Constance was walking strangely, unwillingly: frog-marched, Proctor realized. No doubt Diogenes had a gun concealed in the hand that was pressed against her back.
A rush of adrenaline burned through his body and he turned from the window, but his plane was still decelerating — it would be minutes before he could manage even an emergency exit.
He turned back to the window. Now the two figures were climbing the steps into the passenger compartment of the Bombardier. At the very last moment before Constance disappeared into the darkness of the cabin, Proctor saw her begin to struggle; saw Diogenes — quick as lightning — reach into his coat, pull out a canvas bag, and slip it over her head… and then the door closed behind them and the abruptly violent tableau was obscured.
By the time his plane had taxied to a stop, the Bombardier was airborne.
6
During the flight from Teterboro, Proctor had used part of the time to research the airport and town of Gander. In the 1940s, Gander International had been a critical refueling point for flights headed to the British Isles and beyond. Now, however, modern jets with far greater range had rendered this role obsolete. At present, Gander was used more frequently for emergency landings: transatlantic aircraft suffering from medical or mechanical problems. On 9/11, with U.S. airspace closed following the destruction of the Twin Towers, Gander had briefly played an important role in Operation Yellow Ribbon, receiving over three dozen re-routed flights in one day. Other than that, however, the airport was a relatively somnolent place, with military operations and cargo flights to Iceland the order of the day. The nearby town was flat, cold, and depressing: windswept and treeless, with a gray sky spitting snow.
As Proctor pondered what to do next, he hazarded a guess regarding something else about Gander. Because of its remote location and relative proximity to international destinations, it just might be a place where a certain kind of pilot could wash up: air force discharge, ex-airline, transient — a flyboy who, for a price, might be willing to consider unusual or even questionable service.
He was presently seated at a table in the Crosswinds bar, one of a series of ramshackle structures that perched, limpet-like, just beyond the terminals, runways, and FBO buildings of Gander. The place was empty save for him and the bartender. He glanced at his watch: almost four thirty PM. Diogenes had taken off just over thirty minutes before. He tried to ignore this fact as he took another sip of his Heineken and waited. He had spent the last half hour roaming the airport and its periphery, making discreet inquiries about just such a pilot, and he had finally been directed to this bar.
Once again, Diogenes was a step — perhaps two — ahead of him. He’d anticipated being followed to Gander, and had a fresh jet fueled and ready to take off as soon as he’d arrived — this time, on a transoceanic flight. His failure to block his tail number from civil aircraft tracking sites hadn’t been a failure, after all — rather, he was so confident in his ability to elude capture that he simply hadn’t bothered. Or perhaps he was enjoying the chase: it was typical of Diogenes to prefer an elaborate game to something less risky and more straightforward. Why else had he allowed him to live? The safe thing would have been to give him a killing dose of sodium pentothal — but, Proctor mused, that wouldn’t have been as much fun. And surely by now Diogenes knew he was being pursued, perhaps as a result of Proctor’s stupid — he saw that now — radio call to Gander tower. His response to the kidnapping of Constance was a catastrophic failure, perhaps the worst failure of his life; but he had to push that aside and get himself under control, to suppress the emotion and fury that was warping his judgment — and proceed with cold calculation.
Using his laptop, Proctor saw that the Bombardier had filed a flight plan to Shannon, Ireland. Given the fact that the plane was now well over the Atlantic and hadn’t deviated from its initial plan, Proctor felt reasonably sure Shannon was the true destination. Proctor’s two pilots from DebonAir Aviation Services would fly him no farther — no surprise, given that their aircraft did not have transatlantic range. They had practically tossed him out, threatening to alert the authorities if he didn’t immediately pay up and deplane.
Proctor needed a different kind of pilot for the pursuit ahead, one with a looser interpretation of rules and regulations, if he was going to catch Diogenes. He had been given the name of just one such pilot, who would be arriving at any moment.
The image of Constance — the back of her head shaking violently as the bag had been pulled over it — came back to him. He took another swig of his beer, pushed the image away.
At that moment the establishment’s front door opened and a man entered. He was relatively short — about five foot seven — but he carried himself with the confidence of somebody who had won his share of bar fights. He was in his early forties, with a large pompadour of gleaming black hair, and he wore a leather bomber jacket scuffed from decades of service. A thin scar ran from the edge of his left eye back to a capacious sideburn. He greeted the bartender as he took a stool at the bar.
Proctor looked him over carefully. This was the man he’d been told about.
Picking up his Heineken, his laptop, and his bag, he walked over and took a seat next to the man. As a scotch on the rocks was placed before him, Proctor put down a twenty. “That’s on me,” he told the bartender.
As the fellow nodded and walked off to break the bill, the man in the leather jacket looked over at him appraisingly. “Thanks, mate,” he said in a working-class English accent.
“Roger Shapely?” Proctor said, draining his beer.
“That’s right. And you are?”
“The name’s Proctor.” The bartender came back with the change and Proctor pointed at his own empty beer bottle. “I’m told you’re a man who can take people places.”
The appraising look deepened. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On who I’m taking, and where they’re going.”
“You’d be taking me. To Ireland.”
The man named Shapely raised his eyebrows. “Ireland?”
The fresh beer arrived. Proctor nodded, took a swig.
“Wish I could help you out. But my plane’s a Cessna Citation A/SP. Not equipped for hopping the pond.” Shapely smiled ruefully.
“I know all about your plane. It’s powered by two Pratt and Whitney JT15D turbofans, and it’s been modified from the standard two-crew model to be flyable by a single pilot. It’s also been modified — by you — to carry fewer passengers and extra fuel. Fuel enough to get you almost four thousand miles.”
Shapely’s eyes narrowed. “Somebody’s been doing a lot of talking.”
Proctor shrugged. “Hasn’t gone farther than me.”
Silence for a moment. Shapely took a sip of his scotch. He was clearly thinking — and sizing Proctor up. “What’s the job — exactly?”
“Somebody left this airport forty minutes ago, bound for Shannon. He’s got something I want. I need to go after him.”
“You mean, chase him?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a bit of a lark, isn’t it? If this is about drugs, count me out.”
“Nothing like that.”