Traitor (8 page)

The prince’s Gulfstream jet was already a dot on the horizon when the first fighter jet screeched overhead. A sharp bank brought it around, closing the distance on the world’s fastest corporate jet as though it were hovering stationary, such was the difference in speeds. A second jet appeared as the first’s sonic boom hit him. His ears felt like they would explode and another boom was about to hit. He ducked under the water, the cold almost as shocking and damaging to his ears as the noise.

He checked the metal briefcase was still strapped across his chest and broke the surface once again, checked the small compass on his wrist, and started the long, slow swim ashore. Best guess, he was three to four miles from the shore, a good two hours’ swim. With darkness falling, the lights on shore would help keep him on course.

The Colonel returned a few minutes later to the call with the exasperated Turner.

“They claim one of the stewardesses was so unwell before they took off that they left her behind,” explained the Colonel.

“Bullshit!” spat Turner.

“All their stories are consistent. They’ve even given the hotel room and details of where you’ll find her in Washington.”

“Of course they have! Some stand-in, no doubt. Do you believe them?”

“Nope,” replied the Colonel.

“Is there anywhere they could have landed and dropped him off?”

“I doubt it. The timings suggest they flew directly here. And according to where you started tracking them, there was nothing but ocean below.”

“And they never reached France?”

“Intercepted before then.”

“Shit!”

“What do I do about the prince? He’s starting to have a shit fit here,” said the Colonel.

“Nick Geller is definitely not on board?”

“Definitely not. We’ve searched everywhere feasibly and unfeasibly possible for a person to be. The prince is demanding to see the Foreign Minister here in the UK or failing that, the US Ambassador.”

Turner thought for a second before making the biggest mistake of his career. “I suppose we’d better let him go on his way,” he said, resigned to the fact that the hunt was back on.

Turner replaced the handset and set off to find Carson. He had an apology to make as well as informing him they still hadn’t got their man.

After five minutes of looking, he was advised of Carson’s imminent departure to see the President with Frankie. He ran to the helicopter pad and caught them just as they were about to board.

He dragged both of them back towards the building, struggling to be heard over the noise of the helicopter’s engines. He quickly brought them up to speed.

“So he must have gotten off mid-flight,” said Carson matter-of-factly. Turner looked at him, confused.

“You can’t just open a door and jump out of a jet,” said Turner.

“What do you think parachutists do every day of the week?!”

“Even if he did, how the hell would we ever find him?” asked Turner. “They flew over 2,500 miles before we stopped them.”

“Easy,” replied Carson. “The black box will tell you exactly where and when they opened the door.”

“Fuck!” said Turner, his head dropping.

“What?”

“They just left!”

Frankie boarded the chopper and let Carson take the front seat. A very pissed off Turner stood and watched their departure. He had made it clear he wanted to interview Frankie immediately. Carson, keen to control the political fallout and flow of information, was going to get Frankie on board whatever it took, even lying that the President had asked to see her. As Carson pointed out to Turner, he had more pressing priorities: a plane to re-catch and a black box to retrieve.

The helicopter climbed and with Turner safely out of sight, Frankie could speak. She leaned forward to speak into Carson’s ear on the far side of the pilot.

“You made out you knew nothing but you knew everything that Turner told you?” she asked quietly. Carson had received a call just prior to Turner’s arrival from a very unhappy Supreme Commander of European Forces.

Carson nodded.

“You didn’t suggest the black box either when you were told.”

Carson turned around to face Frankie. “To be honest, it just came to me.”

“If you had thought of it faster, you could have stopped the plane leaving.”

Carson nodded.

“So you are as much to blame as Turner?”

Harry Carson had worked for four different administrations over the previous thirty years, nobody ever really knowing what he did or who he worked for. He was the quiet guy at the back of the room, the guy who was always invited but nobody knew by whom, the guy who seldom spoke but when he did everybody listened. Harry Carson’s contact list read like a who’s who of the most powerful individuals over the previous three decades, yet he had never run for office nor been voted into any position of power by the American public. Harry Carson had that very special gift very few people had. He made things happen in the corridors of power. He delivered.

He smiled back at Frankie. “Maybe, but only you and I know that,” he winked. Turner was going to take the flak for the fuck-up. Carson never took the blame for anything, only ever the credit. He had thirty years of eating Turners and spitting them out for breakfast.

“You told him the President wanted to see me?”

“I’m sure he does. He’ll need cheering up and I’m sure he’d be delighted to see you,” replied Carson.

“But what if Turner checks?”

“The President will tell him he wanted to see you,” said Carson confidently.

Frankie shook her head. “But he doesn’t.”

Carson simply smiled.

Frankie sat back in her seat. “What is it you do exactly?”

“I’m just someone who helps out when required,” replied Carson.

“Helps out who?”

Carson smiled and turned back to the window and the view of the approaching Walter Reed Hospital.

President James Mitchell sat up in the hospital bed as they entered. The pain in his face made it clear that the TV address earlier that day had been staged. At least in the respect that they had hidden just how badly injured the President really was.

“Mr. President.” Frankie maintained her professionalism despite her instincts to rush over and hug the man she’d been in close contact with over the previous few years.

“It’s good to see you, Frankie,” he said warmly, biting back the pain.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. President, I can’t believe he fooled me.” She broke down in to tears again.
Jesus
, she thought, fighting them back. She hadn’t cried since she was a child until that day.

The President beckoned her towards him and placed his good arm around her to console her.

Bill and Carson watched on as one of the most highly trained female law enforcement officers in the land, experienced in all forms of self defense and trained to kill when required, approached the man who, just a few hours earlier, had almost been killed by her boyfriend. Neither flinched or thought it inappropriate. Aisha Franks, daughter of a Saudi princess, hugged the President and wept on his shoulder.

There could have been no greater show of trust and faith in her as an innocent caught up in a terrible tragedy.

Frankie stood up. Her tears were finished. “What can I do for you, Mr. President?”

“Trust Harry.”

Turner watched the helicopter disappear out of view and more importantly, out of earshot before hitting the dial button on his cell phone. He paced while the phone rang and rang. Nobody picked up. He killed the line and rushed back to his office. He grabbed his desk phone and dialed the number again. He consoled himself with the thought of the time it took to refuel, taxi to the runway and get clearance for takeoff, it had only been about nine minutes. The line rang and rang again.

The Colonel answered, gasping for breath as he rushed to grab the ringing phone.

“Keep them there!” blurted Turner.

“What? Who is this?” replied the Colonel catching his breath and taking a seat.

“FBI Deputy Director Turner.”

“They are gone
Mister
Turner,” replied the Colonel coldly.

“Well get your planes up and get them back!” ordered Turner.

“On whose authority?”

“Mine!”

“I’ve just had a new asshole chewed into me by a Saudi prince who assures me he has the connections to kill my career. He’s already promised I’ll be in the Arctic for the rest of my career. What can you promise me
Mister
Turner?”

“You’ll still
have
a career,” said Turner boldly.

“Unfortunately for you I believe him far more than I do you, and the sad thing is I think you know that’s true.”

“The black box on the plane will tell us where they opened the doors and let the suspect escape.”

“And you know for an absolute fact that happened?”

“We assume—”

“Assume! What a very appropriate word, makes an
ass
of
u
and
me”
interrupted the Colonel.

“We can’t see any other explanation.”

“I can. Perhaps the stewardess did get ill and she did leave and nobody noticed her going.”

“Look, we know the prince is tied up in terrorist activity.”

“Yet we let him fly in and out of America and have contact with senior officials?”

“Well, we don’t have any actual proof, we just know.” Turner winced at how weak he sounded.

“
Mister
Turner, I am going to end this call. If the President or the Secretary of Defense or State orders me to retake that plane with their written authority, it will be done without hesitation. Anyone else, not a chance. We can’t just order planes out of the sky with threats of violence, particularly when we know the suspect is not on board. Goodbye.”

“Fuck!” screamed Turner into the empty line. There wasn’t a chance in hell that anyone was going to allow him to pluck the plane out of the sky again. Certainly not based on a hunch that a man may have jumped out of the plane at some point over the Atlantic. But you’d need to be jumping somewhere and the middle of the ocean wouldn’t be somewhere, it was nowhere.

He hit his intercom and connected with his assistant.

“Get me a large scale map of the Atlantic Ocean and Northern Europe, an aviation expert and anyone in the building who was trained to jump out of planes!”

With every degree rise in temperature, Nick knew he was just that little bit closer to shore. The depths of the ocean gave way to the sands of the shoreline and he approached the shore, checking for any passersby. It was approaching midnight in France. The beach was deserted. He had visited the same beach three months earlier. The vast expanse of sand stretched for miles but, in the almost forgotten northeast of France, even in the height of summer, the beaches were never filled.

He checked his bearings. Merlimont Plage was just a half mile north. After a two-minute breather, he began the walk along the beach, picking up the pace as the first sounds of helicopters began to break through the stillness of the night. A bright spot a few miles to the north, just off shore from Le Touquet, was all he needed to know that they were looking for him. Another bright spot appeared in the sky, only nearer. Searchlights glared down on the ground and sea below.

Nick knew that was the least of his worries. The chances of them picking him out in the spotlight were minimal to nil. His biggest worry was the infrared and thermal imaging devices that would be accompanying the light. The spotlight was the secondary tool to pinpoint what they had already seen.

Nick made it into the small seaside village while the search was still concentrating a couple of miles to the north. He smiled at the small green Renault Clio, almost ten years old, that had received a number of polite messages to move it. Although parked perfectly legally, the apartment owners who assumed ownership of the spaces in front of their beachside apartments during the summer were obviously perturbed at the length of time the mystery car had been parked in front of their building. Nick bent down and retrieved the key taped inside the small tailpipe. He opened the car, popped the hood and connected the battery. The car, thanks to its age and simplicity, started on the first turn of the ignition key, despite being inactive for over three months. Nick checked his mirror and pulled away.

He retrieved the roadmap from the glove box and glanced at his chosen route - the direct route to Paris would be using the main A16 toll road. However, at that time of night and in that area of France, he’d be one of the only vehicles on the road. They were already looking for him off the Le Touquet coast, which meant there was every chance they may also check the roads, especially the main road.

Nick took the back roads option and began the long drive to Paris. It was in contrast to the race he had undertaken three months earlier to place the car without being missed. Catching an earlier Eurostar service between Paris and London, he had hopped off at Calais and purchased the Clio for cash before driving it back down to Merlimont Plage and leaving it there. He’d then jogged the few miles back to Le Touquet, took a taxi back to Calais to catch the next Eurostar train, and arrived in London at the time he had arranged to meet his colleagues from DIA. With all purchases in cash and no time unaccounted for, nobody had been any the wiser.