“We have prepared a place for you,” Gunn said over the sound of the car as it pulled away from the plane. “It is comfortable, unusually so, for this area.”
His words were like poison to her. She couldn't hold her tongue any longer, whatever the risk to herself. “Are you also in the business of interior decoration for prison cells? Seems a bit off your normal enterprise.”
Gunn sighed and took off his glasses, folding them into a leather case that he dropped into the inner pocket of his suit. He stared forward, his tone one of resigned sadness.
“Agent Cohen, there are always unpleasant situations in life. This is one of those. We have to do what we must because we believe in our cause. It is your misfortune that we needed this means to end the investigation of your department at the FBI, and to do that, we have had to neutralize several of its members. Your relationship with John Savas makes you a valuable asset to us in this regard.”
“You didn't neutralize anyone. You murdered good men and women who committed their lives to serve their nation and its people. You sit so self-righteously on your throne of power, but you are just another despot enforcing his will.”
Gunn turned slowly toward her, the gray eyes sharp as knives and digging into her soul. He smiled. “Your emotion does not disturb me, Agent Cohen. I don't expect you or anyone at the FBI to understand, or rather, to accept the logic and necessity of what we are trying to accomplish. I will not debate it with you. I have seen to your needs and will make your stay here as decent as I am able.” He looked forward again as the car was jostled by several bumps on the road. “I do not seek harm for harm's sake. I do not enjoy the deaths I have caused, Ms. Cohen. But I understand something you cannot. I understand that we are fighting for our very survival as a culture, as a people, as a history. Lives must be lost in this fight. As in any war.”
The car stopped, and the doors on both sides opened. More armed men waited outside. Gunn stepped out of the car, pressed his suit flat again, and leaned back in to speak.
“We will be calling Agent Savas soon to convince him that you are still alive. Please don't do anything stupid that will prevent us from proving that to him.”
With that, he turned and walked off. Cohen looked over to the men who stood outside the car waiting for her. She closed her eyes, trying to keep herself together. After a few seconds, she opened them and gripped the door handle to steady herself as she stood. The men stood in front of a small aluminum shack. Around her were several warehouses and storage yards for equipment and parts, all associated with the airport. The sound of planes lifting off and landing could be heard from behind her. Several men were carting crates from place to place. She stared at them. In another context, they could be young soldiers on a tour of duty. One stared across at her, and she looked into his eyes. They almost seemed decent; one would never suspect that he was a man working to murder the innocent.
Cohen looked away and scanned the remainder of the area around her quickly. Barbed-wire fences encircled them. Between the razor blades and the weapons at the sides of the men around her, she knew that there would be no escape. With that thought, she walked forward to the shack that would be her own personal jailhouse.
For as long as I remain useful.
61
The Van Wyck Expressway was surprisingly empty at this time of night. Savas had made the journey more times than he could remember to John F. Kennedy Airport, but it had always been in daylight, when the Van Wyck was packed and slow. At one-thirty in the morning, it looked like some scene from an apocalyptic film, orange streetlights casting a ghastly hue over the road, the occasional red taillights of another vehicle staring back like demonic eyes waiting for them ahead. They veered right onto the roadway circling through the airport, heading quickly to the far right side to hit the exit they needed. Miller took the ramp, and the dark van pulled up to the JFK Cargo Facilities. The white “FBI” lettering was painted boldly on the blue of the vehicle and shone brightly in the security lights at the entrance gate. Miller drove with Savas riding shotgun, and in the back were Lightfoote and Rideout. A crazy day, becoming a crazier night, would soon get crazier still.
Savas had called in what was left of his team and brought them up to speed on the situation. They had devised a plan as insane as the world seemed to be at the moment. Lightfoote had found that the fastest way to get to Tampico was to hop aboard a cargo flight leaving at three in the morning. The next best path was taking a passenger plane in the morning to the Mexico City airport, then to the General Francisco Javier Mina International Airport near Tampico, or to throw in a third stop in Texas. None of these paths would get them to Rebecca before the evening of the next day. Besides, there would have to be a lot of explaining for all these agents and their firearms to make that journey openly. Calls were likely to be made to FBI headquarters. It could end before it began.
It was Miller who cut through to the simplest, if illegal, solution — stow away on the cargo flight. It was direct, from JFK to Tampico, leaving at 3 a.m. and arriving a little after eight in the morning. Jordan had left already and would likely be at the Tampico airfield around that time. They had agreed to meet up and figure out what to do when they got there. Simple plan.
First, they had to get on the plane. Lightfoote and Rideout would lead an “inspection” of the cargo flight. Miller and Savas would stow away during this examination, and Lightfoote and Rideout would somehow convince the crew and guards that the other two FBI agents had already finished and returned to the van. The two would stay hidden in the cargo section for the duration of the flight, jump out secretly after landing, figure out where Rebecca was being held, rescue her, and stop Gunn and his plan. A perfectly simple plan.
Lightfoote and Rideout would return to their office and sound the alarms. Around that time, the guards assigned to them might be waking up from their drug-induced sleep. Savas had hated slipping them loaded drinks, but except for one hell of a headache, and the wrath of their superiors, they would be fine. At that point, Lightfoote would “discover” an e-mail from Savas that let his FBI coworkers know what he was up to. He said nothing about Jordan. He figured it wasn't his place to nanny him for the CIA. By the time the FBI and the CIA had notified the military, and the president and his advisers had confirmed a course of action, they would have had their chance to end it themselves and rescue Rebecca. He just hoped to God they could pull it off. You don't know what you're getting yourself into, Johnny-boy, the voice in his head chided him. Whatever it is, Rebecca's in it already, he answered back. The voice shut up.
The van stopped at the gate, and a tired-looking guard walked up to them. He held a clipboard in his hand and sluggishly scanned the side of the van as he approached, then looked through sheets of paper on his clipboard.
“You figure he's looking under ‘F’ for ‘FBI’?” quipped Rideout as Miller cast him a sharp look. Indeed, it did seem to them that this was exactly what he was doing. Finally, a look of dawning understanding crept over his features, and he glanced up with a furrowed brow at Miller in the driver's seat.
“FBI?” the young man said, with no attempt to hide his confusion.