* * *
I followed the snow-covered dirt path the rest of the way to the airfield. It wasn’t much of a walk. Had I waited another thirty seconds to pounce upon my driver, it might have been too late. One does not want to get into a life-or-death struggle in a careening minivan on a landing strip with multiple witnesses and multiple gas-filled and grounded airplanes for targets. This much I have learned.
Actually, the multiple witness part was something I just made up. It turned out this was a very small airfield, clearly privately owned, with a total of three airplanes standing in front of a hangar that looked barely large enough to accommodate two and a single plowed runway. (I would love to tell you what kind of planes they were, but I’m only just past the “man was not meant to fly, Mr. Wright” phase.) So rather than there being a gaggle of potential witnesses, there was exactly one.
Sitting in a Jeep next to the building was what I at first took to be a smallish man with short hair in a bulky flight jacket, but who, on closer inspection, turned out to be a normal-sized woman. She had flight jockey-type mirrored sunglasses on. As she was facing me, I could only assume she was also watching while I made my way close enough to hold a decent conversation.
“Hello,” I said.
“Good morning,” she answered, unmoving.
The hangar behind her was attached to a small, windowed office. I could see a radio inside and gathered that if one wanted to take off from this airfield, one must first radio in one’s intentions using this. (I learned this by watching movies, so who knows if it was true. Sounded good though.) The door was padlocked and on the door was written the legend “Patti’s Chartered Flights.” I made an inferential leap.
“You must be Patti,” I said.
She nodded. “You must be my twelve-fifteen.”
“I must be.”
“Except,” she went on, “You can’t possibly be my twelve-fifteen.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Because I was contracted to take two men.”
“The other guy couldn’t make it,” I said.
“Uh-huh.” She looked over my shoulder at the road I’d just emerged from. “Must have been a long walk from the highway.”
“I like walking. Very healthy.”
“It’s thirty degrees out, there’s snow on the ground, and you have no coat.”
“Well, sure,” I agreed, “it’s a little chilly.”
Patti repositioned herself uneasily in the Jeep. I wasn’t winning her over with my world-class charm. “Sounded like there was some kind of accident up the road there,” she said. “Should I call an ambulance? Or just skip on ahead and phone the police?”
“That depends,” I said. “What’s your position on guns?”
“Pardon me?”
“Let’s say I have a handgun in my bag here. Would you take my word for it, or do I have to pull it out and show it to you?”
She thought about it. “Honestly, I think you’d have to show it to me.”
“All right.” I produced the gun from the bag. “Do you need for me to point it at you, too, or shall we just proceed to the next step?”
She stared at the gun for a few seconds. “No, that’s fine. What can I do for you?”
“You were chartered to take two men?”
“Yeah.”
“By whom?” I asked.
“Guy named John Filcher. Blond, moderately handsome, forgettable personality.”
“Sounds like the right guy. Where were we going?”
“He said he’d file a flight plan before takeoff. I usually don’t do business like that, but his money was good and there was a lot of it.” She seemed remarkably unconcerned about the gun, all things considered.
I looked at one of the planes. “What’s the range on these?”
“Full tank, I could take you as far as the Keys.”
“Florida?”
“Yes, those Keys.”
“How about Seattle?”
“Maybe halfway with a tailwind.”
So, provided Grindel was my man—and he was still in the Seattle area—John had planned a multi-leg trip. He’d probably lined up two or three private flights through other charter companies so no one pilot would know he’d begun the day in Jersey. That’s what I would do. “Did he pay in advance?”
“Sure did.”
“How bright of you,” I said.
“I like to think so.”
I slipped the gun back into the bag. “As it turns out, I may just need an airplane.”
Patti looked at me skeptically. “Drugs?”
“What?” Was she offering me some?
“Is this about drugs?”
“Ah. No.”
“Are we doing something illegal, illicit, or otherwise immoral?”
“No, no, and I don’t think so.”
“Yet, if I drove a few hundred yards that way I would find what? A dead guy in a wrecked car?”
“You just might, yes.”
“Care to explain that?”
“I’d love to,” I said, “but I honestly think I don’t have the time right now.”
She stared at me for several seconds, until it felt like she was the one with the gun and not me. Finally, she said, “Okay, so where are we going?”
“I’m not sure yet. I could use about an hour. I have my own phone.”
* * *
Safely tucked in the corner of Patti’s office—away from the window and in front of the space heater—I reached into my bag and pulled out the one-button mystery phone.
The display on it read “EN RTE.”
It occurred to me that Robert Grindel—or whoever would be on the other end of the phone when I used it—had done something extremely foolish. He’d taken the simple task of picking me up and having me delivered, and turned it into a contest. All the soldiers of fortune that had come after me had been working independent of one another and, more to the point, against one another. It was like a Bruce Lee movie, where everyone attacked two or three at a time instead of just bum rushing the guy. And Bruce always came out on top. (When I watch his movies, I wonder what Bruce would have done if he’d faced a Mongol horde. Those guys knew how to use overwhelming force.)
I checked outside the window. Patti was busy prepping the airplane and had not yet done something unpleasant like contacting the police, so far as I could tell. I could have made her stay in the office where I could keep an eye on her, but something made me think she was trustworthy. Don’t know what, but then I never do. She just didn’t seem like the type. Also, given the circumstances, it must have made more sense to her to be able to claim she was in the air when the man on her private road turned up with a broken neck.
Enough stalling. I flipped open the phone and hit the button.
The phone didn’t ring. Instead I was treated to about ten seconds of white noise, followed by a recording of a woman’s voice telling me to “please stand by” followed by another ten seconds of white noise. I remembered how impressed Tchekhy had been when he looked at the device and how I’d been told it was a satellite phone, and that it was probably an encrypted one. I had to remember to send it to Tchekhy when I was done with it so he could check out the insides. He’d probably accept that as full payment for services rendered.
Finally a man answered.
“Hello, Adam,” he said. “Or is that not what you’re calling yourself now?”
“That’ll do,” I said. I shouldn’t have been surprised he knew who was on the other end of the line, but I was. “And you must be Robert Grindel.”
There was a slight delay on his end of the call. “Touché,” he said. “How is the man I had assigned to bring you here?”