Scanning the “Arrivals” panel, he saw that the Learjet with tail number LN303P had landed at Teterboro only half an hour earlier. So it was not a local charter — Diogenes had used a “repositioned” charter from another airport in order to help cover his tracks.
Clever. But not quite clever enough. Because Diogenes had not thought, or known, to block his tail number from such civil aircraft tracking as FlightAware. And as a result, Proctor now knew precisely where he was headed.
But such knowledge was of limited use. Because with every passing minute, Diogenes was streaking away from him, toward Nebraska, at hundreds of miles per hour.
4
According to the AirNav website he had checked earlier, DebonAir Aviation Services was the only aircraft charter service currently operating directly on the Teterboro grounds. Driving along the row of FBO buildings, Proctor finally spotted the charter’s sign; he parked in a space near the frosted-glass exterior door and then, killing the engine and grabbing his bag and laptop, he quickly exited the Rolls.
The interior of the charter service was like others he had seen, comfortable yet eminently functionaclass="underline" most charter operators were either ex-commercial pilots or ex-military. There were three desks, only one of which was occupied. Framed aviation posters hung on the walls. An open door at the back of the office led to what was evidently a filing room.
Proctor sized up the man behind the desk. He was about fifty, with short iron-gray hair and a muscular build. A nameplate on his desk read BOWMAN. He was looking back at Proctor, evidently assessing a prospective customer.
Proctor considered the situation. What he was about to request was unusual, and would normally take time — more time than he had — to arrange. He quickly but methodically weighed his options, following each decision tree to its logical conclusion. Then he took an empty seat before the desk, placing the computer on the floor and keeping the bug-out bag protectively cradled on his lap. “I need an immediate charter,” he said.
The man blinked back at him. “Immediate,” he repeated.
Proctor nodded.
“What’s the rush?” the man asked. His expression, abruptly growing suspicious, asked the silent question: Illegal?
“Nothing like that,” Proctor said. He had already determined that a degree of honesty was most likely to procure a successful outcome — honesty, followed up with other inducements. “It’s a pursuit operation.”
At this phrasing, the man perked up. He glanced afresh at Proctor — one military man to another. “Rangers?” he asked.
Proctor gestured vaguely with one hand. “Special forces.” He glanced at a framed case on the wall behind Bowman. “Airborne?”
Bowman nodded. The look of suspicion had eased. “Why not go to the police?”
“It’s a kidnapping intervention. Any involvement with the police might mean the death of the hostage. The kidnapper is both intelligent and extremely violent. Beyond that, it’s a sensitive personal matter — and time is critical. I know the plane’s tail number and destination. I’ve got to reach that destination before the objective vanishes.”
Bowman nodded again, more slowly. “The destination?”
“Eppley Airfield, Omaha.”
“Omaha,” the man repeated. “You’re looking at a lot of aviation fuel, friend. How long would the layover be?”
“No layover. It’s a one-way trip.”
“I’d still need to charge you for the empty return.”
“Understood.”
“Number of passengers?”
“You’re looking at him.”
A pause. “You realize that a last-minute charter like this — given the extra red tape and overhead — would come with a significant surcharge.”
“No problem.”
The man seemed to consider this a moment. Then he turned to a computer on his desk, began tapping keys. Proctor used the opportunity to open his own laptop and check the status of Diogenes’s plane. The icon of LN303P was still arrowing westward. It was at twelve thousand feet, approaching its cruising speed.
“You’re in luck,” Bowman said. “We’ve got a plane available, a Pilatus PC-12. We’ve got a licensed pilot at the airport, too; he’s over getting lunch now.” The man dragged forward a calculator. “With fuel, ramp fees, landing fees, segment fees, per-diem, one-way fee, and a fifteen percent, ah, usage surcharge, that will be one thousand, two hundred per—”
“That won’t work,” Proctor interrupted.
The man eyed him. “Why not?”
“The PC-12 is a single turboprop. I need a jet.”
“A jet.”
“I’m pursuing a Learjet 45. I’ll need something as fast or faster.”
The suspicious look returned for a moment. Then Bowman glanced back at his computer. “We do have one plane available. A Gulfstream IV. But it won’t be able to leave anytime soon.”
“Why not?”
“I told you we had a pilot on hand. I didn’t say anything about two pilots. You can’t fly a jet like that alone.” More tapping of keys. “I’ve got somebody on standby; I can get him here first thing in the morning. That is, if the additional cost of the Gulfstream won’t be a problem—”
“Unacceptable.”
The man went silent abruptly, staring at Proctor.
“I need to leave immediately,” Proctor went on, in an even voice.
“And I told you that I can’t have a copilot available until the morning.”
Once again, Proctor considered his options. Violence was usually his first choice. However, under the circumstances it did not seem well advised: there were too many variables at play, too much security in and around the area; besides, he needed voluntary cooperation if he was going to succeed. “What would the normal fee for a round-trip to Omaha be on the Gulfstream IV?”
Once again, the man plied his calculator. “Three thousand, eight hundred per hour.”
“So I’m guessing that — with a one-way flight time of about three hours — we’re looking in the neighborhood of twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“Sounds about right—” the man began, but shut up again when Proctor reached into his bag, pulled out several stacks of hundred-dollar bills, and placed them on the desk. “There’s thirty thousand. Let’s go.”
The man stared at the neat piles of cash. “I just told you, I can’t get a—”
“You’re a licensed pilot, aren’t you?” Proctor asked. With his chin, he indicated another framed item on the wall.
“Yes, but—”
Wordlessly, Proctor reached into the bag and took out another five thousand dollars, which he added to the pile. He was careful to leave the bag open, displaying many more stacks of hundred-dollar bills — almost half a million dollars, in total — along with a pair of Glock 22s.
The man looked from the money on the desk, to the bag, and then back to the desk. At last he picked up his phone, dialed. “Ray? We’ve got an emergency charter. Yes, right now. Omaha. No, it’s an empty-leg. I’ll be flying the left-hand seat. Get on back here. Now.” He listened to chatter on the other end of the line for a minute. “Well, tell her to wait until tomorrow, damn it.”
During this exchange, Proctor had once again taken the opportunity to monitor Diogenes’s flight via FlightAware. To his surprise and dismay, he saw that — just moments ago — the plane had veered off its original course and was now on a heading of zero four zero. A glance at the flight information window on the right side of the screen showed a new destination: no longer KOMA, bur rather CYQX. Looking this up, Proctor determined that it was the code for Gander International Airport in Newfoundland.