Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2] Read online

  "By who? Whom?"

  "Whom. By some of your old colleagues in homicide."

  I didn't reply.

  "Also," she said, "by Ted and George." She nodded toward Schmuck and Putz.

  I almost choked on my coffee. Why these two guys would say anything nice about me was a total mystery.

  "They aren't fond of you, but you impressed them on that Plum Island case."

  "Yeah, I even impressed myself on that one."

  "Why don't you give the Mideast section a try?" She added, "If Ted and George are the problem, we can switch you to another team within the section."

  "I love Ted and George, but I really have my heart set on the anti-IRA section."

  "Too bad. This is where the real action is. This is a career builder." She added, "The IRA are pretty quiet and well behaved in this country."

  "Good. I don't need a new career anyway."

  "The Palestinians and the Islamic groups, on the other hand, are potentially dangerous to national security." r

  "No 'potentially' about it," I replied. "World Trade Center."

  She didn't reply.

  I'd come to discover that these three words in the ATTF were like, "Remember Pearl Harbor." The intelligence community got caught with their pants down on that one, but came back and solved the case, so it was a draw.

  She continued, "The whole country is paranoid about a Mideast terrorist biological attack or a nuclear or chemical attack. You saw that on the Plum Island case. Right?"

  "Right."

  "So? Everything else in the ATTF is a backwater. The real action is in the Mideast section, and you look like a man of action." She smiled.

  I smiled in return. I asked her, "What's it to you?"

  "I like you."

  I raised my eyebrows.

  "I like New York Neanderthals."

  "I'm speechless."

  "Think about it."

  "Will do." I glanced at a TV monitor close by and saw that the flight we were waiting for, Trans-Continental 175 from Paris, was inbound and on time. I asked Ms. Mayfield, "How long do you think this will take?"

  "Maybe two or three hours. An hour of paperwork here, then back to Federal Plaza, with our alleged defector, then we'll see."

  "See what?"

  "Are you in a rush to get somewhere?"

  "Sort of."

  "I feel badly that national security is interfering with your social life."

  I didn't have a good reply to that, so I said, "I'm a big fan of national security. I'm yours until six P.M."

  "You can leave whenever you want." She took her tea and rejoined our colleagues.

  So, I stood there with my coffee, and considered the offer to take a hike. In retrospect, I was like the guy standing in quicksand, watching it cover my shoes, curious to see how long it would take to reach my socks, knowing I could leave anytime soon. Unfortunately, the next time I glanced down, it was up to my knees.

  CHAPTER 2

  Sam Walters leaned forward in his chair, adjusted his headset-microphone, and stared at the green three-foot radar screen in front of him. It was a nice April afternoon outside, but you'd never know that here in the dimly lit, windowless room of the New York Air Traffic Control Center in Islip, Long Island, fifty miles east of Kennedy Airport.

  Bob Esching, Walters' shift supervisor, stood beside him and asked, "Problem?"

  Walters replied, "We've got a NO-RAD here, Bob. Trans-Continental Flight One-Seven-Five from Paris."

  Bob Esching nodded. "How long has he been NO-RAD?"

  ."No one's been able to raise him since he came off the North Atlantic track near Gander." Walters glanced at his clock. "About two hours."

  Esching asked, "Any other indication of a problem?"

  "Nope. In fact . . ." He regarded the radar screen and said, "He turned southwest at the Sardi intersection, then down Jet Thirty-Seven, as per flight plan."

  Esching replied, "He'll call in a few minutes, wondering why we haven't been talking to him."

  Walters nodded. A No-Radio status was not that unusual—it often happened between air traffic control and the aircraft they worked with. Walters had had days when it happened two or three times. Invariably, after a couple of minutes of repeated transmissions, some pilot would respond, "Oops, sorry . . ." then explain that they had the volume down or the wrong frequency dialed in—or something less innocuous, like the whole flight crew was asleep, though they wouldn't tell you that.

  Esching said, "Maybe the pilot and co-pilot have stewardesses on their laps."

  Walters smiled. He said, "The best explanation I ever got in a NO-RAD situation was from a pilot who admitted that when he laid his lunch tray down on the pedestal between the pilots' seats, the tray had pressed into a selector switch and taken them off-frequency."

  Esching laughed. "Low-tech explanation for a high-tech problem."

  "Right." Walters looked at the screen again. "Tracking fine."

  "Yeah."

  It was when the blip disappeared, Walters thought, that you had a major problem. He was on duty the night in March 1998 when Air Force One, carrying the President, disappeared from the radar screen for twenty-four long seconds, and the entire room full of controllers sat frozen. The aircraft reappeared from computer-glitch limbo and everyone started to breathe again. But then there was the night of July 17, 1996, when TWA Flight 800 disappeared from the screen forever . . . Walters would never forget that night as long as he lived. But here, he thought, we have a simple NO-RAD . . . and yet something bothered him. For one thing, this was a very long time to be in a NO-RAD status.

  Sam Walters punched a few buttons, then spoke into his headset microphone on the intercom channel. "Sector Nineteen, this is Twenty-three. That NO-RAD, TC One-Seven-Five, is coming your way, and you'll get the handoff from me in about four minutes. I just wanted to give you a heads-up on this in case you need to do some adjusting."

  Walters listened to the reply on his headset, then said, "Yeah . . . the guy's a real screwup. Everyone up and down the Atlantic Coast has been calling him for over two hours on VHP, HF, and for all I know, CB and smoke signals." Walters chuckled and added, "When this flight is over, this guy's going to be doing so much writing, he'll think he's Shakespeare. Right. Talk to you later." He turned his head and made eye contact with Esching. "Okay?"

  "Yeah . . . tell you what . . . call everyone down the line and tell them that the first sector that makes contact will inform the captain that when he lands, he's to call me on the telephone at the Center. I want to talk to this clown myself so I can tell him how much aggro he's caused along the coast."

  "Canada, too."

  "Right." Esching listened to Walters pass on the message to the next controllers who would be getting jurisdiction of Trans-Continental Flight 175.

  A few other controllers and journeymen on break had wandered over to the Section 23 console. Walters knew that everyone wanted to see why Supervisor Bob Esching was so far from his desk and out on the floor. Esching was—in the unkind words of his subordinates—standing dangerously close to an actual work situation.

  Sam Walters didn't like all these people around him, but if Esching didn't shoo them off, he couldn't say anything. And he didn't think Esching was going to tell everyone to clear out. The Trans-Continental No-Radio situation was now the focus event in the control center, and this mini-drama was, after all, good training for these young controllers who had pulled Saturday duty.

  No one said much, but Walters sensed a mixture of curiosity, puzzlement, and maybe a bit of anxiety.

  Walters got on the radio and tried again. "Trans-Continental Flight One-Seven-Five, this is New York Center. Do you read me?"

  No reply.

  Walters broadcast again.

  No reply.

  The room was silent except for the hum of electronics. No one standing around had any comment. It was unwise to say anything in these kinds of situations that could come back to haunt you.

  Finally, one of the controll
ers said to Esching, "Paper this guy big-time on this one, boss. I got off to a late coffee break because of him."

  A few controllers laughed, but the laughter died away quickly.

  Esching cleared his throat and said, "Okay, everybody go find something useful to do. Scram."

  The controllers all wandered off, leaving Walters and Esching alone. Esching said softly, "I don't like this."

  "Me neither."

  Esching grabbed a rolling chair and wheeled it beside Walters. Esching studied the big screen and focused on the problem aircraft. The identity tag on the screen showed that it was a Boeing 747, and it was the new 700 Series aircraft, the largest and most modern of Boeing's 747s. The aircraft was continuing precisely along its flight plan, routing toward JFK International Airport. Esching said, "How the hell could all the radios be non-functioning?"

  Sam Walters considered for a minute, then replied, "They can't be, so—I think it has to be either that the volume control is down, the frequency selectors are broken, or the antennas have fallen off."

  "Yeah?"

  'Yeah . . ."

  "But . . . if it was the volume control or the frequency selectors, the crew would have realized that a long time ago."

  Walters nodded and replied, "Yeah . . . so, maybe it's total antenna failure . . . or, you know, this is a new model so maybe there's some kind of electronic bug in this thing and it caused total radio failure. Possible."

  Esching nodded, "Possible." But not probable. Flight 175 had been totally without voice contact since leaving the Oceanic Tracks and reaching North America. The Abnormal Procedures Handbook addressed this remote possibility, but he recalled that the handbook wasn't very clear about what to do. Basically, there was nothing that could be done.

  Walters said, "If his radios are okay, then when he has to start down, he'll realize he's on the wrong frequency or that his volume control is down."

  "Right. Hey . . . do you think they're all asleep?"

  Walters hesitated, then replied, "Well . . . it happens, but, you know, a flight attendant would have come into the cockpit by now."

  "Yeah. This is too long for a NO-RAD, isn't it?"

  "It's getting to be a little long . . . but like I said, when he has to start down . . . you know, even if he had total radio failure, he could use the data link to type a message to his company operations, and they'd have called us by now."

  Esching had thought about that and replied, "That's why I'm starting to think it's antenna failure, like you said." He thought a moment and asked Walters, "How many antennas does this plane have?"

  "I'm not sure. Lots."

  "Could they all fail?"

  "Maybe."

  Esching considered, then said, "Okay, say he's aware of a total radio failure... he could actually use one of the air-to-land phones in the dome cabin and call someone who would have called us by now. I mean, it's been done in the past—you could use an airphone."

  Walters nodded.

  Both men watched the white radar blip with its white alpha-numeric identification tag trailing beneath it as the blip continued to crawl slowly from right to left.

  Finally, Bob Esching said what he didn't want to say. "It could be a hijacking."

  Sam Walters didn't reply.

  "Sam?"

  "Well . . . look, the airliner is following the flight plan, the course and altitude are right, and they're still using the transponder code for the transatlantic crossing. If they were being hijacked, he's supposed to send a hijacking transponder code to tip us off."

  "Yeah . . ." Esching realized that this situation didn't fit any of the profiles for a hijacking. All they had was an eerie silence from an aircraft that otherwise behaved normally. Yet, it was possible that a sophisticated hijacker would know about the transponder code and tell the pilots not to touch the transponder selector.

  Esching knew he was the man on the spot. He cursed himself for volunteering for this Saturday shift. His wife was in Florida visiting her parents, his kids were in college, and he'd thought that going to work would be better than sitting around the house alone. Wrong. He needed a hobby.

  Walters said, "What else can we do?"

  "You just keep doing what you're doing. I'm going to call the Kennedy Tower supervisor, then I'll call the Trans-Continental Operations Center."

  "Good idea."

  Esching stood and said, for the record, "Sam, I don't believe we have a serious problem here, but we would be lax if we didn't make some notifications."

  "Right," Walters replied as he mentally translated Esching's words to, We don't want to sound inexperienced, panicky, or too incompetent to handle the situation, but we do want to cover our asses.

  Esching said, "Go ahead and call Sector Nineteen for the handoff."

  "Right."

  "And call me if anything changes."

  "Will do."

  Esching turned and walked toward his glassed-in cubicle at the rear of the big room.

  He sat at his desk and let a few minutes pass, hoping that Sam Walters would call him to announce they'd established contact. He thought about the problem, then thought about what he was going to say to the Kennedy Tower supervisor. His call to Kennedy, he decided, would be strictly FYI, with no hint of annoyance or concern, no opinions, no speculation—nothing but the facts. His call to Trans-Continental Operations, he knew, had to be just the right balance of annoyance and concern.

  He picked up the phone and speed-dialed Kennedy Tower first. As the phone rang, he wondered if he shouldn't just tell them what he really felt in the deepest part of his guts—something is very wrong here.

  CHAPTER 3

  I was sitting now with my colleagues: Ted Nash, CIA Super Spook; George Foster, FBI Boy Scout; Nick Monti, NYPD good guy; and Kate Mayfield, Golden Girl of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We'd all found swivel chairs from unoccupied desks, and everyone had a ceramic coffee mug in his or her hand. I really wanted a donut—a sugar donut—but there's this thing with cops and donuts that people find funny for some reason, and I wasn't going to have a donut.

  We all had our jackets off, so we could see one another's holsters. Even after twenty years in law enforcement, I find that this makes everyone's voice a couple of octaves lower, even the women.

  Anyway, we were all leafing through our folders on this alleged defector, whose name was Asad Khalil. What cops call the folder, by the way, my new friends call the dossier. Cops sit on their asses and flip through their folders. Feds sit on their derrieres and peruse their dossiers.

  The information in the folder is called the book on the guy, the information in the dossier is called, I think, the information. Same thing, but I have to learn the language.

  Anyway, there wasn't much in my folder, or their dossier, except a color photo transmitted by the Paris Embassy, plus a real short bio, and a brief sort of This-is-what-we-think-the-prick-is-up-to kind of report compiled by the CIA, Interpol, British MI-6, the French Surete, and a bunch of other cop and spook outfits around Europe. The bio said that the alleged defector was a Libyan, age about thirty, no known family, no other vitals, except that he spoke English, French, a little Italian, less German, and, of course, Arabic.

  I glanced at my watch, stretched, yawned, and looked around. The Conquistador Club, in addition to being an ATTF facility, doubled as an FBI field office and CIA hangout and who knew what else, but on this Saturday afternoon, the only people there were us five of the ATTF team, the duty officer whose name was Meg, and Nancy Tate out front. The walls, incidentally, are lead-lined so that nobody outside can eavesdrop with microwaves, and even Superman can't see us.

  Ted Nash said to me, "I understand you might be leaving us."

  I didn't reply, but I looked at Nash. He was a sharp dresser, and you knew that everything was custom-made, including his shoes and holster. He wasn't bad-looking, nice tan, salt-and-pepper hair, and I recalled quite distinctly that Beth Penrose got a little sweaty over him. I had convinced myself that this was not why I di
dn't like him, of course, but it certainly added fat to the fires of my smoldering resentment, or something like that.

  George Foster said to me, "If you give this assignment ninety days, then whatever decision you make will be given serious consideration."

  "Really?"

  Foster, as the senior FBI guy, was sort of like the team leader, which was okay with Nash, who was not actually on the team, but drifted in and out if the situation called for CIA, like it did today.

  Foster, dressed in his awful blue-serge-I'm-a-Fed suit, added, rather bluntly, "Ted's leaving on overseas assignment in a few weeks, then it will only be us four."

  "Why can't he leave now?" I suggested subtly.

  Nash laughed.

  By the way, Mr. Ted Nash, aside from hitting on Beth Penrose, had actually added to his list of sins by threatening me during the Plum Island thing—and I'm not the forgiving type.

  George Foster said to me, "We have an interesting and important case that we're working on that involves the murder of a moderate Palestinian by an extremist group here in New York. We need you for that."

  "Really?" My street instincts were telling me that I was getting smoke blown up my ass. Ergo, Foster and Nash needed a guy to take the fall for something, and whatever it was, I was getting set up to go down. I felt like hanging around just to see what they were up to, but to be honest, I was out of my element here, and even bozos could bring you down if you weren't careful.

  I mean, what a coincidence that I wound up on this team. The ATTF is not huge, but it's big enough so that this arrangement looked just a little suspicious. Clue Number Two was that Schmuck and Putz requested me on this team for my homicide expertise. I was meaning to ask Dom Fanelli how he'd heard about this Special Contract Agent thing. I'd trust Dom with my life and I have, so he was okay on this, and I had to assume that Nick Monti was clean. Cops don't screw other cops, not even for the Federal government—especially not for the Federal government.

  I looked at Kate Mayfield. It would really break my cold, hard heart if she was hooked up with Foster and Nash to do me.

  She smiled at me.

  I smiled back. If I was Foster or Nash and I was fishing for John Corey, I would use Kate Mayfield as bait.