Authors: Nelson DeMille
Wild Fire (39 page)
“Just that the Indians are looking to build an ELF station.”
I sat up on the couch and asked, “What the hell do they need that for? Launching tomahawks? They have the casinos, for God’s sake.”
“John, the
India
Indians.”
“Oh . . .”
“They’re developing a nuclear submarine fleet. So are the Chinese and the Pakistanis.”
“That sucks. Next, it’ll be the postal workers. Then we can kiss our asses good-bye.”
Kate informed me, “Actually, the world is becoming a far more dangerous place than it was during the Cold War when it was just us and them.”
“Right. What’s the median price of a house in Potsdam?”
She didn’t seem to recall and sat at the desk, lost in thought. Then she said, “I also discovered some . . . not good news.”
“Like, bad news?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I’m still trying to sort it out. Let’s finish the rest of what we need to discuss first so we have a context.”
“Is your mother coming to visit?”
“This is not a joke.”
“All right. What’s next?”
“Mikhail Putyov.”
M
ikhail Putyov,” I said. “No sign of him at Custer Hill. How about his home or office?”
“I called his office first, and his secretary, Ms. Crabtree, said he wasn’t in, so I said I was a doctor and this concerned a serious health matter.”
“That’s a good one. I never used that.”
“It works every time. Anyway, Ms. Crabtree loosened up a bit and told me that Dr. Putyov hadn’t shown up at work, hadn’t called, and that her calls to his cell phone went right into voice mail. She had also called Putyov’s wife, but Mrs. Putyov did not know where her husband was.” Kate added, “Obviously, Putyov never told anyone where he was going.”
“Did you get Putyov’s cell-phone number?”
“No. Ms. Crabtree wouldn’t give it to me, but she gave me hers for after hours, and I gave her my beeper number.” Kate added, “Ms. Crabtree sounded concerned.”
“Okay, so Mikhail is AWOL from MIT. How about home?”
“Same. Mrs. Putyov was on the verge of tears. She said that even when Mikhail is with his mistress, he calls and makes an excuse for not coming home.”
“He’s a good husband.”
“John, don’t be an asshole.”
“Just kidding. So, Mikhail is not just AWOL, he’s missing in action.”
“Well, he is as far as his wife and secretary are concerned. But he’s probably still at the Custer Hill Club.”
I shook my head. “If he was, he’d have called. A man in his situation, with FBI chaperones, doesn’t disappear and put his wife, family, or office in a position to think about calling the FBI. That’s the last thing Putyov wants.”
Kate nodded, then asked, “So . . . ?”
“Well,” I said, “apparently, not everyone who walks into the Custer Hill Club leaves in the same condition as when they arrived.”
“Apparently not.” She pointed out, “You’ve been there twice. Want to try again?”
“Third time’s a charm.”
She ignored that and continued, “So, I Googled ‘Putyov, Mikhail,’ and pulled up some published articles and unpublished pieces that other physicists had written about him.”
“Do they like him?”
“They respect him. He’s a star in the world of nuclear physics.”
“That’s nice. Then why is he hanging around Bain Madox?”
“There
could
be a professional relationship. Although, for all we know, it could be some sort of personal relationship. Maybe they’re just friends.”
“Then why didn’t he tell his wife where he was going?”
“That’s the question. Anyway, all we know for sure is that a nuclear physicist named Mikhail Putyov was a guest at the Custer Hill Club and is now missing. Anything beyond that is speculation.”
“Right. Hey, did you call The Point?”
“Yes. There were two new messages from Liam Griffith saying it was urgent that we contact him.”
“Urgent for who? Not us. Did you say we were shopping for moose heads in Lake Placid?”
“I told Jim at the front desk to tell anyone who calls that we are expected back at The Point for dinner.”
“Good. That might keep Griffith cooled off until he shows up at The Point and discovers he got snookered.” I asked, “Did Walsh call?”
“No.”
“See? Our boss cut us loose. Nice guy.”
“I think we cut him loose, John, and now he’s returning the favor.”
“Whatever. Screw him. Who else called?”
“Major Schaeffer called The Point, as per your suggestion. His message to you was, ‘Your car has been returned to The Point. Keys with front desk.’”
“That’s nice. He forgot to leave the stakeout team in place, but he didn’t forget to cover his butt with the FBI.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you were cynical?”
“Sweetheart, I was an NYPD cop for twenty years. I’m a realist.” I reminded her, “I think we’ve been through this before. Okay, what else?”
She dropped her favorite subject and continued, “A man named Carl—sounds familiar—called and left a message that said, ‘Dinner is on.’ Jim asked for the details, but Carl said that Mr. Corey already had the details and please bring Ms. Mayfield, as discussed.” She added, “So, Madox wasn’t leaving his name, or anything that could connect our disappearance to him or his lodge.”
“
What
disappearance?”
“
Our
disappearance.”
“Why are you so suspicious of people?”
“John, fuck off.” She continued, “We also had three voice-mail messages in our room.”
“Griffith and who else?”
Kate referred to her notes. “Liam Griffith, at three forty-nine, said, cheerily, ‘Hi, guys. Thought I’d see you earlier. Give me a call when you get this. Hope all is well.’”
I laughed and said, “What an asshole. How stupid does he think we are?” I quickly added, “Sorry. That sounded cynical—”
“Second voice mail asking if we’d like to schedule a massage—”
“Yes.”
“Last voice mail from Henri, who sounds cute, asking what type of mustard you’d like with your . . . pigs-in-the-blanket.”
“See? You didn’t believe me.”
“John, we have more pressing matters to deal with than—”
“Did you call him back?”
“I did, to keep up the pretext that we were returning to The Point.”
“What did you tell Henry? Deli mustard, right?”
“I did. He’s very charming.”
“He wanted to show me his woodcock.”
She ignored that. “I also made a massage appointment for both of us tomorrow morning.”
“Good. I’m looking forward to that.”
“We’re not going to be there.”
“This is true. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint Henry after all the trouble he went to, but I’m not sorry to miss cocktails with Liam Griffith.”
Kate looked a little fatigued, or maybe worried, and I needed to give her a pep talk, so I said, “You did a great job. You’re the best partner I’ve ever had.”
“I’m your boss.”
“Right. Best boss I’ve ever had. Okay, so, the FAA—”
The phone rang, and I said to Kate, “You expecting a call?”
“No.”
“Maybe it’s Wilma. Your husband is on the way.”
She hesitated, then answered the phone. “Hello?” She listened, then said, “Thank you. Yes . . . I’ll tell him. Thanks.”
She hung up. “It
was
Wilma. Duct tape is outside our door. She says my friend should move his van.”
We both laughed, but clearly we were on edge. I went to the window, checked out the terrain, then opened the door and retrieved a big roll of duct tape.
I sat at the kitchen table and began wrapping the makeshift evidence bags, as per rules and regulations. I said to her, “Tell me about the FAA.”
She didn’t reply and instead asked me, “Why don’t we just get the Hyundai back from Rudy, take those evidence bags, and drive to New York?”
“Do you have a pen? I need to sign this tape.”
“We could be at 26 Fed at about . . .” She looked at her watch and said, “About three or four in the morning.”
“You can go. I’m staying here. This is where it’s happening, and this is where I need to be. Pen, please.”
She handed me a pen from her bag. “
What
is happening?”
“I don’t know, but when it happens, I’ll be here.” I signed the tape and said, “Actually, we
should
split up in case . . . Okay, you drive Rudy’s van to Massena, rent
another
car, and drive to New York.”
She sat on the chair beside me, took my hand, and said, “Let me finish telling you what I’ve learned, then we’ll decide what to do.”
This sounded like she had an ace up her sleeve, which was probably the bad news. Whatever it was, it was pressing on her mind.
I said, “The FAA. Bad news?”
“The good news is that I was able to get some information. The bad news is the information.”
T
he FAA,” Kate began. “As you predicted, this was a challenge. But, finally, someone at the FAA clued me in to call the regional Flight Service Station—the FSS—in Kansas City, where these two GOCO aircraft arrived Sunday afternoon from Adirondack Regional Airport.”
“Good. What did the FSS in KC say?”
“Well, they said these two aircraft landed, refueled, and filed continuing flight plans, then departed.” She glanced at her notes. “One Cessna Citation, piloted by Captain Tim Black, with tail number N2730G, flew to Los Angeles. The other, piloted by Captain Elwood Bellman, with tail number N2731G, flew to San Francisco.”
“Really?” That sort of surprised me. I was sure that one or both of Madox’s jets would fly back here to Adirondack Regional Airport, where Madox could hop aboard and go wherever he needed to go in a hurry. “And those were their final destinations?”
“As of about an hour ago. I called the FSS in LA and San Francisco, and no new flight plans have been filed.”
“Okay . . . but why did they fly to Los Angeles and San Francisco?”
“That’s what we need to find out.”
“Right. We also should find out where the pilots are staying in these cities so we can talk to them.”
“I had the same thought, and I discovered that private aircraft use what’s called Fixed Base Operations—FBOs—to take care of arriving and departing aircraft. At LAX, I discovered that GOCO aircraft use Garrett Aviation Service as their FBO, and at SFO, GOCO aircraft use a company called Signature Flight Support. So, I called these FBOs and asked if they knew where the GOCO pilots and co-pilots might be. I was told that sometimes a pilot leaves a local number, usually a hotel, where they can be contacted if needed, or their cell-phone numbers. But not this time. The only contact information that these FBOs had on the pilots was the GOCO flight department at Stewart International Airport in Newburgh, New York, where GOCO has its base operations, maintenance hangar, and dispatch office.”
“And? You called these people?”
“Yes, I called the GOCO dispatch office at Stewart, but, for obvious reasons, I did not identify myself as FBI, and no one would give me any information on the two crews.”
“Did you tell them you were a doctor and that both pilots and co-pilots are legally blind?”
“No, but I’ll let you call and see what you can find out.”
“Maybe later.” I asked, “What are the names of the co-pilots?”
“Oddly, the flight plans don’t ask for the name of the co-pilot.”
I could see that the Federal Aviation Administration hadn’t tightened up its act regarding private aviation since 9/11. But I already knew that.
Kate said, “The flight plan does show the number of persons on board, and both aircraft had two. Pilot and co-pilot.”
“Okay . . . so these aircraft landed at LAX and SFO, no passengers, and they’ve been parked there since Sunday night, and there are no new flight plans filed, and I assume Captain Black and Captain Bellman and their unidentified co-pilots are enjoying the sights of LA and San Francisco as they await further instructions.”
“It would seem so.”
I thought about all of this and concluded that maybe it had no meaning, and was perfectly normal. Just four pilots jetting across the continent without passengers, burning jet fuel at the rate of several hundred gallons per hour, while their boss transported more fuel into the country in his tankers. I asked Kate, “Does this seem strange to you?”
“In and of itself, maybe yes. But we don’t know this world.” She informed me, “One of the FBO employees in San Francisco, for instance, suggested that maybe these aircraft had been chartered by someone for a pickup in San Francisco.”
“Do you think a man like Madox charters his personal jets to make a few bucks?”
“Apparently some rich people do. But there’s more.”
“I hoped there was.”
Kate continued, “I spoke to a Ms. Carol Ascrizzi, who works for Signature Flight Support in San Francisco, and she told me she was asked to transport the pilot and co-pilot in the courtesy van to the taxi line at the main terminal.”
This didn’t seem unusual or important, but I could tell by Ms. Mayfield’s tone of voice that it was. “And?”
“And, Ms. Ascrizzi said that GOCO, like most bigger companies, almost always books a car and driver ahead of time to take the flight crew wherever they need to go. Therefore, she found it odd that this pilot and co-pilot needed to take a taxi from the main terminal. So, Ms. Ascrizzi, wanting to be nice to good customers, told me she offered to drive the two guys to their hotel.” Kate informed me, “Apparently, these crews usually stay in some place with corporate rates near the airport. But the co-pilot told her, thanks, but they were going downtown, and they’d take a taxi.”
“Okay . . . did she know where they were going?”
“No, they didn’t say.”
Which, I thought, could be why they were taking a taxi and not the offered courtesy van, and why there was no livery car waiting for them. “All right. Anything else?”
“Yes, she told me that these two guys—pilot and co-pilot—had two large black leather trunks with them. The trunks were padlocked, and they were on wheels, and they were very heavy, and it took both men to get each trunk into the van.”
“Okay. Big and heavy. Padlock and wheels.” I said, “I guess that was the cargo that Chad saw at the airport here. Now, it’s been off-loaded in San Francisco, and I assume LA also.” Kate wasn’t bringing this information to any point, so I mentioned helpfully, “Maybe the men had their wives or girlfriends on board as stowaways, and these big, heavy trunks held two days of clothes for the ladies.”
She inquired, “How did you manage to get a sexist remark into a conversation about aircraft cargo?”
“Sorry.” It wasn’t easy. “I was just speculating.” I further speculated, “So . . . gold? Two dead bodies? What?”
“You should think about it.”
“Okay. What did Carol Ascrizzi say? Was she suspicious? Did the pilot and co-pilot act suspicious or nervous?”
“The pilot and co-pilot, according to Ms. Ascrizzi, were perfectly normal, and joked about the weight of the trunks and the fact that GOCO hadn’t booked a car and driver for them. The co-pilot flirted with Ms. Ascrizzi and told her he hoped he’d see her Wednesday when they returned to the airport for their departure.”
“Okay . . . departure to where?”
“The co-pilot said their final destination was LaGuardia, but he didn’t say what stops they’d make en route. The pilot left instructions at Signature Flight Support to have the aircraft ready for a noon departure on Wednesday with full fuel.”
“All right . . . so, the pilot and co-pilot, according to Ms. Ascrizzi, seemed normal, but the cargo did not.” I thought about that and said, “So, the cargo was flown to LA and San Francisco in
two
private jets, rather than one jet, making two stops in those nearby cities.”
“That’s correct.”
“And there was no car and driver to take the crew and this cargo to where they needed to go.”
“Correct.”
“And the pilot instructed Signature Flight Support in San Francisco to have the aircraft ready for a noon Wednesday departure with the final destination of LaGuardia, but from what you said, they hadn’t yet filed a flight plan with the FAA.”
“Correct. But that’s not unusual. Flight plans, I discovered, need to be filed near the time of departure, to take into account current weather, airport traffic, and so forth.”
“That’s logical.”
“Sorry I couldn’t feed your paranoia.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I got more where that came from. In fact, here’s one—the pilot and co-pilot’s secret destination in San Francisco.”
“Why secret?”
“Well, there was no hired car and driver, which would leave a paper trail, plus they passed up the opportunity to take the courtesy van into town after loading these trunks full of bricks or something into the van, which then had to be off-loaded at the taxi line, then loaded into
two
taxis, because of the size of the trunks, for the trip into town. Does that make sense?”
“No. So, I called Garrett Aviation Service at LAX and got a guy named Scott on the phone who asked around while I was on hold, and he got back to me with pretty much the same story—two big black trunks, and the courtesy van only to the taxi line.”
“Ah. So, apparently these four guys had the
same
instructions—to take
taxis
to wherever they were going with those trunks.”
“It would seem that way.”
“So, quite obviously, these two flight crews had a
secret
destination or destinations in LA and San Francisco, and that’s why they each took a
taxi
, which would take a lot of luck to trace. Now, the question is, Does this have anything to do with Bain Madox’s insane plan to become Emperor of North America, or whatever the hell he’s up to? Or, is it not relevant?”
“I think it’s relevant.”
“Is this the bad news?”
She replied, “We need more context. Now, you tell me about your conversation with Madox.”
“Okay. Then I get the bad news?”
“Yes. Unless you can figure it out yourself before we’re finished with the other items on the agenda.”
“That’s a challenge. Okay, do I have everything I need to figure out the bad news?”
“You’re at the point where I was when I figured it out. Then I found one more piece of information that confirmed what I was afraid of.”
“Okay. Wow.”
I thought about that, and there was something coming together in my brain, but before it fell into place, Kate said, “You’re on. Custer Hill. Bain Madox.”
All roads lead back to Custer Hill and Bain Madox.