“You’re sure?”
“I’m rather well trained in this, and high performance driving response,” he shot back, eyes darting between the crowded street ahead and the rearview mirror before screeching into a sudden left turn across traffic and darting into a side street, almost losing control in the process and barely missing a parked SUV.
“JESUS, Will!”
“Sorry.”
“What are you afraid of, anyway? That they’ll shoot us?”
“We need a portal and a transponder, and being in any sort of custody won’t achieve that in time,” he replied.
“Custody? What the hell do you mean custody?” she said, hanging onto the handgrip above the passenger window as he accelerated through the back streets.
“Not now. Gotta concentrate.”
Once more she turned to search behind them, seeing nothing that would qualify as a chase car, yet Will was throwing them through desperate maneuvers. Slowly, a rising tide of doubt began to trickle into the corners of her mind, where uncertainty had already created a void. The sudden departure from the safe house, no overheard voices on his phone calls, now a phantom chasing them, and a potentially precious cargo she couldn’t deliver.
There was a tiny vibration in her hand and she looked down at her phone’s screen to see an answer from Seth:
Company says Will is rogue and dangerous. Get away now, call me ASAP! Use any excuse.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Situation Room, The White House (10:28 p.m. EST / 0328 Zulu)
“Sir, Piper may be in DC right now.”
Walter Randolph switched the handset to his other ear and let Jason Duke’s words coalesce.
“Talk to me, Jason.”
“We know DIA is searching for their man who was at NSA this morning, the one we’ve wondered about. You said DIA briefed the president someone had gone rogue, and we think it’s the same guy, named Will Bronson. We don’t have much on him. If he’s an operative, he’s a new one or we haven’t been watching appropriately.”
“How do Bronson and Piper match up, Jason?”
“There’s an NSA woman… a Jenny Reynolds… involved somehow, an analyst, purely a desk type. She and Bronson are together. Apparently Bronson was working with her earlier at NSA headquarters.”
“Okay.”
“But we think the real Bronson never made it to NSA. God knows where he is, but we think this Jenny Reynolds woman is with William Piper and has no idea who he is. “
“Why?”
“Sorry?”
“Why would Piper be spending time with her? Are they lovers?”
“Could be, I suppose, although our source is her boss and he doesn’t think she’d ever met Bronson or Piper before. But here’s the thing. If this is Piper, and he is behind whatever satellite transmission triggered an internal hijack of that aircraft, and if he’s working for Lavi, the last thing he wants is someone figuring out how to send a countermanding code and turn it off. We’re trying to find Bronson, looking in his apartment, car, et cetera. Highly likely we’ll find a professionally disposed of body. Meanwhile DIA is going nuts and whipping everyone into a find-Bronson frenzy. We’re afraid they’ll shoot him if they find him.”
“Purposefully?”
“No, sir. Overreaction. Even the police are involved now.”
“And you think the Reynolds woman knows that code?”
“We think she has the ability to figure it out. He’s probably protecting his interests. She has no idea what he does to people who are no longer of use to him.”
“I’ve seen the file. But what if she’s his confederate? What if she’s the means of sending the triggering message that started all this?”
“Her boss doesn’t think that’s possible.”
“Right… like every serial killer. The neighbors swear he was a great guy.”
“In any event, we need to find them fast, before DIA kills them both and we lose any answers.”
“Any track on where they are?”
“Yes and no. In DC at some apartment earlier tonight, but they left that location. DIA and we are bumping into each other trying to pick up the trail.”
“Jason, what are the chances the woman really does have the key? The unlock code, so to speak.”
“Her boss says she’s the best, and if anyone can figure it out, she can.”
Walter rubbed his eyes as his deputy waited for the inevitable thought process to end with an order or observation.
“Okay, you’ve been in the thick of the chase for hours. Pull back and grab some perspective. We have a phantom operative who planted himself for, what, six months in Mojave just to dispatch the wrong aircraft? And now we think he’s down to the wire trying to prevent the undoing of his dastardly deeds, right?”
“Essentially.”
“Jason, could Piper have done this all alone?”
“Sir, what I can’t grasp is what was engineered into that airliner that he could activate that would lock out the pilots. I don’t know airplanes, but that seems impossible.”
“Let’s say he could, technically. For the sake of argument. Could he have pulled all this off solo?”
“Maybe. Probably. Piper is clearly one of the best. He’s almost a legend, and we never expected to see him back stateside. We’re thinking that with six months of uninterrupted access to the airplane his employer thought was sealed and mothballed, he could have actually installed something very complex. He’s an electrical engineering graduate, you know, with a lot of practical experience.”
“I missed that. From Cal Tech, too, correct?”
“Yes. And we also know he’s a Lavi loyalist, because it was Moishe Lavi, while he was running Mossad a few years back, who set Piper up in luxury with all the females he wanted after he did God knows what for them. No, he’s a loyalist, and if this was planned as Lavi’s last play, you can bet Piper’s a part of it. But we’ll have to find bodies to make this scenario real. Where’s the real Bronson? Where’s the real Mojave employee?”
“Where will Miss Reynolds end up? And maybe more.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call me the moment you’ve got a bead on him, and we’ll share with DIA.”
“Sir, we figure those pilots are just a hair more than an hour away from Tel Aviv. Just so you know.”
“Understood.”
The Oval Office
Flanked and trailed by the same advisors and Secret Service agents, the president negotiated the relatively short distance back to the ground floor without discussion, waiving off his secretary and the waiting chief of staff as he pushed through the door into the most famous office on the planet, closing it carefully behind him as he looked at the lone visitor and shook his head ruefully.
“Jesus Christ, Paul! So it was you.”
“Mr. President, I’m afraid so.”
“When I heard the pilots couldn’t control the aircraft, I thought of you, but when I heard Colorado Springs was the aircraft’s home, the coincidence was too much. But then again, one of my most trusted generals would never let anything like this occur. Right?”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. President.”
The president crossed to the desk and consulted a folder before looking up again.
“What the hell happened, Paul? You wouldn’t believe the briefing I received downstairs a little while ago.”
“I probably would, sir.”
The president motioned him to the couch as he sat heavily into an adjacent captain’s chair.
“Give me the basics.”
Paul Wriggle quickly summarized the series of disastrous discoveries starting with the Airbus A330 ending up as a commercial flight, the efforts to broadcast a disconnect signal, the complete mystery of how the cockpit lockout happened, and his call to Rick Hastings.