“ ‘He is terrible in his onset and prompt in his decision, ’ ” intoned Stidham.
“Sun Tzu?”
“Yes, sir, sure is.”
Scott turned his gaze out to the line of jumbo jets, parked in a row, waiting for their turn in the maintenance hangar. Up ahead, he saw an illuminated sign that said ATLANTIC AVIATION.
Stidham turned into the gate at the FBO. Scott knew a fixed base operation, or FBO, was the private airplane’s parking lot and gas station. A twin-engine turboprop sat at the end of a line of private jets, its engines running. The door was open in the back with a stairway down. Stidham wove through the line of aircraft and pulled up next to the airplane’s stairway.
“There you go, sir.” He pointed to the twin.
Scott opened the Jeep’s door, and as he did, the high-pitched engines and the blowing wind filled the Jeep with dust and a deafening noise. The blast of frigid wind drove down his neck. Scott took his bag, ran over to the aircraft, and climbed aboard.
“Pull the door closed, Mr. Scott. Make sure you lock it.”
The voice came from the plane’s only other occupant. The pilot turned as he spoke.
“Come on up here and have a seat.” Parker pointed to the copilot’s seat next to his. “Strap yourself in, Mr. Scott.”
The Cessna twin moved forward as Scott, somewhat confused, climbed into the copilot’s seat. It was a tight squeeze. With little midnight traffic, the airplane was on the active runway in less than a minute. As it became airborne, Parker tilted it upward in a sharp, turning climb, passing over the terminal and parking lot where Scott had just been. The two engines’ loud hum drowned out any chance for much talk. With the aircraft climbing into a bank of clouds, obscuring all visibility, Parker pointed to a headset. The airplane rocked back and forth and would occasionally drop for a brief second as an invisible air pocket dropped it like a descending elevator.
Scott could hear other pilots as they talked to each other and some “control center.” Even this late, the radio conversation sounded like an auctioneer controlling a fast-paced bidding war. He wasn’t a pilot, but he could read a compass and saw that they were heading south. The lights of the small airplane gave a glow to the clouds, and with the hum of the engines, Scott could barely keep his eyes open. He wanted to talk, but the exhaustion of the long week weighed heavily on his eyes. The cabin was warm, and the engines continued to hum at a near-deafening pitch. The twin turboprop was not like a jet engine — powered aircraft, where the thrust and sound were well behind the cabin.
It seemed like an instant had passed before he felt a nudge. He looked down at the low glow of his Rolex and saw it was nearly 3:00 A.M. He could feel pressure in his ears as the airplane descended. Through the clouds, Scott could barely make out the tip of the wing, which gave him this odd sensation they were actually flying upside down. He looked over to Will, who adjusted the throttle of the engines like an accountant on his adding machine and settled back into the seat.
“Don’t go to sleep on me again, Mr. Scott. We’re getting ready to land.”
Scott leaned forward and glanced out his window just as the airplane broke through the bottom of the clouds. As far as he could see, the land below was a dark, lightless forest for miles. It was hard to get a sense of depth, but as the airplane got closer to the ground, he could make out several hills to his left.
Suddenly, the lights of a runway directly ahead of him appeared through the total darkness. He heard a mechanical thump — the landing gear lowering — and saw three bright green lights, in a triangle, flash on the panel in front of him. The airplane gently swung back and forth as Parker continued to correct its path toward the landing.
As they neared the ground, the engines spun down, and just as Scott felt the nose tilt upward, he heard the rear wheels strike the runway.
They taxied up to a small hangar, its fluorescent lights nearly blinding him. As he stepped out onto the pavement, Scott could tell that this was the only hangar on the one-strip runway. Parker had his own airport somewhere well south of Atlanta.
“Come with me. We’ll go up to the cabin.” Parker unlocked the aircraft door and let down the steps as he led Scott out of the aircraft. A black pickup truck with oversized mud tires waited next to the hangar.
“Jump in,” said Parker.
Wearily, Scott climbed up into the raised cab.
The road circled around the airfield and climbed up a wooded ridgeline. After a short time, Scott could see the airfield in the valley below, which suddenly became dark as some kind of timer shut down the lights. They traveled on in silence, perhaps because of the late hour, up the paved road into the dark.
On top of the rise, they came to an opening in the woods and a brightly lit, stacked-stone and timber house, like one would see on the slopes of Aspen or Vail. Scott got the sense that it was positioned on top of the small mountain.
“I say, you have damned fine tastes in hideouts.”
Parker smiled and led Scott through the door and into a room framed by exposed chestnut and oak beams and with a stone fireplace that climbed up to the ceiling. This was far from a cabin, with its antiques, Persian rugs, and well-aged landscape paintings. A fire lit the room and had apparently been well tended, despite the late hour.
“Anything to drink?”
“Scotch, straight up. No ice.”
“Your British is showing. How about Dalmore Thirty?” Parker lifted a clear glass bottle.
“Yes, please.”
Parker handed him the Scotch-filled glass and pointed to two leather chairs near the fireplace. As Scott sat down, he could feel the heat of the fire on the left side of his leg. The smell of wood seemed to add to the taste of the Scotch. He swirled the amber liquid in the crystal glass, treating it as if it were a rare, delicate wine.
Parker, still as steeled and muscular as when they’d first met, looked comfortable in his element. Although it neared dawn, he showed no sense of fatigue, his blue eyes gazing at Scott with intensity.
“Now, why are you here?”
“Would it matter to say I need your help?” Scott asked. It would not have been an understatement to say it was a plea. They had let him back in because of the Korean operation and only because of that. Scott had been a minor actor in that play, but he didn’t understate his role to them.
James Scott had spent his life on the adrenaline edge of this spy business, not because he was particularly smart or sly or skillful. Years ago he’d seen more opportunity, after Oxford and several tours in MI6 at Vauxhall Cross, with the Central Intelligence Agency than his own country’s spy service. He knew that most of the intelligence world involved the seduction of people’s weaknesses — the adulterer caught with another woman, the closet gay, or the embezzler. But he liked the action of the occasional operation, which seemed to be fewer and farther between. Americans seem to have more of an inclination for fieldwork. The Korean operation had been too loose, surprised too many in the Agency, and had almost buried him. Until it succeeded. The Agency had to pay millions to Parker in reward money and the budget wonks had screamed bloody murder. But few operations ever had been the success that Korea was. Parker had stopped a very bad situation in its tracks in North Korea. For much less than the cost of the several Tomahawk cruise missiles it would have taken, Parker had put the Korean missile program back a decade. And unlike the cruise missiles, Parker left no trail indicating where he’d come from. The mission left no fingerprints.
“Who?”
A simple question. William Parker’s single word asked who the target was, who was involved, who was so important that they would resurrect a retired operative and send him to find a Marine who’d been officially discharged from the service.