Chapter Six
The drive to the Churchco Tower on Fannin Street took less than the usual twenty-five minutes.
Theodor Churcher rode one of the glass elevators high into the open core of the building to the tower-level executive suites.
Elspeth, his longtime administrative assistant, saw his preoccupation and sensed what was coming.
“Clear the deck, Els,” Churcher said without breaking stride. And that was all he had to say. They had their own special shorthand, and this meant he’d be unavailable and incommunicado for the rest of the day.
“Jake called,” Elspeth said, knowing that despite Churcher’s order he’d want to be told.
Churcher paused thoughtfully, lips tightening as he decided, then nodded. “But nobody else,” he said. He crossed to his office, inserted his card key into the electronic reader, and entered. The Van Gogh was waiting on the glass desk.
The intercom buzzed.
Churcher flicked a look to the painting, then pressed the blinking light on the phone and scooped up the receiver. “Jake!” Churcher said, forcing it. “What’s going on in Foggy Bottom?”
“Geneva. Current scenario has genuine potential,” Boulton replied rapid-fire. At five-six, and a hundred-thirty-two pounds, the director of Central Intelligence had the metabolism of a hummingbird. “Nature of my call is related. Specific interest — your ETA Rome.”
“I’m not going,” Churcher replied. “Andrew’s handling the auctions alone this year. Churchco Equestrian’s his division now.”
Boulton’s eyes widened pleasantly in surprise. “Celebration definitely in order.”
“You know it. I never thought I’d see the day. What did you have in mind anyway? The Italians getting out of hand?”
“Negative. Italian Defense Ministry has displayed exemplary toughness despite severe internal pressures. Advent of arms control negotiations prompts Company to ascertain IDM’s needs, and affirm our support. Informal conduit to Minister Borsa deemed appropriate.”
“Hell, I’d have been tickled to pull things together with Giancarlo for you. Can I help out with anything else?”
“Affirmative. Evaluate capability of newly appointed chief Churchco Equestrian to assume role.”
“Sorry. I can’t recommend that, Jake. The boy’s got the smarts, but he’s going to have his hands full trading horses over there. This is his first crack out of the box. I’d hate to see him screw it up.”
“Agreed.”
“I’ve got some offshore problems snapping at my heels,” Churcher said, glancing anxiously to the Van Gogh. “I’m going to have to drop off.”
“Seven-fifteen tee-off, opening day, Eagle Rock?”
“I’ll be there.”
Churcher hung up. He slipped the fraudulent painting into the portfolio, and zipped it closed with an angry motion. There was an element of danger in what he was about to do. It gave him pause. Not for his own safety, but that of someone for whom he cared deeply. He scooped up the phone again, called Moscow, and alerted her. Then he crossed to a door in the wall of arched windows and exited to an expanse of roof where a helicopter waited.
The high-speed amphibious craft was painted Churchco’s corporate black and silver. It was a customized version of the CC-65 Viper, the two-seat attack helicopter Churchco Aero-Space manufactured for the military. The weapons and munitions bays had been gutted, and fitted with auxiliary fuel tanks that greatly extended its range.
Churcher set the portfolio on the vacant copilot’s seat, donned safety harness and headphones, and threw a number of switches on the console.
The turbine whined to life, the slack rotors quickly becoming a whirling blur.
Churcher gently pulled back on the joystick.
The chopper lifted off in the familiar forward tilt, revealing the concentric rings of a huge Churchco logotype painted on the roof as a landing target.
In seconds, Churcher was gliding above the Republic Bank Center, and on over One Shell Plaza, Penzoil Place, and the other curtain-walled shafts that stabbed into the morning sun.
Churcher clicked on the radio.
“This is Churchco N653WD to Hobby Field. Request clearance to heading three five zero.”
“Cleared to three five zero. Fifteen hundred.”
“Fifteen hundred,” Churcher echoed.
“Roger,” the controller said, then shifting to familiar tone, “This here’s Jordy Banks. That you, Mr. Churcher?”
“Sure is. How’re you doing, son?”
“Just fine, sir,” he drawled. “Churchco’s already up three and a half.”
Churcher had been so preoccupied that morning he hadn’t checked the stock activity as he always did.
“Three and five-eighths,” he bluffed. “And don’t sound so surprised.”
Churcher clicked off, punched the throttle, and headed southeast toward the Gulf of Mexico. In twenty minutes he’d covered the distance to a cluster of oil drilling platforms. Each sported the concentric Cs of the Churchco logotype.
Below, on Churchco 47, bare-chested men in hard hats wrestled with the drilling pipe.
The whomp of spinning rotors signaled the helicopter’s approach. It came at an angle toward a landing pad that cantilevered over the sea.
Churcher hovered momentarily, as if he was going to land, then punched the throttle, lifting off again.
The men below shouted and waved as Churcher headed out toward open sea. One of the youngsters turned to the leather-skinned crew chief next to him. “What’s that all about?” he shouted.
“That was the boss,” the chief hooted. He whipped chain around pipe and pulled hard. “Just his way of letting us know he’s out there. Buzzes us all the time.”
The new fellow looked after the helicopter, now a distant gull on the horizon. “Son of a bitch—” he said admiringly, punching the air with a gloved fist.
Churcher knew his employees. And he knew they got a kick out of the chairman of the board piloting his own helicopter. And, so did he.
Aircraft had always captivated him. At age twelve, to the consternation of his parents, he skipped farm chores to catch rides in a rickety crop duster. The old bi-wing’s pilot was a former World War I flier who filled the teenager’s mind with tales of bravery and derring-do. And each time they soared above the endless acres of blight-ravaged crops, Churcher fantasized that they would land in another world far from the dust-bowl poverty in which he lived. And each time the plane touched down on the drought-hardened field behind his family’s tiny farm house, he cursed the bitter reality and vowed that no matter what it took, he would one day have unlimited wealth — and he soon realized that the symbol could become the means. Obsessed with learning to fly, but not having the money for formal instruction, he talked the crop duster into giving him lessons in exchange for gasoline — siphoned from the family’s farm vehicles. He soloed at sixteen and, a year later, won a scholarship to Houston’s Rice University, where he majored in engineering and designed his first airframes. As an OSS operative during World War II, he flew gliders to night landings behind enemy lines and discovered that he thrived on the risks; and now, he was not only a pilot but also a manufacturer of aircraft, including assemblies of the Space Shuttle, and Apollo moon rocket before that; and a lifetime of risk-taking had paid off.
The helicopter left the last drilling rig behind.
Churcher engaged the computerized navigation system, locking the chopper onto a preprogrammed heading — the precise intersection of latitude and longitude which he had passed on during his call to the Soviet Embassy in Washington the night before.
The data transfer had been accomplished by concealing the numerical coordinates in Churchco contract numbers. Churcher’s extensive business dealings in the Soviet Union generated many bona fide calls during which contracts were discussed. And for years, both sides had used this method to arrange meetings and specify locations without raising the suspicion of national security eavesdroppers.