African Ice (45 page)

He steeled himself, driving his heels against the stone pillars that bordered the catwalk. He angled his body so his shoulder was at ninety degrees to the door. The handle slowly turned, then stopped. The door opened a crack. He didn't move a muscle, waiting for the man to commit. The door suddenly flew open and a hand with a pistol in it appeared. Travis pushed with all the strength his legs could muster and threw his weight into the door. His momentum was greater than the man coming through the opening, and the door slammed back into its jamb. The extended arm was caught as the door slammed shut and the finger automatically squeezed the trigger. A single shot rang out through the cavernous room, echoing like thunder. The bullet smashed into one section of the huge glass fan above the front door, showering people inside and out with shards of sharp glass. Screams split through the air as panicked crowds ran for cover.

Travis heard his opponent yell in agony as the door partially crushed his right arm. The gun clattered to the catwalk and Travis made a grab for it. The door opened again, this time with the man barreling through and hitting him full force in the chest. For the first time, Garret Shaw and Travis McNeil were eye to eye. A millisecond passed as the men took stock of each other, then both tried for the gun. It sat on the catwalk, only a few feet from them. Travis's hand touched the metal first, but Shaw hit the pistol away just as Travis tried to grab it. The gun hovered at the edge of the catwalk for a moment, then plunged to the floor below. Travis spun to face his attacker, his hands already coming up in self-defense.

Too late. A well-placed fist smashed into his jaw, knocking him sideways. He twisted to avoid the next blow, but again, too late. Shaw anticipated the open body shot and took it. He drove his fist into Travis's kidney, doubling him over in pain. Another shot, then another. Travis couldn't get up, couldn't get a chance to go on the offensive. The blows that were now raining down on him would soon be lethal. Once his limited defense was gone, the man would snap his spine or neck.

Travis reached down and grabbed the metal box that held the diamonds and wrenched it off his belt. With all his strength he threw a wild roundabout punch, leading with the box. He felt it hit flesh and for a brief second the blows stopped. He rolled and dragged himself to his knees, seeing the blood pouring from a nasty gash on his attacker's head. He threw a straight rabbit punch at Shaw's face and felt the pain shoot through his hand and arm as it hit.

Shaw staggered back, his senses almost gone from the shattering blow to his temple. He saw the metal box coming at his face but couldn't stop it. Again and again. For a second Shaw teetered on the edge of the catwalk, unable to stop the relentless pummeling. One last blow and he felt gravity begin to take over. He reached the point of no return and clutched for the stone rail as he fell. He missed, then was airborne for a couple of seconds. His body hit the stone floor with a sickening sound.

Travis took a quick look over the edge and disappeared back into the dark hallway. He moved quickly now, his footing sure and his hands steady. He clipped the box back onto his belt and smoothed out his hair with one hand while keeping the other against the wall. He reached the door to the stairwell and opened it, glancing about. No one had responded to the fight on the catwalk yet and he raced down the stairs. He heard the familiar sound of sirens as police closed in on the station. He had to get out of the stairwell and in with the masses before the police came, or the game was up. He'd be charged with murder and the diamonds would surely be found, exonerating Kerrigan.

He reached the door leading to the main station and opened it a crack. Police were pouring in the front doors, guns in hand. He quickly opened the door, slipped through and merged in with the other bystanders trying to stay out of harm's way. He slowly migrated to the nearest exit, moving neither slowly nor quickly. At the door, an ambulance worker grabbed him as he walked from the building. He was speaking Flemish and pointing at Travis's face.

“I don't speak Flemish,” he said. “Just English.”

“Yes, yes. I speak the English. You face is with blood. You are hurt.”

“I'm okay, just a bit shaken. There are many more people inside hurt much worse.” He pointed at the door. “You should get in there and help them.”

The man nodded that he understood and disappeared into the station. Travis unclipped the metal box from his belt and took a minute to wipe the blood off his face, using the metal as a crude mirror. He angled across the street toward De Beers. The sidewalks were crowded with office workers and pedestrians who had stopped to watch all the action outside Central Station. He politely made his way through the crowd, watching for Samantha as he approached De Beers. At first he didn't see her—she was partially hidden behind a tall man. Then their eyes locked and they both smiled. He closed the distance and hugged her close to him.

“That wouldn't be your handiwork over there, would it?” she asked.

“Hey, some guy was crawling around the rafters of the building. He fell off. How could I have anything to do with that?”

“I don't believe you, Mr. McNeil.” They linked arms around each other's waists and began to walk away from the station. She glanced up at him. “I've got an idea of what we can do with Kerrigan. We need to find the nearest pharmacy.”

Patrick Kerrigan stormed out of De Beers and into the crowds watching the commotion at the station. He ignored the excitement and flagged down a passing cab. He gave the driver the name of his hotel and settled into the backseat. What a mess.

She'd switched the real diamonds and replaced them with highly accurate forgeries. She must have duplicated them before he took them from her in Cairo. But why? He was completely in the dark. She had taken a shot at him and it had hurt. He knew full well what the repercussions would be. His career was finished. His name would be blacklisted in every establishment worldwide that dealt in legitimate precious stones. He would be a social pariah—again. It wasn't enough that his ex-wife had screwed him; now Samantha Carlson had as well.

Shaw had probably taken out McNeil by now. The confusion at the station may have had something to do with McNeil's death, but he didn't care. Right now, he just wanted to get back to his hotel, have a drink and think of what to do with Carlson when he finally got her in his hands. The audacity of the bitch. Showing up at his sight. Then fucking everything up. Christ, he was furious.

The taxi pulled up outside the Park Lane Hotel. He paid his fare and entered the lobby. The desk clerk waved to him with a message. Davis Perth in New York. Now what the fuck did Davis want with him? The stupid, rich asshole. He should just stay on his sailboat and leave the office stuff to someone who knew what he was doing. The elevator opened at his floor and he entered the quiet hotel suite. He poured a drink of scotch and calculated the time difference to New York. It would be about seven o'clock in the morning. He placed a call to Perth, expecting his secretary to answer. He was mistaken.

“Good morning, Patrick,” Davis said once Kerrigan had identified himself. “How are things in Antwerp?”

“Very well, thank you. I thought you wouldn't be back for another few weeks?”

“Oh, some part broke on the boat and it was going to be three weeks to have it manufactured and shipped over, so I just came back to NewYork. What are you doing in Belgium?”

“We had some rough I wanted to get graded. What better place than Antwerp?”

“Yes, of course. We've got a meeting with the Securities Commission tomorrow, Patrick. Is it possible for you to be at the meeting?”

“I hate those pricks, Davis. Why don't you handle them this time?”

“Because that's what I pay you for. I don't like them either. The meeting is set for two in the afternoon. Please make it back.” The line went dead.

Kerrigan hung up the phone and poured another drink, this one a double. Things were just getting worse. The Securities Commission were Doberman Pinschers, and they weren't scared to take a bite out of your ass. And it had only been four months since the last face-to-face meetings with the pricks. Usually it was six months, almost to the day. Then he stopped. Something was wrong. These guys were diarists. They probably made notes of when they crapped each day. There was no way they would be two months early.

Kerrigan placed a call to his CIA connection and asked him to check around and see if anything was going on behind the scenes. He didn't have long to wait. The return call came back inside five minutes.

“Jesus, Patrick. What have you done?”

His knees began to tremble as he spoke. “What do you mean? What's wrong?”

“The FBI and the FAA have both issued warrants for your arrest. They aren't saying what for, but you've been placed on the top of their most wanted list. You must have really fucked someone over.”

“Warrants?” Kerrigan steadied himself by sitting in the armchair close to the phone. “They've issued warrants?”

“Yes. If you set foot in the United States, you're going to jail.”

“Okay, I understand. Thank you.” He let the phone slip from his hand onto his lap. He sat motionless for a minute until the phone began to beep. He replaced it in its cradle and cupped his head in his hands. What had happened? If the FAA was involved, it could very well be that someone had finally connected him to the Cranston Air disaster. But whom? And how?

He placed another call, this time to Lufthansa. They had a flight for Tunisia leaving in three hours and he booked a seat. He needed a country that the United States did not have an extradition treaty with, and Tunisia would work just fine. He packed his bags and called the front desk to send up a porter. He spent the five minutes waiting for the porter downing another scotch. He gave the room a quick onceover, then took the elevator down with his baggage. He had the desk clerk total his bill and handed over a platinum card. After a few swipes on the machine, the clerk apologized to Kerrigan.

“I am sorry, sir, but our machine must be malfunctioning.

Your card is being rejected. I've been asked to phone the bank. I'm sorry, but I must comply.”

“Do as you wish. As you say, the machines must be down.”

The clerk dialed a central number for the Visa center, spoke to the representative, then hung up and addressed Kerrigan. “They have instructed me to destroy the card, sir. Do you have another?”

Kerrigan stared at the man. His platinum card had a one-hundred-thousand-dollar limit. He pulled another card from his wallet and handed it over. Three swipes and a phone call later, the clerk destroyed the second card.

“I'll pay cash,” Kerrigan said, withdrawing a wad of bills and paying the tab. He left the hotel knowing that the far-reaching tentacles of the FBI were in motion, and that he had limited time to transfer his assets to safe havens. He instructed his taxi driver to find a Credite Suisse Bank. The man knew of one and drove him straight there. He told the driver to wait and entered the bank. Fifteen minutes later, a distraught Patrick Kerrigan exited the bank. All his accounts were frozen. At best, he was limited to the offshore accounts in the Bahamas and Cayman Islands. And those would follow suit soon. He had to think. He had over one hundred thousand dollars in cash, tucked in a hidden compartment of his carry-on baggage. There was no way to access the two accounts that weren't frozen without actually visiting the Caribbean, and that was too dangerous right now. He had to get to Tunisia and lie low for a bit.

He ordered the driver to the international airport in Brussels and sank into the leather seat, watching the countryside. The longer he thought about it, the more it all started to come together. Samantha Carlson. Somehow, she had figured out his complicity in the Cranston Air crash and had relayed that information to the FBI. And they had bought it. The Bureau had then issued the warrants for his arrest, terminated his charge cards, and frozen his accounts, both national and international. Christ, she had screwed him and screwed him good.

The only avenue left to him was to flee. And his options were very limited. The United States had powerful connections worldwide, and that meant only a handful of countries would be safe. He cursed her as the taxi sped toward Brussels. He cursed her and he hated her like he had never hated anyone before.

The phone rang and Samantha picked it up. She handed the phone over to Travis and went back to wrapping a small package for the post. She covered the bubble wrap with brown paper and addressed it. She slipped it and a letter into her handbag. He waited as the hotel operator connected the overseas line.

“Is this Travis McNeil?”

“Yes.”

“This is Davis Perth. We spoke two days ago.”

“Yes, of course I remember. What can I do for you, Mr. Perth?”

“Please, call me Davis. And the question would be more like, what can we do for you?” he said. “I gave an accurate account of what you told me on the phone to the director of the FBI. He happens to be a personal friend and golfing buddy. He contacted the FAA. It seems that the FAA knew exactly what downed that airliner, but they never released that information to the press. They also knew about the payment to Garth Graham, but they didn't know who had paid him. They were keeping what they knew under wraps until something else came up. Something like Patrick Kerrigan's involvement.”

“So they believed us that Kerrigan was the mastermind?”

“Absolutely. They've drawn the net in on him already. Warrants have been issued for his arrest. His credit cards are useless and all his accounts worldwide are frozen. The man is finished.”

“Excellent. Thanks, Davis. Without you getting the FBI to lend a high-ranking ear to all this, he would have walked.”

“He may still,” Davis Perth cautioned. “He's reserved a seat on Lufthansa to Tunisia. It departs Brussels in less than two hours. The U.S. consulate in Brussels can't work through diplomatic channels fast enough to stop him.”