Hard Fall (2 page)

The Los Angeles Field Office had fouled up the Bernard surveillance, not Daggett. As the case-agent-in-charge, he was only indirectly responsible. It was a cheap shot and both men knew it.

Daggett argued, “We don't
know
that Bernard built a detonator. We don't know shit. And if you think he's just going to offer up the information—”

“It's
my
interrogation, Michigan. Mine, and mine alone. Got it?”

Bernard was Daggett's only hope. At all costs, Backman had to be prevented from conducting the interrogation. He reopened the car door, overwhelmed once again by the fumes. “Sixteen minutes.” He still had a chance.

Attempting to sound calm, Backman said, “The Airport Police are on notice to keep that plane on the ground. The passengers will be told the delay is for mechanical reasons. Don't worry about it.”

“You think a stunt like that will fool Bernard? You think the Airport Police can handle Bernard?” He slapped the car keys into Backman's damp, pudgy hand. “I'm going on foot.”

“You're
what?
”

He hurried from the car before Backman could object.

To his complete surprise, only seconds into his run, he heard the heavy thump of a car door behind him, and knew without looking it was Backman. So it was going to be a race, was it? He lengthened his stride, lifted his chin, and pushed on toward the exit, far in the shimmering distance.

As Daggett ran, his body fell into the familiar rhythm, and his anger lifted. Running had a way of cleansing him, even in the heat and smog of Washington in August. Running to the airport, to an interrogation—how was
that
for dedication to the job? If the boys in the bullpen ever found out, he was sure to be razzed. At least he was running
away
from Backman—that much was in his favor.

His gun thumped at his waist annoyingly. A dozen sea gulls flew overhead, in search of landfill to plunder. Maybe one of them would shit on Backman.

Soaking wet with perspiration, Daggett reached the dingy Airport Police office on the ground floor of Terminal One, where he was greeted by two men in permanent-press suits who introduced themselves as detectives. Airport Police, a private company, had no legitimate connection to the metropolitan police force. These men were not detectives.

The security at any major airport consisted of a cruel assortment of various levels of authority. Metropolitan Police—real cops—had the power to arrest; their presence was typically small, confined to a half-dozen cars and twice that many men; city budgets didn't allow for the policing of airports on a large scale. That task was passed on to Airport Police, a private company that had the authority and necessary licenses for their patrolmen to carry arms, though these patrolmen could only detain individuals for later arrest by the proper metropolitan boys. Airport Police ran about a hundred men and women. Security, the people in blazers at X-ray machines, represented yet another private contract. They had virtually no authority, other than to search personal property; they passed their problem passengers into the hands of Airport Police, who then passed them on to Metropolitan Police. Communication between these various private and public organizations was as good as could be expected. That bad.

The FBI, the Federal Aviation Administration, and a half-dozen other investigative agencies fit into this command structure somewhere so difficult to define that they were viewed both suspiciously and often with a good deal of contempt by the private companies. Daggett felt this fully as he reached out his hand, and the two men facing him shook it reluctantly.

Following these uncomfortable introductions, they all headed off at a brisk pace toward the gate. By the sound of his voice and the color of his teeth, the taller of the two was a smoker. He didn't offer a name. Daggett sensed immediately that these guys carried chips on their shoulders. They acted nervous and falsely overconfident. The Smoker was gravel-voiced and rough-skinned; he moved frantically, gesticulating wildly, the kind of man who probably ground his teeth in his sleep.

His sidekick—Daggett thought he heard the name as Henderson but wasn't sure—looked like an Italian version of the Leakey ape. He was hard-featured and stood firmly planted in well-worn shoes. He had almost no hair. Daggett saw him not as Henderson, but as Hairless. He had the look of a veteran field agent, stoic and inquisitive, the kind to ask questions, not answer them.

The airport was old. The basement corridor connecting the terminals was walled with a red carpet wainscoting. The ceiling was yellowing acoustical tile, the floor linoleum. A few brightly lit and recently remodeled concession areas seemed incongruous with their surroundings.

They climbed the unmoving steps of a broken escalator and approached the security check. “You're going to have to leave your piece with one of our boys at the security check. It takes a fucking mountain of paperwork to carry past the checks.” The Smoker pointed to an armed cop in uniform who stood off to the side, intentionally distancing himself from the people who ran the X-ray machines and conveyor belt. “He's ours,” the Smoker said, as if Daggett cared. All Daggett could think of was Bernard on that plane. “The blue coats are
Security
,” he added distastefully. Daggett handed the cop his weapon, and the three hurried on.

The Smoker explained in his sandpaper voice, “We've got both the terminal and the plane covered. Six people in place: two women as flight attendants, a passenger in row nineteen, two maintenance guys, and a baggage handler.” He paused. Daggett was thinking: And a partridge in a pear tree. This guy was full of self-importance. “Bernard's in eighteen-B—window exit to his left. We're told he bought both seats. I suppose that window exit is his way out if he needs one.” He paused. “Don't worry; we got it covered.”

The gate drew closer. Daggett's throat was dry and his heart was still pounding hard from the run. A commotion erupted behind them. It was Bob Backman. He looked as if he'd been swimming with his clothes on. He was refusing to surrender his gun.

Daggett said, “He's ours,” mimicking the Smoker's expression, but in a tone of voice that disowned Backman.

The Smoker returned to Security to straighten it out.

Hairless spoke for the first time. “Security don't like us much. The feeling is mutual.”

Backman reluctantly surrendered his weapon. Hairless, who didn't seem to miss much, was the first to spot Backman's wing tips. He nudged the Smoker and pointed out the shoes, which instantly reestablished the chain of command. Only desk jocks wore wing tips. Daggett wore a pair of scuffed Rockports. “Let's go,” Backman said anxiously, taking the lead position. A fat duck in a drenched pinstripe.

The Smoker flashed his badge at the gate. They went down the hot jetway at something close to a run, Backman wheezing.

Daggett ducked through the plane's entry hatch, fourth in line behind Hairless. They hurried past a nervous steward. “We'll be out of your way in a minute,” Backman said, trying to sound in control, but he was clearly uncomfortable here.

As a group, they quickly moved down the aisle. Inquisitive faces rose to greet them, some sensing excitement, others expressing a mixture of curiosity and sudden fright.

To Daggett they were the faces of the innocent, faces with lives behind them—and hopefully ahead of them. Faces of people like his parents and his boy.

With their approach, a man in row 19 rose and stepped into the aisle, blocking it. A flight attendant, a woman with hard eyes and gray-flecked hair, came up the aisle immediately behind him. Two of the Smoker's people, Daggett assumed. Bernard was now at the center of a well-executed squeeze play with nowhere to go. The emergency exit to the wing was effectively blocked by two “maintenance mechanics.” Beautiful—like when the shortstop stepped up to take over second base in time to trap the steal. Daggett loved to see runners pinned; the “pickle” was one of his favorite plays of the game.

The Smoker's calm was impressive. Daggett heard some soft talking and saw Bernard's upraised palms as he was carefully drawn from the seat, patted down and advised to cooperate. Hairless quickly extricated his hardshell carry-on briefcase. Everyone's attention was fixed on the scene, heads craned.

Suddenly, Bernard's eyes caught Daggett's and their gazes locked. Daggett thought this must be the sensation a hunter feels as the animal lifts its head, suddenly alert to the hunter's presence.

Daggett knew this face all too well: he had lived with it for months. Bernard was dark-haired, with gray eyes, not quite handsome, just the kind of unremarkable countenance easily forgotten by even those who prided themselves on being observant. A vein pulsed strongly in his forehead. His occupation had cost him: His left hand was missing two fingers. But it wasn't the man's face, or his missing fingers that Daggett remembered. It was the black-and-white photographs of his work—the demolished restaurants, the aircraft, a half-dozen vehicles. A body count in the hundreds.

A monster.

The group filed out in professional silence. Daggett and Backman had their handguns returned to them at the security check.

The five men rode in the back of a Marriott food service van to a dull green building that seemed abandoned. A narrow hallway that smelled of grease and sweat led them to a windowless room that the Smoker had chosen for the interrogation. Daggett had a bad feeling about this room. Something terrible was about to happen.

Gunmetal desks in various states of disrepair, stacked three high, occupied most of the small room. A black, oily residue crusted the dysfunctional ventilation grate. The stale, dead air and the thick dust that rose with each footstep hazed the room in a curtain of gray, increasing Daggett's sense of claustrophobia. His throat went powder dry. The stifling heat prickled his skin and scalp, and he longed to be anywhere but here.

A handcuffed Bernard was seated in a chair in the center of the room. Hairless, the Smoker, and Daggett pulled a desk from the corner and used it as a bench, like fans in the bleachers. Backman wormed his sweaty hands together and glowered, pacing in front of Bernard like a man attempting a stage audition. He looked more suited for the role of headwaiter than cop.

“We've read you your rights. You're lucky to have them. Officially, you're being detained under the Terrorism Act of 1988. It gives us some rather broad powers, Bernard. Perhaps you're familiar with it?” He added, “You seem like a reasonable man.”

Daggett cringed with the line. The Smoker lit a cigarette and exhaled toward the grate. The smoke mushroomed into an enormous cone and seemed to hang in the air. Hairless cleaned his impeccably clean nails with a penknife.

Backman tried again. “I can see what you're thinking. You're thinking that maybe it's not so bad you were caught here in the United States. After all, we guarantee due process even to international terrorists. You're thinking that on the federal level we haven't used the death penalty in decades, that if you remain silent and wait me out, some crafty attorney may take your case just for the publicity. What the fuck? Maybe somebody'll turn you into a TV movie, right?” It was true. Bernard displayed a disturbing confidence. Where did such monsters come from? Justice for a man like Bernard came at the end of a weapon. No jury. No trial. Two or three randomly placed shots and the excuse the man had tried to escape.

“Don't even think about it,” Hairless whispered. He went back to his nails like an old lady at the hair salon.

Daggett realized that his hand was on his weapon. It was as if that hand didn't belong to him. He withdrew it, leaving the gun in the holster, and nodded as if he understood; but he didn't. Who was he becoming? What had this investigation done to him?

Backman continued, “What you probably aren't aware of is that two years ago Scotland Yard lifted a partial print from EuroTours flight ten twenty-three. A piece of your handiwork.”

Daggett cringed. This was just the kind of technical information they should protectively guard at all costs. You tell a person like Bernard this, and if he should get word to his people, no one in
Der Grund
will ever make this same mistake again. In point of fact, the tiny partial print in question had required four weeks of sifting through rubble to locate, another ten months to identify, an identification that, because the print was only a partial, would not be considered hard evidence by any court of law, but was nonetheless one those in law enforcement felt could be trusted. Backman had stupidly volunteered this information. “Sir,” Daggett interrupted, quickly silenced by Backman's harsh expression.

Backman continued, “We
know
what you were up to in your Los Angeles hotel room.”

That snapped Bernard's head. He was losing his confidence. His eyes began blinking quickly.

Backman paced. “One thing you don't know,” he said, “is that Daggett's parents and little boy were on flight ten twenty-three.” The Smoker and Hairless looked over and stared at Daggett in disbelief.

Bernard also glanced at him, but showed no remorse whatsoever.

“I could leave you and Daggett alone for a few minutes,” Backman suggested, his implication obvious but again ineffective. There would be no rough play in a dingy room at National Airport. It just wasn't done that way.

“You have an offer to make?” Bernard asked Backman a little too quickly, a little too hopefully.

Backman asked, “What if there is no deal? What if we're merely awaiting the papers to deport you? Ten-twenty-three was British. You realize that, don't you?”

The roar of a jet taking off made it feel hotter. Daggett loosened his tie further.

“You want that again?” Backman asked with an authority he had previously lacked. Daggett sensed the man's rebound. Backman, it suddenly seemed, was not weak but merely soft. Out of practice. He seized the moment effectively by asking the Smoker for a cigarette, as if he had all the time in the world. He didn't smoke, but Bernard didn't know this.