The federal agent eased into the questioning even more smoothly and naturally than Lake had expected. Lake responded, “No, it’s not my plane. I know very little about planes, actually.”
“Your plane, Mr. Fell?” Lassen asked, turning toward Lake’s assistant, who thought himself completely out of the conversation.
“No,” Fell replied much too hastily, too nervously. “Actually, I hate airplanes. I have to practically be sedated into unconsciousness before takeoff.”
“It’s a beauty,” Lassen said. “I don’t know too much about them, either, but of course the job lately has introduced me to lots of different kinds.”
“You’re investigating the terrorist Cazaux,” Lake said knowingly. “The lunatic who isn’t satisfied with blowing up one plane — he’s got to blow up the entire terminal.” “Exactly,” Lassen said. “This kind of plane, as you might know, is just like the one Cazaux might use — big, relatively inexpensive, heavy payload, designed to drop things out the back. This is a fire-bomber, right?”
“A water-bomber, to be exact,” Lake corrected him. “And yes, it is Italian. It is used all over the world for firefighting, military transport, even civilian and commercial passengers. So how’s the investigation going? You going to catch that bastard yet?”
“Oh, I think Cazaux will either slip away out of the country, do something really stupid and get himself caught, or one of his soldiers will rat him out for money or to 'make a deal with prosecutors,” Lassen said matter-of-factly.
“You sound pretty sure of this,” Lake observed, trying to act disinterested.
“I wish I could say that most crimes are solved by expert, meticulous investigation by wise, insightful, observant agents, but in fact most crimes get solved because the bad guy screws up… or someone very close to him turns him in.” He paused, his eyes affixing on Lake, and the New York investor felt the first prickle of perspiration on the back of his neck.
“Most criminals, Mr. Lake, are dishonest, egotistical, greedy slimeballs,” Lassen explained. “Many of the people that psychopaths like Henri Cazaux surround themselves with are also slimeballs, but they’re usually smarter. These guys are not quite as violent or psychopathic as their boss — they’re usually motivated by greed, not by the thrill of killing or some voice inside their head telling them to kill. They are cowed by the psychopathic leader into following him, even when the killing grows beyond anything anyone could imagine.
“But sooner or later it appears that the leader is getting too far out of control, and the smart underling realizes that he’d better cut and run and make a deal with the authorities before everyone lands in prison for life plus two hundred years — or dead. The smart underling turns in the psychopath, gets a reduced sentence or maybe even put in a Witness Protection Program, and thanks his lucky stars he saw the light before it was too late… I’m sorry, I’ve been chatting on here. What is it you do, Mr. Lake?”
At first Lake acted as if he didn’t hear the federal agent’s question — and in fact he hadn’t, because he was too stunned by what Lassen had said. He had precisely described the dilemma Lake was in.
Cazaux was getting more and more violent every day, urging his troops to take more chances, go to any lengths to carry out his orders. Lake had been looking for his chance to scrape together enough cash to disappear to a ranch in Brazil or Thailand, but it seemed Cazaux was always around, watching him, ordering him around. This trip was exactly a case in point: Lake knew nothing about doing prepurchase inspections on cargo planes, but Cazaux had him come out here anyway instead of just staying in his office and monitoring their ever-growing portfolio of options contracts. They were making ten, sometimes fifteen million dollars a day from their series of investments, and it required careful study and analysis to keep it all going. But Cazaux ordered him out here, and now he was being confronted by a fed from Sacramento, a damned fed who seemed to see right through him.
“I’m a smart underling,” Lake finally responded with an easy smile, “and I work for a broker who can really terrorize a tiramisu or an apricot flambe if he sets his mind to it. I’m going to turn him over to Jenny Craig any day now.”
The ploy thankfully worked — everyone laughed, and Lassen finally disengaged his piercing gaze, laughed loudly, and shook a finger at Lake as if to say, Okay, okay, okay, you got me. “Hey, have a great day, everyone, I’ve got a long drive back to Sacramento ahead of me. Nice to meet all of you. Thanks again, Mr. Fennelli.” He shook hands with Lake and Fell and headed back to his car, casually studying the G222 as he did. He finally took off his jacket just before getting into the sedan, and Lake noticed he seemed to wear no gun.
A pencil-pusher, Lake guessed, pressed into field service in Hell’s half-acre in Mojave because the feds were stretched so thin. “Seems like a nice guy,” Lake said to Fennelli as the fed departed.
“That’s the most I’ve heard him say the whole time he’s been here, about four days now,” Fennelli replied. “Pokes around here and there, flies off, shows up again a couple days later, never asks for anything, pokes around some more, flies off again. That’s his Cheyenne over there.”
That made Lake relax a bit — the guy really did seem like nothing but a pencil-pusher, not a real investigator. But as soon as Lake took some comfort in that thought, his mind went on the alert again. Lassen was a deputy U.S. Marshal — that was not a ceremonial or political post. Lake wished he had taken more time to study the fed better. He was going to have Fell check him out.
“I’ll be returning to Los Angeles this afternoon,” Lake told Fennelli. “My staff will conclude the transaction.”
‘'Yes, Mr. Lake.” Fennelli said. He extended a hand to Lake; he did not accept it. “Everything will be ready for your ferry crews. If there’s anything else you require, please let me—”
“All I require, Mr. Fennelli, is for you to do your job.” Lake said, “and to leave the sleuthing to Deputy Marshal Lassen there.”
“Of course, Mr. Lake,” Fennelli said contritely. He led Lake and Fell back to the Range-Rover. He started heading back toward the flight-line offices where his customer’s Leaijet was parked, then did a sudden one-eighty turn and headed back down the flight line. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lake, I almost forgot.” Fennelli said. “You’ll be wanting to see your other plane. I'm sure.” Lake really didn't care to see it, but he said nothing as Fennelli sped down the row' of airliners. It did not take long to reach it. “Here we are. It looks like they’re farther along the prepurchase inspection on this one.”
Lake found his legs and hands shaky as he stepped out of the-Land-Rover and looked up at the huge aircraft before them. He glanced at Ted Fell, and he wras just as whitefaced and nervous as his boss.
This had to be some kind of joke, Lake thought bitterly. Henri Cazaux had issued his order that he wanted this plane, and Lake had found him one right away without really asking why he w-anted it. Now, seeing it like this, Lake understood exactly w'hy Cazaux wanted it.
It w as a Boeing 747-200F freighter, still in Nippon Cargo Airlines livery, although the markings on the vertical stabilizer from its former owner had already been painted over in bright white. The aircraft was a cargo-carrying version of the 747 airliner, with a huge nose loading door hinged at the top just below the flight deck, which opens out and up. like a huge sun visor. Almost two hundred thousand pounds of cargo could be rolled into the cavernous cargo bay through the front or through large side doors. “It’s a beauty, all right,'’ Fennelli was saying. “JA8167 is one of the earlier models, built in 1980. Relatively low-cycle airframe, treated fairly well in over ten years of service although it’s had its share of short fields and tropical weather. It’s still got its RB211 engines, so its max payload is about ten percent less than if it had JT9Ds or CF6s, but it’s got its quiet kits installed and it’s fully certified for Stage Three noise level operations, so you can fly it anywhere. You got yourself one fine bargain. Who’s going to do the paint job on it?”