Presidential Donor (18 page)

Layton led Jonah up a small set of steps to a landing. A steel door that read: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY was directly in front of them. Stacks of boxes on either side concealed it, unless you were next to it. Layton produced a ring of keys and opened the door.

"Pretty clever," Jonah said. "Your own private fort."

Layton cracked a smile. "You'd be surprised how many times I've spent the night here. It's my home away from home."

When Layton told Jonah he had a place, Jonah had imagined a dark, damp room with some boxes to sit on, and little else. Instead, this room, about ten by eight, was carpeted in thick green shag, had a small cot with a feather blanket, and a portable television perched on a wooden table. A cooler-size refrigerator stood in the corner next to a table, set with a basket of snacks.

"Yea, kinda like the morgue and I," Jonah said. "Only I have company there."

"Please, Jonah, you're giving me the creeps."

And in fact, it was true. Layton cringed every time he and Jonah had conversations about Jonah's job. Even after twenty years, when their pub talk turned to autopsies and cadavers, Layton always changed the subject. It was as if he'd been locked in a morgue as a child, leaving him phobic about anything the least bit macabre.

"Sorry," Jonah said.

Layton paused. "Make yourself at home. When your friend gets back, I'll come and get you. Meanwhile, I'll lock you in here. You'll be safe that way."

Jonah glanced down at his watch. "How long will it take to get him on the plane?"

"An hour or less. Don't worry. I'll take care of everything. After the way that Cogsbird talked to me, I'll be happy to get even. Besides, I owe you anyway for that referral you gave me. My back feels good as new."

Jonah grinned. "You pull this off and I'll get you a new back."

Ken Holland left Zurich International after he gathered everything he needed for his preliminary investigation. His headache had eased some after a couple of beers, but he knew it would return with a vengeance before the day was over.

Now, he and his assistant, a young investigator as green as Kermit the Frog, were headed to Pine Knoll where reports said the plane had gone down.

The boy protested when Holland insisted they ride in separate vehicles, but he had assured him it was nothing personal; he should take his Jeep, in case Holland's car broke down. In reality though, Holland's car was a two-seater, in which the passenger-side was knee deep in beer cans and bottles. Holland had neither the time nor the inclination to clean them up. It would take a box of Hefty bags to achieve that end. The other reason, although the kid was likable enough, he had an endless stream of questions for Holland regarding his past investigations. It was as if he had a morbid fascination with gruesome aircraft fatalities.

Holland on the other hand was not fascinated at all. In fact, he found that part of the job the most distasteful. Bad enough to handle all the gore related to it. Worse yet to relive it in grim detail for the sake of curiosity. The young man would see enough during his own career.

Pine Knoll was at the top of one of the highest peaks in the Swiss Alps.

Any skier with even a hint of experience wanted to ski it. The main trail led through a series of smaller trails then out to an opening of about ten square miles. Apparently, this is where a bright flash had been reported around the same time the plane lost radar contact. Holland would have to park at the main lodge and walk two miles through the snow to get to the site. Another team would join them as soon as the site was confirmed.

Holland mashed the gas pedal to the floor as the car groaned against the steep mountain road; he felt better knowing the Jeep was behind him. When they finally arrived at the lodge, he was barely out of the car when the kid ran up, asking questions.

"Get your gear," Holland said, ignoring his questions.

As soon as he stepped out of the car Holland noticed the smell in the air.

It was an unpleasant, acrid smell. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he knew what it was.
Here we go again.

The past twenty-four hours had scrambled Jonah Bailey's biological clock. He had no idea whether it was day or night when he awoke. With rising urgency, he checked his watch. He'd slept for two hours. Suddenly, his brain kicked in:
Jack should have returned by now
. Jonah felt a precarious uncertainty as he stood up from the small cot.

The jingle of keys outside the door jerked him from his thoughts.

Startled, Jonah turned. "You scared the shit out of me," he said as Howie Layton opened the door.

Layton grinned. "Now we're even."

"Did Jack get back yet?"

"No, not yet. I thought I'd better come get you. It's getting late and we need him here to discuss things. I've made my contacts and everything is set up."

Jonah eyed him suspiciously. "Are you sure you can trust these people?"

"Absolutely. They've all been with me for as long as I can remember. As far as the states are concerned, my brother will be receiving our package there."

"I'm worried." Jonah said. "Jack should have returned by now. I think I better go look for him."

Layton gave Jonah a wary look. "Are you sure that's safe?"

"I'm not sure of anything anymore, but I can't sit around here and wait."

"You can take my car. It's just outside the steps downstairs."

Jonah thanked Layton and went out the back door. He stopped on the small landing where a coffee machine sat. It looked as though it had been brewed in the tar pits. Jonah pulled a Styrofoam cup from the stack and poured himself a reluctant cup. He took a sip and nearly choked, but decided to drink it anyway, hoping it might mask his fatigue.

Now that's good coffee.
It tasted as bad as his own infamous brew Eva teased him about.

He hurried down the back steps and out the door. Layton's Saab sat parked ten feet away, and he slid behind the wheel and adjusted the seat to fit his bulk. As the engine sprang to life, he considered his options. He was eager to get to Jack and Eva and tell them the plan, but he knew they may have already fled the cabin and be on their way to him. Still, he would have to go back and check. He had no choice.
Jack's window of opportunity was getting smaller by the hour.

As for he and Eva, he still didn't know what to do; after all, it was Jack's heart they wanted. At least Jack would be safe if Layton's plan worked out.

He could deal with his own dilemma later.

As he pulled away from the airport, an abrupt and disheartening possibility occurred to him.

What would happen to him and Eva's career if the hospital didn't stand up for them?

They had appeared to have abandoned their jobs, even though Bradley knew perfectly well what was happening. Bradley's own involvement, perhaps by no choice of his own, precluded any chance of him mounting a defense for him and Eva.

Jonah let the thought pass. He would deal with the next problem later.

He threw the Saab into gear and tore out of the parking--fearing the worst.

Ten miles away, Jack McDermott's first thought was to jam the accelerator to the floor. The car hesitated, then sputtered, hesitated again, then began to slow, even as Jack pumped frantically on the gas pedal. The car sprung back to life momentarily, only to hesitate one final time before the engine died. It rolled to a stop on the shoulder of the road. Jack gazed out the window where a steep embankment dropped off into snow as far as he could see.

He was lost and had now driven for at least an hour without any idea where he was. Now, too late, he saw the fuel light indicator read empty.

Now what?

He cursed himself for not paying more attention; his thoughts, though, were on Eva and getting her to safety. Then, he needed to get to the airport to meet Steve and go home, away from this nightmare.
To hell with his interview, to hell with the job, and to hell with the President.

Jack had always felt the CIA invented conflicts as a way to brainwash the public into believing everything they do is for national security. In the meantime, they carry out operations that have nothing to do with the nation, and more to do with the agency's own agenda. Which is exactly why he was here right now.
He was on those bastard's agenda.

Jack checked the rear view mirror. After a couple of cars passed, he stepped out and darted to the other side of the road. He suddenly realized where he was. The ski resort sign was right in front of him.
Of course!
He couldn't be more than a mile or two from Eva's. He'd have to walk. It was risky, but if he could stay off the main road he could go back through the woods again.

He could only hope the President's version of a procurement team, didn't spot him before he got there. He pulled the cap down low and his collar up high. It was a weak disguise and little comfort, given his pursuer's history of being in three places at one time.

He clambered down the embankment and picked up his pace. His thoughts played like an endless video of the past three days. Every car that passed seemed to slow down as though Jack had broken some little known Swiss law that forbids people from looking paranoid. He imagined any minute a dark sedan would pull up, and a man in surgical garb, holding an Uzi and an Igloo cooler, would tell him to get in.

As Jack walked, the sun began to fall behind the Alps as early evening approached. As beautiful as it was, it only added to his worry about what the night had in store for him.

Standing at the crest of Pine Knoll, Ken Holland's feet hurt again. As bad as his circulation was, the mile walk in the deep snow was twice as bad. They felt like two giant watermelons, ready to burst any second. Despite his specially designed waterproof boots, he was ill prepared for the snowdrifts they'd had to traverse to get to the crash site. He thought perhaps he would have to turn back, but the kid trudged on, exclaiming, "Just a little farther," although there appeared to be nothing in front of them except more snow drifts.

Late evening was approaching and Holland questioned his wisdom about not waiting for the other team. The last thing he needed was to be on a ski slope at dark with two frozen watermelons for feet.

Finally, when Holland thought he would win frostbite of the year award, the kid, now some fifty-yards ahead of him, spotted the wreckage. When Holland got there, he could see why no one had spotted it from the air. Below was a small valley hidden from sight unless you stood at his vantage point.

Holland forgot all about his feet.

As they approached the wreckage, Holland saw the kid's eyes widen. The cockpit end of the fuselage had carved a crater thirty-feet wide and ten-feet deep in the hillside. The opening in the rear fuselage allowed a clear view inside the wreckage. Two charred figures were burned beyond recognition.

One still clutched the airplane's yoke. The other, in his seat, was frozen in time as if he'd been roasted by a giant blowtorch. The heat had melted all the snow in a fifty-yard radius around the plane. Pieces of aluminum and insulation littered the area and Holland could smell the sulfur in the air. The same smell he noticed when he arrived.
A missile!
Planes that slam into mountainsides don't disintegrate like this plane. It was too fragmented.

He had no doubt in his mind.

He found the remainder of the tailpiece, and luckily the serial number was still intact. It would be an easy trace with the number in hand. Next to the tail section was a small section of fuselage no more than eight feet by four feet.

Holland kicked it over with his boot and saw the markings: LEAR 260.

Despite Holland's years of hard drinking that had undoubtedly fried a great many of his brain cells, he had an almost photographic memory when it came to plane crashes. The only mishap he was aware of involving a Lear 260 was one where the cabin lost pressure and rendered the crew and passengers unconscious. The plane continued to fly on autopilot until it ran out of fuel and plowed into a cornfield in Iowa. Point being--it was a very reliable aircraft. He doubted if it just fell out of the sky.
Why would anyone blow up a business jet though?
Terrorists?

Before he had time to contemplate it, a thundering of rotors exploded overhead as two U.S. Army Chinooks, hovered above and prepared to land.

When they touched down, Holland realized it was no fellow FAA investigator. Whoever he was, he looked more like a funeral director.

Although Holland knew the mortuary business was competitive, he doubted anyone was here to measure the plane's two occupants for caskets.

The man approached Holland, side stepping a charred, severed arm. He barely acknowledged it as if the gruesome appendage demanded little attention.

"Ken Holland," the man said. "I have direct orders from acting President Warren Ritter, as well as the Swiss consulate, for you to cease your investigation at once."

"You have some identification?" Holland asked.

"My identification is not important, Mr. Holland."

Holland glared at him "It is if you expect me to pick up and leave. I don't know who you are, but I get my orders from the FAA."

"I'm well aware of how the FAA functions."

"Then you understand I have an invest--"

The man's eyes bore down on Holland. "Mr. Holland, you
will
gather up your equipment and assistant, and leave this site at once. Otherwise, those nice soldiers over there in those two birds will remove you by force."

Holland's assistant who was taking measurements trudged over and looked at him. "What's going on?"

"Pack it up, we're finished here."

"What are you talking abo--"

"Pack it up, let's go!" Holland said, uncharacteristically harsh.

The kid shrugged. "Okay, whatever you say."

Holland didn't want to stand out in the cold and argue with this scarecrow.

He reasoned the guy was legitimate, but the whole thing rang with the word,
cover-up.
Regardless, he was in no position to confront soldiers toting M-16 rifles. Holland
would
--he decided--get to the bottom of it.