Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (58 page)

 
          
Of
course, being surrounded by his own personal security detail helped. Using a
portion of the money he was skimming from the option contract deals he was
doing for Cazaux,
Lake
had hired his own small, well-equipped army
and air force. Starting with a new personal secretary—a beautiful statuesque
redhead who could take Gregg dictation, type sixty words a minute, and had a
Browning 9-millimeter automatic hidden in a holster beside her ample left
breast—Lake had a new chauffeur and bodyguard, a new armored Lincoln sedan,
inside and outside guards at his East Side apartment, a Gulfstream III jet with
a six- thousand-mile range, and a ranch in central Brazil with yet another
contingent of guards stationed there.

 
          
All
this security had cost him one-third of all the money he had skimmed from
Cazaux over the past few weeks, but it was well worth it. Henri Cazaux was
relentless. Many of these guards were nothing more than trip wires—their quick,
silent deaths would hopefully alert the inner guards that Cazaux was on the
hunt and closing in.
Lake
had no illusions about evading Cazaux—he
just hoped that the world’s law enforcement authorities and his own security
force would get Cazaux before he got too close.

 
          
The
first thing Lake had done when he bought the Gulf- stream was get the
registration number changed and get it repainted, which guaranteed both that it
would look different and would be out of sight until he needed it. He didn’t
recognize the plane himself when they drove up to it, and he was about to
question the driver when the chief of his security detail, a big,
football-player tight-end-looking guy named Mantooth, emerged from it when the
sedan pulled up.    .

 
          
The
sedan stopped several yards away from the plane until it was quickly searched,
then it pulled up right to the foot of the open airstair door. Mantooth stood
in front of the sedan’s door, blocking the view of anyone from the main
commercial air terminal, but he did not open it himself—‘
Lake
and Fell had to open their own doors.
According to Mantooth, the bodyguards’ job was to stay on the lookout with
their
hands free to reach for
their
guns or subdue an attacker, not
open doors or carry luggage. “Everything’s ready, Mr. Lake,” Mantooth said.
“We’re ready to go.”

 
          
“Then
let’s go,”
Lake
said and quickly stepped aboard the
aircraft. The doors were closed as soon as Fell stepped aboard. The big, roomy
VIP interior of the Gulfstream already made him feel safe, and the increasing
snarl of the bizjet’s two big turbofans and the sweet, husky smell of jet fuel
helped to soothe his jangled nerves.
Lake
met
the ship’s stewardess, a brunette named Diane, who led him to the big,
light-gray-leather, fully reclining master’s chair on the right center side,
buckled him in, and fixed him a Bloody Mary as the jet began to move. Ted Fell
busied himself at the desk behind
Lake
,
checking that the phone and fax machine were working. “Forget all that, Ted,”
Lake
said. “No one is going to call or fax
us—that stuffs not even hooked up.”

 
          
Fell
looked at Lake as if he were surprised at his boss’s words; then, realizing he
was right and that these phones had never been activated, fearing that Cazaux
could easily find out about their escape plans that way, he averted his eyes to
the richly carpeted floor and put his hands on his lap. “It... it doesn’t seem
real,” Fell said. “We’re on the run. We’re never coming back.”

 
          
“At
least not as long as Cazaux, Townsend, or Ysidro are walking the earth—which
hopefully won’t be for too long,”
Lake
said.
“Just think of it as an extended and very, very secluded vacation, Ted. We’ll
start developing our offshore banking and brokerage ties in a year or so,
making sure that everything is numbered and convoluted enough so no one can
trace the trading activity to us. We’ll be back in the trading pits before you
know it. Meanwhile we work on our tans while—” Just then the big Gulfstream
came to a stop, the engines wound down to low idle power, and the intercom
phone beeped. Fell reached for it, but
Lake
picked it up. “What’s going on . . . ?”

 
          
“Orders
from the tower, sir,” the pilot said. “Takeoff clearances have been canceled
for all flights. They’re ordering everyone back to the ramp.”

 
          
“Why
the hell are they doing that?”

 
          
“Don’t
know, sir,” the pilot responded. “I don’t see any police activity.”

 
          
Lake
knew why. He shot a murderous glare at Fell
and said, “Damn it, Ted, the fucking FBI tracked us down.” “But how? I made the
call from
New
York
.
No one knows about this plane or its location, Harold. Maybe we were followed
from the city. What are we going to do?” “How the hell should I know? Let me
think,”
Lake
said angrily. He searched out the large
oval window near him, looking to see if any police were converging on them, but
he was facing away from the main terminal. The Gulfstream was on the parallel
taxiway approaching the end of the runway, with a United Airlines MD-80 the
only plane ahead of them. On the intercom phone,
Lake
asked, “What are your instructions, pilot?”

 
          
“All
aircraft were told to back-taxi on the runway back to their original locations,
sir,” the pilot responded. “We’ll be back-taxiing shortly and be back on the
ramp in about five minutes.”

 
          
“Are
they blocking the runway?”
Lake
asked.
There was a rather long, uncomfortable pause as the flight crew was obviously
considering the possible ramifications of this question.
Lake
shouted,
“Well
...
?”

 
          
“No,
sir, nothing is blocking this runway,” the pilot finally replied.

 
          
“Good.
When that United Airlines plane gets out of the way, you will ignore all
instructions from the tower and make the takeoff,”
Lake
said. “That’s an order.”

 
          
“Sir,
I can’t follow an order like that.”

 
          
“If
you don’t, I’ll come up there and shoot you in the back of the head,”
Lake
said as calmly and as truthfully as he
could. He carried a gun, but he had fired it only once, several months ago, and
wasn’t even sure if it was loaded. Mantooth, who was sitting in a seat near the
airstair, heard
Lake
’s words but did not register any surprise
at all—it looked as if it was okay with him if his employer shot the pilots.

 
          
“Then
I hope you can fly this plane, sir,” the pilot said, “without a windshield. If
you shoot or try to open the cockpit door, we’ll stomp on the brakes, bust open
the wind-, screens, jump out, and run like hell.”

 
          
Lake
obviously wasn’t very good at threatening
anyone with bodily harm. “Okay, let’s try it this way,”
Lake
said. “Make the takeoff and I’ll give you
twenty thousand dollars.”

 
          
“Fifty
thousand,” the pilot immediately responded.

 
          
“Each,”
the copilot chimed in.

 
          
“Carter,
Luce, you boneheads are getting paid plenty to fly this machine—do as Mr. Lake
instructs you, or I’ll shoot you myself,” a deep, menacing voice said behind
them. It was the chief of the security company, the bodyguard named Mantooth.
“Take your seat, Mr. Lake.”

 
          
“Are
we taking off or not?”

 
          
“My
job is to protect you, Mr. Lake,” Mantooth said. “You’re assuming it’s the FBI
or some other law enforcement agency out there, but I’ve seen no evidence of
that. This airfield has obviously been compromised—whatever’s going on, I think
you’ll be safer in the air than on the ground. We’ll deal with the FA A later.
Now sit down and strap in. And if there’s a problem, let me know—there’s no
reason for you to talk to the pilots. Is that clear, Mr. Lake?”
Lake
was very unaccustomed to taking orders from
anyone, but he could do nothing else but nod silently at the big bodyguard—he
obviously knew what he was doing.

 
          
The
Gulfstream moved up into the hammerhead, poised for takeoff as soon as the
airliner ahead pulled off.
Lake
could
just barely see the MD-80 leave the runway when the pilot lined the Gulfstream
up on the centerline, spooled up the engines to takeoff power, and released the
. . .

 
          
.
. . but suddenly Lake could see a bright light shining on the wing’s leading
edges and on the pavement beside his jet, and even before the pilot again
chopped the power to idle, he knew they weren’t going to make it. On the
intercom, he heard, “Emergency vehicles on the runway, sir. We’re blocked.”

 
          
Mantooth
had drawn the biggest, meanest-looking automatic pistol
Lake
had ever seen from a shoulder rig, but
Lake
said, “Put it away, Mantooth, it’s the FBI
out there. You have a permit for that, I assume?”

 
          
“Of
course, Mr. Lake, but you’d better let me—”

 
          
“Put
the gun in your holster and take off your jacket so they see your gun first
thing,”
Lake
said. “Everyone stays . calm, everyone does
as they’re told, no one resists, and no one, I repeat,
no one
says
anything.
Not
a word. If they tell you you’re under arrest, you immediately say, ‘I want to
speak with my attorney right now.’ Got it?” To the pilots behind the closed
cockpit doors,
Lake
shouted, “Shut ’em down right here,” then
he undogged the entry hatch.

 
          
“No!
Shut only the left engine down!” Mantooth shouted to the cockpit. He turned to
Lake
angrily: “Sir, you stay put. I’ll see what
they want.”

 
          
“This
is my problem, Mantooth.”

 
          
“No,
it’s
my
problem,” Mantooth said. “You
hired me to protect you, sir. I’m a practicing attorney here in
New York
State
as well as former military. We cooperate,
but you don’t have to expose yourself to danger or get your rights violated.
Now, stay out—”

 
          
“You’re
a good man, Mantooth,”
Lake
said,
“and your people are first-rate, but this shit started long before you came on
board.”

 
          
“Sir,
you may have gotten yourself in deep shit, but now your problems are my
problems,” Mantooth said. “If you have to surrender to the police, we’ll do it
in a controlled, orderly manner.”

 
          
“I
need the government’s cooperation ... their protection ... to stay alive,”
Lake
said. “I have to give them whatever they
want.”

 
          
“Why
do you need government protection, sir?”

 
          
“It’s
too complicated,”
Lake
said. “I. . . I’ve got to go out there.”

 
          
“I
said, stay put, and that’s an order,” Mantooth said. He nodded to Diane, the
stewardess, who had produced a 10- millimeter automatic pistol from nowhere and
was guarding the emergency exits, making sure no one came in from behind them.
“I’m your attorney in
New York
State
, representing you. You don’t have to say a
word. Understand me?”
Lake
nodded—for the first time in a long time,
he felt as if things were truly under control. Mantooth deployed the airstairs
and stepped outside.