First to Kill (22 page)

“Hell of a job you’ve got here,” Henning added.

“We like it. To be honest, it’s nice to ferry someone other than the director for a change.” He lowered his voice and looked around in fake secrecy. “He’s not real personable.”

“So I’ve heard,” Nathan said.

“We aren’t strict enforcers of seat-belt rules, but it’s best if you’re strapped in for takeoffs and landings.”

“Shouldn’t you at least brief us on emergency procedures?” Nathan asked. “You know, emergency exits, that kind of stuff?”

“Naw,” Jenkins said. “If we crash, there will be lots of exits.”

Nathan smiled. He liked these guys.

“Nathan’s a helicopter pilot,” Henning added. “He owns a Bell Jet Ranger.”

“No kidding?”

Nathan shrugged.

“I’ve always wanted to learn helicopters.”

“Is your father really Stone McBride?” Williamson asked.

Jenkins bumped him. “We aren’t supposed to know that.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. Can you… uh… forget I just asked that?”

These two were real characters. Nathan hoped they took their flying more seriously. “To answer the question, Yes, he’s my father.”

The first officer nudged his captain. “Shouldn’t we salute him or something?”

Shaking his head, Nathan took a seat facing forward and fastened his belt.

Jenkins mouthed the word
sorry
to Nathan and pivoted toward the cockpit, but before disappearing behind the cockpit door, he turned back, his expression serious. “Listen, it might seem like we’re indifferent about what happened today. We aren’t. We use humor to relieve stress. We’re as angry as the next man, but that anger doesn’t belong in here.”

“Understood,” Nathan said.

“We’ve got to file our flight plan into Fort Leavenworth, it’ll take a few minutes.” Jenkins studied him for a few seconds. “Did Lansing bring you in to find whoever bombed us?”

Nathan wasn’t sure how to respond, wasn’t sure how much he could share without violating Lansing’s or Holly’s trust. He hadn’t been introduced as Special Agent Nathan McBride, so they knew he wasn’t with the bureau. They probably figured him as some kind of VIP bounty hunter. He sensed Henning tense behind him. Walking a tightrope, he used only his eyes, moving them up and down in a nod.

Jenkins got the message. Definitely trained military.

Twenty minutes later, during the takeoff roll, Nathan let his head press against the seat as the Lear’s wings bit into the midnight air. Behind him, Henning was silent. He’d been rather subdued on the short drive to the airport. Perhaps the horror of today’s events had finally soaked in. Whatever the reason, Nathan welcomed the silence. Despite the catnaps he’d been taking over the last four days, a few hours here, a few hours there, a deep fatigue had crippled him. He was sluggish, both physically and mentally, and gauged his operational readiness at 50 percent. Not good. Unacceptable in military terms. Sooner or later, preferably sooner, he’d need an uninterrupted slumber of at least eight hours. But for now, another catnap would have to do.
Sleep when you can
. He reclined his seat, extended the leg rest, and closed his eyes. He hoped his personal demons would take the night off, especially in front of Henning.

* * *

The jet’s PA system woke him just after 0530 Central time. “Good morning campers,” Jenkins’s voice announced. “We hope you enjoyed the ride. We’ll be on the ground in twenty minutes. We called ahead for a taxi, should be there by the time we touch down.”

Nathan looked out the window and saw the faint glow from Kansas City to the east. Directly below, a few scattered lights here and there were the only indicators that something other than an empty black void was down there. Kansas. The heartland of America. Somewhere, amid the endless wheat fields and buffalo ranches, was a giant ball of twine. He’d seen a picture of it, but couldn’t remember where, perhaps a travel magazine in his dentist’s office.

Jenkins greased the landing, making the smoothest touchdown Nathan had ever felt. The thrust reversers deployed and Jenkins gunned the engine, gently applying the brakes at the same time. At the end of the runway, the jet turned onto the taxiway and rolled back toward the hangars. After the engines had spooled down, First Officer Williamson appeared and opened the fuselage door. He lowered the steps into place. Cool, damp air carrying burned jet fuel greeted them. Nathan liked the smell.

“There’s our ride,” Williamson offered.

Nathan looked in the direction of the hangars and saw a taxi approaching. It stopped about a hundred feet away. Its Middle Eastern driver got out, but out of respect or apprehension, didn’t approach the jet.

Williamson continued. “We need a few minutes to shut down and secure the aircraft.”

Nathan complimented the first officer on the landing before grabbing his overnight bag from the rear luggage compartment. Henning also retrieved his two carry-ons, an overnight bag and from the look of the other, a laptop. Nathan let Henning take the lead exiting the aircraft. They walked over to the cab and as usual, the driver took a little too long looking at Nathan’s face.

“We need a motel,” Henning said. He hadn’t said hello, or how are you, or thank you for coming, or offered any other pleasantry. Nathan didn’t think Henning’s abruptness was intentional or purposefully rude, the man just had a lot on his mind. If the cabbie felt slighted, he hid it well.

“The Days Inn is only a few minutes from here.”

“That’s fine,” Henning said.

The driver popped the trunk and Henning placed his two carry-ons inside. Nathan dropped his bag next to Henning’s and stepped to the front passenger’s seat. He wanted the front, which offered considerably more legroom. He looked at the Lear, admiring its sleek form. It had no markings identifying it as an FBI bird, which for some reason surprised him. On the way back to Sacramento, he planned to peek over the crew’s shoulders and ask a few pilot-to-pilot questions. What little he’d seen of the avionics package had impressed him. He wouldn’t mind switching seats with the copilot for a spell if they’d let him.

At the motel, Nathan gave the cabbie a fifty and told him to keep the change. Everyone retrieved their bags and briefcases from the trunk. Hoping to make up for Henning’s lack of social skills at the airport, Nathan addressed the cabbie in Arabic.

“Thank you for the ride, my friend.”

Henning’s head turned quickly at hearing Nathan speak Arabic. Williamson, the copilot, didn’t react at all, which in itself was a reaction.

The driver’s eyes grew a little. “
You speak Arabic.
”

“I do. Please excuse my friend’s abruptness at the airport. We are all very tired.”

“It is okay. I understand.”

“Stay safe and go with God.”

The driver pumped his hand and smiled.
“You too, my friend.”

After the cab pulled away, Henning stepped forward. “What did you just say to him?”

Nathan shrugged. “I thanked him for the ride and told him we’re all tired.”

“Well, aren’t you just full of surprises. What’s next, you going to pilot that Lear back to Sacramento?”

“As a matter of fact…” He looked at Jenkins.

“Sure, why not? It practically flies itself.”

“No way,” Henning protested. “That’s not happening, not on my watch. You may be able to shoot a tennis ball at a thousand yards, land a helicopter in a palm tree, perform emergency surgery, find buried treasure, and speak Arabic, but you are
not
flying that jet back to Sacramento. Not while I’m aboard.”

Jenkins cleared his throat. “Maybe we should get checked in.”

* * *

Ten minutes later they were settled into their respective rooms. The first thing Jenkins did was dial his first officer’s room. “Is that really what McBride said to the cabdriver?”

“Yeah, but he left something out,” Williamson said.

“What?”

“He apologized for Henning’s behavior. Apparently Henning hadn’t been real courteous with the driver.”

“Who is this guy?”

“Haven’t the slightest.”

“Think he’s one of us?”

“I’m betting he’s a spook. CIA or NSA.”

“How many languages do you speak?”

“Including English, five.”

“Think I should I let him into the cockpit?” Jenkins asked.

“If you asking me if he’s dangerous, I’d have to say no.”

“Think he bought our act?”

“Not for a second.”

“Well, until Lansing changes his mind, we stick to the plan and fly him wherever he wants to go.”

* * *

Nathan considered calling Harv but decided against it. It was almost three in the morning in Sacramento. He set his overnight bag on the small table next to the bed. In the bathroom, he washed his face, brushed his teeth, and plugged in his phone. He stripped down to his underwear, pulled the sheets off the bed, and made a makeshift bunk on the floor. He set the alarm clock for 0700, an hour away. Staring at the ceiling, he rehearsed the questions he planned for the Castle’s shrink, hoping this little jaunt would be worthwhile. His mind moved to the pilots. When he’d spoken Arabic to the cabbie, Nathan had been certain First Officer Williamson understood every word. He’d seen it in his eyes, an unmistakable twinkle of recognition. What were the odds that one of the pilots assigned to ferry him around spoke Arabic? It seemed Lansing’s trust had limitations.

Too tired to worry about it, Nathan rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. Another long tomorrow loomed. Actually, he realized, tomorrow’s already here.

* * *

Despite his exhaustion, Nathan awoke before the alarm sounded. He cracked the curtains and scanned the parking lot where a smattering of pickups, sedans, and SUVs waited beneath a red Kansas sky. At the opposite end of the room, he made a miniature pot of coffee.

After a quick shower and shave, Nathan called Henning’s room. “How’d you sleep?”

“Not too well, you?”

“About the same. Hungry?”

“I called the front desk. There are several coffee shops within walking distance.”

“What about our pilots?” Nathan asked.

“I didn’t want to wake them.”

“Five minutes,” Nathan said and hung up.

Over breakfast, Henning asked about Nathan’s background. Although Henning seemed to understand Nathan’s need for discretion, there was a touch of resentment. The stuff in Nathan’s head was doled out on a need to know basis, and Henning didn’t need to know. Simple as that.

On the walk back to the motel, Nathan’s cell rang. He looked at the screen. Harv.

“How was your flight?”

“First-class. It’s a nice ride.”

“No doubt. I took the liberty of arranging your meeting with the Castle’s shrink. I’ve been on the phone all morning trying to reach him, finally did. It took a bit of coaxing, but I think I convinced him of the urgency of the situation. He’s seen the television coverage of the bombing, and knows his former patient is responsible. His name is Dr. Harold Fitzgerald, and yes, that’s really his name. He’s agreed to meet with you at the officer’s mess at ten-hundred.”

“Great work, Harv. What’s your take on him? Will he talk to us?”

“I honestly don’t know, my gut says yes, but I could’ve read him wrong. Our call was pretty brief. I’m sure he’ll want your conversation off the record.”

“I’m really hoping to learn something, anything, that might give us a starting point for tracking Ernie Bridgestone. I still need to run his girlfriend in the NCIC database. Did our guys find anything from the visitation-log info?”

“Maybe. The address she used on the log sheet was a dead end. We called the phone number and got a changed-number recording, so it’s a fairly recent change. The new number is a five-five-nine area code in Fresno. When I had Mason pretend to be a telemarketer and call the number, he thought the woman who answered hadn’t been honest. Mason said she hesitated for a instant before saying he had a wrong number. It might have been a girlfriend or sister, or it might have been our mark herself.”

“It’s possible Bridgestone has already warned her she might get a call like that,” Nathan said.

“If he still has any contact with her all, he probably
has
warned her or more accurately threatened her. She might go underground. Maybe we should’ve waited on the call.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Telemarketers call all the time. Listen, we just finished breakfast, we’re walking back to the motel. I’ll call you after we’ve met with Fitzgerald.”

Nathan tucked his phone away and filled Henning in on what he’d learned about Ernie’s old girlfriend and fake telemarketer call.

“That might have been her,” Henning said.

“It’s possible. We won’t know until we talk to her.”

“And if she won’t talk to us?”

“She’ll talk.”

* * *

The entrance to Fort Leavenworth looked like a hundred other military-base entries. A small guard shack divided the road. MPs with sidearms approached the taxi and asked for everyone’s identification. Their taxi had been expected so the security procedure went smoothly. As instructed, the driver placed the bright-yellow temporary-vehicle pass on the dashboard. He was given a small map of the base showing the location of the dining facility.

Nathan thought the fort had a college campus feel to it, lots of green open spaces, mature trees, and historic buildings. At the dining facility’s curb, Henning asked—told, really—the driver to wait for them. Army service members filtered in and out of the DFAC. Most of them wore Army combat uniforms. A man in civilian clothes stepped out and approached them, Fitzgerald, no doubt. The man looked nothing like the stereotype of a shrink. No Freudian glasses, bald pate, or goatee. No white coat. He looked more like an aging California surfer than a prison psychiatrist. Dressed in tan slacks and an aloha shirt, he was in his mid-fifties, with sandy-colored hair, broad shoulders, and pleasant smile.

Nathan offered his hand. “Dr. Fitzgerald, I presume?”

“The one and only.”

“Nathan McBride. Thank you for meeting with us. This is Special Agent Bruce Henning from the Sacramento field office.”

“I’m very sorry for the loss of your colleagues.”