I don’t like any of these things,” Jackson was saying. “You know a lot of guys jerk off with guns—I don’t mean you, that’s your business—but you show me a man that just loves a piece and I‘ll—”
Corley’s radio interrupted Jackson. “Jay Seven, Jay Seven.”
“Jay Seven, go ahead.”
“New York advises subject Mayfly cleared JFK customs at 0940 Eastern Standard. Has reservation on Delta 704 to New Orleans, arriving twelve thirty Central Standard.” Mayfly was the code name assigned Abdel Awad.
“Roger, Jay Seven out. Son of a bitch, Kabakov, he’s coming! He’ll lead us to Fasil and the plastic and the woman.”