The Ragnarok Conspiracy (30 page)

The private plane taxied from the runway. Cohen sat in the back, her hands no longer tied, her face and lips still raw from the removal of the duct tape. Two men had been assigned to her, meeting her captors at the airport in New York, loading her onto the private plane, and flying with her over the last five hours. They said nothing to her, and she kept to herself. Only her thoughts spoke, constantly, oscillating between panic and complete depression. She had never felt so helpless in her life. She had determined over the last few hours that she was being used against John and the FBI, that her life was in exchange for his stepping back in some way from the investigation. It was the only possible explanation for the fact that she was still alive. Her lease on life was good for as long as she was useful in this way.

She had to smile in spite of her circumstances.
We've rattled them.
She took some comfort in the thought that they had succeeded—to drive them to this. Of course, it had also driven them to murder—horrible murders of people she cared deeply for. That was something that destroyed any satisfaction, and an anger and hatred for these killers, like she had never known, began to boil within her. She had been horrified by the deaths around the world perpetrated by Mjolnir, but it had been far away, images on television, abstract in a way Matt, Larry, Manuel, and Mira were not. They were forces of personality, links in the web of her life. Now they were gone, the men responsible now holding her life in their hands.

The plane taxied to a stop, and the two men onboard stood, bending sharply from the low ceiling. They nodded to her. She understood and got up from her seat and walked to the front of the plane just as the
doors opened. She stepped down several short steps onto the tarmac. A moist and slightly cool breeze blew across her, and she squinted in the bright sunlight. The air smelled like a disorienting mixture of kerosene and jungle, and she wondered where on earth they had taken her.
Somewhere south, warmer, and wet.
As if reading her thoughts, a voice proclaimed the answer.

“Welcome to Mexico, Agent Cohen.”

She turned to her right, shielding her eyes from the sun. But she didn't need to see the well-dressed, lithe, and gray-topped form of the panther. She would never forget his voice, a voice full of intelligence, nuance, and ice.

William Gunn walked forward and motioned her toward a set of black town cars parked beside the airplane. He wore expensively crafted aviator sunglasses with mirrored lenses, the cold gray eyes hidden behind them. He acted friendly, almost charming.
Like a snake before the strike.

“Please, won't you step into the vehicle? We have only a short journey yet to go, but you must be tired from your trip.” The two men stood on either side of them. Of course the invitation was a farce. She knew she had no choice in the matter. She wondered why he even maintained this pretense.

A man she presumed to be the chauffeur held a car door open for her. She stepped forward and ducked into the backseat, sliding to the far end against the door. The interior was cream leather, detailed wood paneling trimming the sides. To her dismay, Gunn entered as well and sat beside her. The door was shut from the outside, and the driver got in and started the engine.

“We have prepared a place for you,” Gunn said over the sound of the car as it pulled away from the plane. “It is comfortable, unusually so, for this area.”

His words were like poison to her. She couldn't hold her tongue any longer, whatever the risk to herself. “Are you also in the business of interior decoration for prison cells? Seems a bit off your normal enterprise.”

Gunn sighed and took off his glasses, folding them into a leather case that he dropped into the inner pocket of his suit. He stared forward, his tone one of resigned sadness.

“Agent Cohen, there are always unpleasant situations in life. This is one of those. We have to do what we must because we believe in our cause. It is your misfortune that we needed this means to end the investigation of your department at the FBI, and to do that, we have had to neutralize several of its members. Your relationship with John Savas makes you a valuable asset to us in this regard.”

“You didn't
neutralize
anyone. You murdered good men and women who committed their lives to serve their nation and its people. You sit so self-righteously on your throne of power, but you are just another despot enforcing his will.”

Gunn turned slowly toward her, the gray eyes sharp as knives and digging into her soul. He smiled. “Your emotion does not disturb me, Agent Cohen. I don't expect you or anyone at the FBI to understand, or rather, to accept the logic and necessity of what we are trying to accomplish. I will not debate it with you. I have seen to your needs and will make your stay here as decent as I am able.” He looked forward again as the car was jostled by several bumps on the road. “I do not seek harm for harm's sake. I do not enjoy the deaths I have caused, Ms. Cohen. But I understand something you cannot. I understand that we are fighting for our very survival as a culture, as a people, as a history. Lives must be lost in this fight. As in any war.”

The car stopped, and the doors on both sides opened. More armed men waited outside. Gunn stepped out of the car, pressed his suit flat again, and leaned back in to speak.

“We will be calling Agent Savas soon to convince him that you are still alive. Please don't do anything stupid that will prevent us from proving that to him.”

With that, he turned and walked off. Cohen looked over to the men who stood outside the car waiting for her. She closed her eyes, trying to keep herself together. After a few seconds, she opened them and gripped the door handle to steady herself as she stood. The men
stood in front of a small aluminum shack. Around her were several warehouses and storage yards for equipment and parts, all associated with the airport. The sound of planes lifting off and landing could be heard from behind her. Several men were carting crates from place to place. She stared at them. In another context, they could be young soldiers on a tour of duty. One stared across at her, and she looked into his eyes. They almost seemed decent; one would never suspect that he was a man working to murder the innocent.

Cohen looked away and scanned the remainder of the area around her quickly. Barbed-wire fences encircled them. Between the razor blades and the weapons at the sides of the men around her, she knew that there would be no escape. With that thought, she walked forward to the shack that would be her own personal jailhouse.

For as long as I remain useful.

The Van Wyck Expressway was surprisingly empty at this time of night. Savas had made the journey more times than he could remember to John F. Kennedy Airport, but it had always been in daylight, when the Van Wyck was packed and slow. At one-thirty in the morning, it looked like some scene from an apocalyptic film, orange streetlights casting a ghastly hue over the road, the occasional red taillights of another vehicle staring back like demonic eyes waiting for them ahead. They veered right onto the roadway circling through the airport, heading quickly to the far right side to hit the exit they needed. Miller took the ramp, and the dark van pulled up to the JFK Cargo Facilities. The white “FBI” lettering was painted boldly on the blue of the vehicle and shone brightly in the security lights at the entrance gate. Miller drove with Savas riding shotgun, and in the back were Lightfoote and Rideout. A crazy day, becoming a crazier night, would soon get crazier still.

Savas had called in what was left of his team and brought them up to speed on the situation. They had devised a plan as insane as the world seemed to be at the moment. Lightfoote had found that the fastest way to get to Tampico was to hop aboard a cargo flight leaving at three in the morning. The next best path was taking a passenger plane in the morning to the Mexico City airport, then to the General Francisco Javier Mina International Airport near Tampico, or to throw in a third stop in Texas. None of these paths would get them to Rebecca before the evening of the next day. Besides, there would have to be a lot of explaining for all these agents and their firearms to make that journey openly. Calls were likely to be made to FBI headquarters. It could end before it began.

It was Miller who cut through to the simplest, if illegal, solution—stow away on the cargo flight. It was direct, from JFK to Tampico, leaving at 3 a.m. and arriving a little after eight in the morning. Jordan had left already and would likely be at the Tampico airfield around that time. They had agreed to meet up and figure out what to do when they got there.
Simple plan.

First, they had to get on the plane. Lightfoote and Rideout would lead an “inspection” of the cargo flight. Miller and Savas would stow away during this examination, and Lightfoote and Rideout would somehow convince the crew and guards that the other two FBI agents had already finished and returned to the van. The two would stay hidden in the cargo section for the duration of the flight, jump out secretly after landing, figure out where Rebecca was being held, rescue her, and stop Gunn and his plan.
A perfectly
simple
plan.

Lightfoote and Rideout would return to their office and sound the alarms. Around that time, the guards assigned to them might be waking up from their drug-induced sleep. Savas had hated slipping them loaded drinks, but except for one hell of a headache, and the wrath of their superiors, they would be fine. At that point, Lightfoote would “discover” an e-mail from Savas that let his FBI coworkers know what he was up to. He said nothing about Jordan. He figured it wasn't his place to nanny him for the CIA. By the time the FBI and the CIA had notified the military, and the president and his advisers had confirmed a course of action, they would have had their chance to end it themselves and rescue Rebecca. He just hoped to God they could pull it off.
You don't know what you're getting yourself into, Johnny-boy
, the voice in his head chided him.
Whatever it is, Rebecca's in it already
, he answered back. The voice shut up.

The van stopped at the gate, and a tired-looking guard walked up to them. He held a clipboard in his hand and sluggishly scanned the side of the van as he approached, then looked through sheets of paper on his clipboard.

“You figure he's looking under ‘F' for ‘FBI'?” quipped Rideout as Miller cast him a sharp look. Indeed, it did seem to them that this was
exactly what he was doing. Finally, a look of dawning understanding crept over his features, and he glanced up with a furrowed brow at Miller in the driver's seat.

“FBI?” the young man said, with no attempt to hide his confusion.

“That's right,” said the former marine in a tone Savas was sure would command even the most reluctant of soldiers. “These are Agents Savas, Rideout, and Lightfoote with me,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the back. He flipped open his badge case and continued speaking as the bewildered gate guard stared at the ID. “Son, we have some inside information that some of the terrorists who hit the city last month are transporting munitions using cargo carriers. We've traced them to the JFK terminals. We need to get inside and see your superiors immediately. We've got to stop these guys while we still can.”

The guard stood there thunderstruck. “Terrorists?”

“Clearly this is not something you're used to dealing with, son, but we need your most efficient cooperation on this. Please, take my badge back to your station and phone this in. Wake them up if they fell asleep. We need to get in and inspect these planes an hour ago!”

The man stepped back at Miller's tone but looked subdued. “Ah, OK, let me call this in. Hell, I'm not even sure who's on call right now.” He stumbled over to the small station. Within ten minutes, the van was rolling into the main section of the JFK cargo terminal.

Savas was amazed at what he saw. He knew JFK was big, but he had never seen a cargo-dedicated area of an airport before. Enormous warehouses extended one after the other, lit dimly by streetlights in the evening darkness. Aircraft after aircraft, narrow and wide-body, upper-deck and belly. Inspection sites and rows of eighteen-wheelers from long-haul trucking companies lined up to unload. In several places, as they sped by, were the refrigeration units for enormous climate-controlled and chilled facilities for shipping perishables. There was even a fairly good-sized animal shelter, clearly designed for animals far beyond house pets, facilities that could easily handle many large zoo animals.

At one of the main office complexes, a man was standing outside
waving them over. Miller pulled up the van. “OK, everyone, let's look professional. File out with me. There's strength in numbers. At least intimidation. Give him your most dour looks.”

Miller exited and strode confidently up to the man, and the rest followed. Savas and Rideout stood beside Miller, serious and silent. They tried to ignore Lightfoote, who glanced around the terminal in her space-cadet fashion.
We should have left her in the van
, he thought.

The man introduced himself. “Hey—I'm Robert Coon, night manager for the facility. Gerry called in. What the hell—you're FBI? This for real?”

Miller paused a moment, staring at the man, then looked back to the van and its bright-white ‘FBI' letters that stood out quite visibly in the light.

“Yes, sir, this is absolutely for real. I don't know what your guard at the gate told you, but we are on a high-priority mission. We have received information that the same terrorist group that has bombed this city twice and hit places all around the world is using
your
cargo terminal to ship its explosives across the country and to Mexico, planning new attacks in several major cities.”

“Holy shit!” gasped Coon.

“There's nothing holy about it,” said Miller. “We have word that one of these planes bound for Mexico tonight is loaded with such cargo. We need to get into that plane and search the cargo.”

The manager pulled out his clipboard and searched through it.
Do they all carry clipboards here?
thought Savas with impatience. The manager flipped through several pages and stopped. “Yeah, there's the flight to Tampico, Mexico, hangar 12A. Is that the one you're looking for?”

“The very one,” said Miller. “I can't impress upon you how important this is, Mr. Coon. We need immediate access to that plane. And we need your complete silence about the matter.”

The manager looked worried. “Sir, I don't know. You need to have a warrant or something, don't you?”

Savas looked impatiently at the man, like he was a poorly educated schoolchild. “Son, you've heard of the Patriot Act, haven't you?”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

“Do you know what it says?”

The man looked caught off guard. “I dunno—something about tapping phones to find terrorists and the like?”

“The Patriot Act is what gives law enforcement new powers to stop terrorists from attacking this country. Phone tapping is just one part of it. Section 3.4 of the act specifically states that federal agents can, upon immediate threat to the nation, perform search and seizure without warrant.”

“It says that?” the man asked.

“Yes, son, it does. It also states that interference with antiterrorist activities can be prosecuted as criminal aiding and abetting. I know that's nothing you would have to worry about, Mr. Coon, but it's important that no wrong impressions are given.”

The young manager looked positively terrified. He licked his lips and nodded. “No, sir, there's no reason to worry. I'll take you over to the plane myself.”

“Thank you, Mr. Coon. Your aid in this matter is greatly appreciated.”

The manager walked briskly ahead of them, and the FBI agents followed. Miller leaned forward and spoke in a whisper to Savas. “Section 3.4 of the Patriot Act, John?” Savas looked fleetingly over toward Miller. “Effective section, isn't it?”

They approached a wide-body aircraft. It had an image of an American and Mexican flag, crossed, with the words “TransMexico” emblazoned in fiery red underneath. Robert Coon stopped in front of the plane.

“This is it,” said the manager. “It was loaded half an hour ago, or should have been, anyway. It's scheduled to depart in an hour. If you look, the bay is open, and even the lift is still there. You just need to get up in there and you'll see all the cargo.”

Savas nodded. “We'll get right to it. We'll be done in half an hour or less, I'm sure. If it's clean, we won't hold things up, I promise.” He turned to the others. “All right, let's move in.”

One by one, they ascended the lift into the belly of the cargo plane. Inside were rows of stacked crates with hardly the width for a person to walk through. All were labeled in English and in Spanish, housing items from foods to equipment.

“He's not checking up on us,” said Miller, glancing back down.

“All right,” said Savas. “Let's find us a place to hide out. Once we're in place, the rest of you hang out a few more minutes, then head back down and try to convince the man that we've already left the aircraft.”

Rideout looked over at Savas. “And if he isn't buying it?”

“Well, we'll just have to play it on the fly.”

Twenty minutes later, Robert Coon walked back out toward the plane. He was uneasy about this whole thing. Patriot Act or not, he wasn't in the habit of letting people wander onto the planes at night, FBI, CIA, or NYPD. He had gone back into this office to look through the manuals, but he couldn't find anything to help him figure out what to do in this situation. However, he wasn't about to wake up Sammy for this. He'd tell him in the morning.
I'd better not get into any trouble.

As he approached the plane, he saw two of the agents, the girl and the thin one, walking back from the aircraft. The man waved him down.

“Mr. Coon,” said Rideout, “we've finished our search, and I'm happy to report that there are no items out of the ordinary that we can identify. It looks like our lead was wrong. I want to thank you for your help in this investigation. It's a dangerous world now, and we've all got to work together to protect our nation.” He extended his hand toward the man.

The manager nodded, shaking hands with the FBI man. “OK, no problem. I do what I can. So, where are the other agents?”

Rideout gestured toward the van. “They already headed back. Now, Mr. Coon, I just need a little information from you before we leave, for our investigation. Agent Lightfoote, would you join the others in the van and wait for me?”

Lightfoote smiled and nodded, and practically
skipped
back to the van. Rideout wanted to scream but turned the attention of the manager quickly away from Lightfoote.

“Mr. Coon?” he began, removing a notepad. “Let's start with your full name, OK?” The two walked toward the office door. Rideout glanced briefly back toward the plane.

Fifteen minutes later, Rideout opened the door to the van. Lightfoote was in the front passenger side. He closed the door and exhaled.

“I don't know how, but we did it. Hopefully, John and Frank will go undiscovered until they land in Mexico. Meanwhile, you and I need to head straight back and sound the alarms. If you think this was a hard act, convincing the FBI and the CIA and who knows who else that we weren't involved with this is going to be a wake-up call.”

Lightfoote smiled and reached over and squeezed his arm. “Oh, I don't worry, J. P. This was easy.”

“Easy?” he said, staring at her incredulously.
Sure
, he thought.
Skipping easy.

At 3:15 a.m., a wide-bodied cargo airliner, owned by TransMexico, lifted off the runway at JFK Airport. Inside, it carried an assortment of perishables, canned goods, liquor, farm equipment, and two stowaway FBI agents headed to confront the terrorist organization Mjolnir.