The Death in the Willows (19 page)

“The hijacking was a coincidence that fouled up his schedule. He probably intended just to follow Pasic and pick him up when he left the bus.”

“When the hijacking occurred he passed the gun to you to stay out of the limelight.”

“Yes. As I reconstruct it, Pasic left work, taking the spools. The word was put out and he was spotted in New York. Remember, probably every Mafia family in the country was after him. The killer was hired and trailed him to the bus line at Gate Twenty-nine.”

“And he's cool enough to leave him in line and go have a drink?”

“The line at the gate was too short. He's obviously a man who feels that complete secrecy is important. He was willing to take the gamble that Pasic would board that bus.”

“The next day he destroys the bus and all the passengers, thinking that he's getting Pasic and the spools.”

“Except they weren't on the bus.”

“Which he found out later.”

“But why try and kill you? He knows you can't identify him.”

“His initial assignment was to get Pasic and destroy the spools. He knew that I spent the night with Pasic and had become involved in the case. I had to be destroyed in order to preserve the secret of the spools. Later, when the bonus was offered for their return, he kept me alive to help him get to Pasic.”

“Pasic was tortured before he died. He may have revealed their location.”

“I don't think so. Pasic knew he was a dead man whether he talked or not. I think he held out, and that's why the killer went to Darlene's apartment after killing her father. He certainly wouldn't have done that if he had them.”

“Then they still exist—somewhere?”

“And they're our answer. Not only important for what they might contain, but also because when we find them he won't be far behind.”

“Hilly fits this situation completely.”

“He might,” Lyon said, and also thought about the bearded balloonist and economist, Popov.

12

“YOU'RE MAKING ME UPTIGHT, WENTWORTH.”

“I thought you'd rather talk.”

“I'VE GOT TO HELP THEM FLY THIS THING. LET ME CONCENTRATE.” Bea griped the armrests, braced her feet on the flooring, and pushed back against the cushion. The 727 shivered and then streaked down the runway.

He reached toward her right ear and adjusted the hearing aid. “Statistics indicate that flying is safer than driving on a highway.”

“Statistics also say that flying to the moon is safer yet, but that doesn't mean I'm applying for astronaut training.”

They were airborne. Lyon looked out the window at the retreating ground and tent-covered tobacco fields surrounding the Hartford Airport, Bradley Field. The plane banked toward the south and Bea gasped. She gasped louder as the retracting wheels thumped into their wells. “What was that?”

“The wheels.”

“Do you know that ninety percent of all air accidents occur within two minutes of the airport?”

The loudspeaker crackled to life with a deep reassuring voice. “This is Captain Nelson. Welcome to Delta Flight seven-six-seven to Miami, Florida. Our flight time will be five hours and eight minutes. The temperature in Miami is eighty-four degrees.”

The jet reached its assigned altitude and leveled off. The ground had disappeared in a fluff of white clouds. Lyon reclined his seat and leaned back to order priorities. His exact plans on arriving in Miami were still vague, although he did have letters of introduction from Rocco and Pat Pasquale. Also, explicit instructions from Rocco not to make any overt move without help and lots of it.

“There's a guy with the Florida Task Force named MacKenzie,” the chief had said. “Gather all the info you want, but no moves without him—agreed?”

“Agreed.”

There'd been a call early that morning from Pat. In an attempt to locate the spools, whatever they were, his men had searched Darlene's apartment, the new condominium, and any known place that Nick Pasic had been since his arrival in Hartford. Nothing had been discovered.

Rocco was to contact the American Express Company and get a list of all the recent credit slips submitted under the name of F. Collins. From them they might be able to track Pasic's route from Miami to New York.

Kim and Raven were driving to Florida, and along the way would check with the two major bus companies to see if Pasic's trip north had been by that means of transportation. They would also check with terminal managers in an attempt to see if Pasic had utilized lockers as a hiding place for the elusive spools.

Bea plucked at his sleeve, and he turned to see her deeply frightened face. “Croatian terrorists,” she managed to mumble through stiff lips. “A couple of years ago they hijacked an airliner.”

Lyon thought about that a moment. “No, I don't think so.”

“YOU DON'T THINK SO! Here we're going to be blown to bits any moment, and you don't think so. Why don't they have parachutes on these things?”

“Really, Bea.”

“Pasic was from Yugoslavia, right?”

“Yes, but …”

“Those Croatians are fighting for independence and Croatia is part of Yugoslavia?”

“Yes …”

“And you're in deep.”

“Bea, stop it. Pasic was from Serbia. Serbia is not part of Croatia. Prior to World War I, the Balkan countries including Serbia, Bosnia, and …”

Her hand went over his. “No, Lyon. No history lectures. I'll take your word for it, but now I have to concentrate on keeping the engines running.” She clenched the armrests and closed her eyes.

The spools could be hidden anywhere. Perhaps they were miniaturized recording spools from a tape recorder. He had seen some that were hardly an inch in diameter. They could be buried, mailed, stuck in some niche. It seemed a nearly impossible task, but they had to be found for they held the answer to all that had happened.

Bea's eyes flicked open as the stewardess pushed the bar cart by their seat and leaned toward them. “I'll take a triple.”

“I'm sorry, Miss, but regu …” The stewardess looked at Bea's pale face and silently arranged the drop table and gave her two ice-filled cups and four small martini bottles. Bea drank the first two quickly, relaxed a bit, and sipped at the second double.

“That doesn't look like a Zen martini.”

“At this point in flight I'd drink vanilla extract if that's all they had. Speaking of Zen, things are getting heavy between Raven and Kim. Do you think they'll ever reach Florida?”

“They're only stopping at the major terminals: Washington, Richmond, Raleigh, and a few others. They ought to make it in three days. What do you think will happen between them?”

“I don't know. I worry about it.”

“Mixed marriages are more acceptable these days.”

“Not that. Marriage is still difficult under those circumstances, but Kim is tough enough to make it. I really can't put my finger on it, only that I somehow feel he's conned her.”

“He seems to be a nice enough person, although there is a touch of the con in him.”

“I don't want to see her hurt.”

“Kim is pessimistic about the campaign. How do you feel?”

Her eyes widened as she pursed her lips. “Campaign? What campaign? Am I running for something?”

“Last I heard, it was the United States House of Representatives.”

“Oh, that campaign. The one where ten days before the primary my campaign manager is taking a slow motor trip to Florida with her boyfriend while the candidate flies to Miami with her husband to bask in the sun. Why am I here, Wentworth? Tell me that.”

“I can't tell you how sorry I am about the time we're taking, but I have a strong feeling that before this is over I am going to need your help.”

“Doing what?”

“Locating the spools.”

“With the killer right behind us?”

“Probably.”

“Which is why he's stopped trying to kill you. So you can lead him to the spools.”

“As long as he doesn't have them, we're safe.”

“If he's found them, he'll want you dead.”

“Maybe.”

“In which case, blowing up an airplane in flight would be an excellent method.”

“It probably would,” he replied offhandedly and immediately realized he'd said the wrong thing.

“Oh, my God!” Bea blanched and fumbled in the rack for the small paper bag.

The Hungerford Corporation was in a modernistic building located in downtown Miami. A gleaming white structure, with windows glazed as protection from the sun, it reeked of plasticity.

The young woman behind the reception desk seemed carved from the same material as the building's edifice. She smiled without feeling, looked coy without animation, and reminded Lyon of dancers he'd sometimes observed at the end of their routine when sheer will retained their smiles.

“Mr. Sergei Norkov, please.”

She looked puzzled and then flipped through a wheel index. “Is he a new employee?”

“No, I would think he's been here for quite some time.”

“Mortgages, leasing, or equity financing?”

“Perhaps all three.”

“I'm sorry, sir. We have no one at Hungerford by that name. Perhaps you'd like to see one of our account executives?”

“Thank you.”

She pressed a small button on the desk and a low chime sounded in some distant room. Almost immediately a replica of the receptionist appeared and walked briskly to the side of the desk.

“Would you take this gentleman to Mr. Attkins, please?”

The replica smiled a duplicate smile at Lyon. “This way, please.”

The door from the reception area, activated by an electric eye, opened before them, and they entered a long hall lit by recessed spots built into the ceiling. Modern art of a subdued nature lined the hallway. With swishing skirt over cheerleader bottom and legs, she led the way past doors marked with such headings as Closing Room III. Around a corner the right wall turned to plate glass.

Lyon stopped before the long glass window to look into a computer room. Whirling disks on the machines seemed to turn at varying degrees of speed, and some reversed themselves to go first one way, then another. A printout spilled from another machine in long rolls of perforated lists. Two men in white lab coats moved silently around the cool, dehumidified room.

“This way, sir,” the voice said nearly in his ear.

The small plaque on the large desk stated that its occupant was John Attkins, senior vice-president. Attkins wore a beige, well-tailored three-piece suit and had manicured hands with a Harvard class ring. He shook hands, smiled a plastic smile, and motioned Lyon to a chair.

“If you'll state your problem briefly, Mr. Wentworth, I'll try and see how Hungerford can fit into your financial picture.”

“I have a small company in Connecticut. Perhaps you've heard of it, Lunch Breaks Unlimited?”

“No, I don't believe so. Is it listed?”

“I own one hundred percent of the stock. It's a food-vending service. We prepare sandwiches and meals that can be sold in a vending machine and heated in microwave ovens. Our clients are factories, schools, and office buildings.”

“Yes, I'm aware of that type of operation. What is your need?”

“I've landed a contract with a very large industrial account that will require expansion of my warehouse, food service, and delivery staff.”

“You have your own money-counting operation?”

“Yes. I have six Brandt coin-counting machines. We have daily armored car pickups. We're very careful.”

“How much money do you need for expansion?”

“A quarter of a million.”

“That could be arranged, under the right circumstances. You have certified financial statements and copies of your industrial contracts with you?”

“Yes, at the hotel. I didn't want to bring them unless you expressed an interest.”

“I think possibly our equity operation might be interested. What happens, Mr. Wentworth, is that, simply stated, we take an ownership position in a company.”

“I'm used to running my own shop.”

“We wouldn't have it otherwise. You've undoubtedly built a successful operation and will continue to do so. We'd take a stock participation at a good price. The only foot we'd have in your door would be a few accounting people on your staff, and of course control of the money-counting operation. You can understand the reasons for that. There's always the potential for slippage when you deal with uncounted loose coins and bills.”

“That's understandable. What's the next step?”

“If you'll bring your statements and contracts by here tomorrow at ten?”

“That would be fine. I assume that's when I can deal personally with Mr. Norkov?”

“Who?”

“Sergei Norkov. His name was suggested to me in Connecticut.”

“You must be mistaken. We have no one here by that name.”

“Pity. I had some information for him.”

“Mr. Wentworth, do you want to meet further or not?”

“Of course.”

Croft MacKenzie threw back his head with rolls of rocking laughter. “I love it!” he roared. “I just love it!”

“Do you think they'll be interested?”

“In the spools or your company? The answer to both is yes. Do you have financial statements to show them?”

“I borrowed them from a friend of mine who really does own the company.”

The office of the Florida Anti-Organized Crime Force was only eight blocks from the Hungerford Company, but it could have been on the other side of the world. Where thick carpeting covered Hungerford's floors, dirty marble led to small office cubicles in an old post office building. Directions were not provided by pert ex-swimmers from Coral Gables, but from a sour-smelling old man leaning on a mop near a bucket of dirty water.

Pat's letter of introduction was addressed to Croft MacKenzie, a bulky man one pound this side of obesity with a massive head covered in white hair and a roar and manner that Lyon knew were the veneer of the professional country boy, but that he would never take as a sign of naiveté.