True Lies (16 page)

“The warehouse will do.”

She brushed aside Bruce’s paper and spoke urgently. “And when I make the delivery—”

“We'll keep our end of the deal. Use the crates like before. And don’t be late.”

The connection was broken. Emma stood numbly unmoving until Bruce eased the buzzing receiver from her fingers and hung up the phone. He waited an instant before he dialed a number and quickly repeated the coordinates he’d written on the paper.

It was in motion, she thought. The criminals would get their drugs, she would get her brother and the cops would shut down the smuggling ring once Bruce was led to the people at the top. She could do this, she told herself as she took deep breaths to calm her pulse. By this time tomorrow the nightmare would be over.

* * *

The flight was a nightmare, like plunging blindfolded through a maze. Bruce sat in the cockpit beside Emma and marveled at her stony composure. There was no smile that revealed the dimple in her cheek, no joy on her face as she navigated the Cessna between the hills that were little more than deeper shadows in the blackness. She was the epitome of controlled efficiency, using her sparse instruments, her charts and her pocket calculator to keep them on course. At least the weather was still good. The quarter moon reflected weakly from the scattered lakes they passed, yet other than those ghostly swaths of paleness, the land beneath was an unbroken carpet of darkness.

“Where are we now?” Bruce asked, raising his voice over the noise of the wind and the churning engine.

“Quebec,” she answered tersely.

He hadn’t been aware of when they had passed over the border, which was no surprise. Out here the line between the two countries was nothing but a clear-cut strip through the trees. “How long until we reach the St. Lawrence?”

She paused to check her instruments and clicked a few numbers into her calculator. “Eight minutes. I'll head northeast along the shore until I reach the pickup spot.”

The location Harvey had given was among the scattered islands on the south shore of the river. It was a well thought out place, the islands serving as concealment as well as windbreaks. It would be risky to land the float plane unless the water surface was relatively calm. A gust of wind buffeted the nose of the Cessna and Bruce watched as Emma made an automatic adjustment to keep them on course. If anyone could do it, she could.

What an amazing woman. It was too bad that... No, he wouldn’t let his thoughts take that direction. He was here to do a job. They both were.

Bruce took a small flashlight from his pocket and twisted around to shine it at the back of the plane. Every square foot of space appeared to be packed solid, but there was a cramped gap behind the camping gear and the empty crates that would provide adequate concealment for him while the drugs were being loaded. It was a dangerous situation, but he’d been in worse. Emma would be staying in the plane, so he would be able to hear if she tried to alert anyone to his presence. He didn’t think she would, though. The deal she had insisted on was a good one for her, and she was too smart to risk screwing it up. She was more anxious than he was to make the final delivery.

He clicked off the flashlight and turned to study Emma’s profile. The dim glow of the instruments revealed no more than a suggestion of her delicate, fascinating features, but Bruce had committed them to memory days ago.

“I'll try to baby it,” she said as she dropped a wing to begin a long, slow turn. “But I don’t know how choppy the river will be. Stay strapped in until we're down.”

“Your concern is touching.”

“I don’t want to have to explain one slightly dented cop to the people who fill up those crates.”

“You know that if anything happens to me, our deal is off.”

“It’s going to be cramped for you back there under the tarp. It would have been simpler if you had let me do this alone.”

“And you know why that’s not possible.”

“Still don’t trust me, Bruce?”

“About as much as you trust me, Emma.”

A pale slash on the horizon stretched into a ribbon, then a sheet. In minutes they were heading northeast over the unrolling expanse of the St. Lawrence. The noise of the engine lowered as Emma dropped her airspeed and reduced her dangerously low altitude even further. Islands appeared beneath them, long dark humps sailing past on the dull glitter of the restless water. They were miles away from the regular shipping channel, so when Bruce spotted the lights from the freighter, he knew it was the ship they were looking for.

Emma circled, flashing her landing lights two times.

There was no response.

Bruce leaned toward the side window. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. We're on time. We're at the right coordinates. They should have responded.”

“Try again.”

The engine roared as she banked into a steep turn and made another pass over the ship. This time a powerful floodlight burst across the port side, illuminating a surprisingly flat strip of water. The oblong island that lay off the far side of the ship had effectively blocked the swells and the waves from the wide part of the river.

“Doesn’t look too bad,” Bruce said. “Do you think you can put us down all right?”

“I'll do it.” Emma clenched her jaw and circled one final time to line up for the landing. The lower she got, the more waves she could see on the water. They glittered on the edges of the floodlit path like moving runway lights. Even if the surface turned out to be calm enough to attempt a landing, she couldn’t see whether there were any obstacles. There could be a waterlogged piece of debris in her path that could catch a pontoon and flip her over. Or the wind patterns could change without warning. Or the poor lighting could cause her to misjudge her altitude and hit the river too fast.

She called on all of her experience and ignored her instruments, using her instincts and the sense of rapport she had with the Cessna to feel her way down. The airspeed dropped. Ripples on the water’s surface raced past in a blur of silver. The pontoons skimmed, then sliced, then settled firmly on the river as the plane lost its lift. Their forward motion slowed. Miraculously, they were down.

“I've had bumpier rides on dry tarmac at O'Hare,” Bruce said as he unbuckled his seat belt. “Very impressive, Emma.”

She exhaled sharply, blowing a strand of loose hair from her forehead. “Thanks.”

He grunted, as if regretting the compliment. “Keep the nose pointed away from the ship for a minute.” Nimbly he twisted out of his seat and worked his way toward the back of the plane.

Emma looked out the side window. A small launch was speeding across the water from the ship. “Better hurry,” she said. “They're not wasting any time.” She cut the engines and reached into the storage slot beside her seat to unsnap a large flashlight from its magnetic holder. She swung the beam around the cabin but there was no longer any trace of her passenger.

Something metallic clanked against the pontoon. Emma got to her feet and stooped over to open the door. Damp, cool air and a glaring light struck her full in the face. She lifted her hand to shade her eyes and could see the outline of the launch that had pulled alongside. The two men on board were little more than vague shapes against the spotlight that was clamped to the side.

“You Duprey?” The voice was rough, with a trace of an accent that elongated the vowels.

Emma nodded and braced herself as the wash from the boat’s wake rocked the plane.

The other man leaned over to hold them in place with a boat hook. Metal scraped again. “This is the plane, all right. Give her the stuff and let’s get out of here.”

“Keep us steady.” The first man picked up a square, paper-wrapped package and swung a leg over the side. He balanced on the pontoon and looked around the interior of the plane thoroughly before he handed the package to Emma.

McQuaig had told her what to expect, so she tried to keep the revulsion out of her expression as she fitted the package into one of the empty crates. She pushed it toward the back of the plane and returned to the doorway. The loading continued in silence. When half the crates were filled, the boat hook was withdrawn and the launch drifted away.

“Is that all?” Emma asked across the widening gap of water.

“You've got what McQuaig told us to give you,” the man with the rough voice replied. He clicked off the light on the side and spoke to his companion. “Let’s go.” The boat’s motor chugged to life, throwing a frothing wake against the plane.

Emma fastened the latch on the door and took a deep breath. It had all gone so quickly, so easily. She could hardly believe it was almost over. She felt her way into the pilot’s seat, strapped herself in, and started the engine. “I've got one minute before the ship turns off that floodlight,” she called. “I'm taking off now, whether you're in your seat or not.”

Bruce was already behind her. He squeezed her shoulder, then slipped into his seat and clicked his belt shut.

The illuminated path stretched in front of her, the surface of the water stirring menacingly. She couldn’t think about the risks. She had made it down, she would make it back up. She nosed the plane into position and opened the throttle, dropping the flaps to shorten her takeoff run. She had to compensate for the sharper angle by increasing her power, and the Cessna responded beautifully, climbing sharply into the vast blackness, soaring away from the launch and the dark bulk of the freighter as if it were as anxious to be away from this place as she was. When she reached her cruising altitude, she leveled off and eased back the throttle. Before long they left the St. Lawrence and were heading south once more.

It was several minutes before Bruce spoke. “That was smoother than I could have guessed.”

“You didn’t really believe that I would give you away, did you?”

“No. Whatever else you are, Emma, you're not stupid.” He clicked on his flashlight and twisted around. “The whole operation didn’t take more than eight minutes from the time you signaled the ship. Flying under radar, maintaining radio silence, hell, no wonder the coast guard hasn’t been able to catch them at it.”

“You sound as if it’s all a big game to you,” she said.

“It’s no game. It’s my job.”

“Right. Upholding the law, putting away the bad guys, that’s what you live for, isn’t it?”

“We're on the home stretch, Emma. Don’t start up now, okay?”

She glanced at the darkness beyond the windshield, watching for the patch of paleness that would indicate the first of the lakes she was using for landmarks. The moon was high in the sky now, providing more than adequate illumination. As long as the favorable winds held, the flight back would be far easier than the flight out. “I didn’t see any patrol boats near the freighter.”

“They're keeping their distance, but they're there. Units will already be setting up around the warehouse so no one slips away when we're ready to tighten the net.” He unfastened his seat belt and maneuvered his way out of the cockpit.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking our cargo.”

She glanced over her shoulder. He crouched beside one of the crates, the small flashlight held between his teeth. He took out one of the paper-wrapped packages and weighed it in his hand. A frown creased his face.

“What’s wrong?” she called.

He set the flashlight down and put his foot on it to keep it from rolling away. “Doesn’t feel the right weight for this size.”

“So?”

“This was a smaller load than usual, wasn’t it?”

“Smaller than last time.”

He shifted to another crate. One by one, he lifted the packages out and inspected them. “None of them feel right.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Instead of answering her directly, he pulled a knife from a buttoned pocket of his shirt and unfolded a stubby blade.

“Hey. I don’t want you tampering with that. I don’t want any trouble from McQuaig when I deliver it.”

“Don’t you want to know what you're delivering?”

She set her jaw and returned her gaze to the instruments, verifying that they were still on course. The homestretch, he had said. And that’s what it was. Once she took the cocaine to the warehouse—

“What the hell is going on?” Bruce said suddenly.

Emma looked over her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“You tell me.”

“What are you talking about?”

He picked up the package he had opened and worked his way toward her. “Look at this.” He braced one hand against the back of her seat and extended his other hand in front of her. “Is this what Harvey told you to pick up tonight?”

In the stark beam of his flashlight she saw that he had cut away the brown paper wrapping. Instead of smooth plastic underneath, there was more paper. While she watched, he inserted the tip of his knife into the opening and sliced through several more layers of nothing but newsprint. Why would they do this? Was this flight nothing but a test? Didn’t they believe that she would follow their orders for her brother’s sake?

“I know that you haven’t had a chance to tip them off since we left the warehouse. What’s going on, Emma?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I had a deal with them. I don’t understand why they would change their minds.”

He tossed the worthless package onto his vacant seat and moved back to inspect the others. Tense minutes passed as he checked the contents of each crate. Emma couldn’t take her attention away from the controls for more than a few seconds at a time, but whenever she glanced over her shoulder she could see the scowl on Bruce’s face deepen. Finally, though, he slit open a package that wiped all expression from his face.

Emma felt her stomach do a roller coaster glide downward. “What is it? What did you find?”

He sat back on his heels and slowly turned toward her. “Where are we now, Emma?”

She glanced out the window and saw a curving gleam between the dark hills. It was shaped like a bird’s foot. “About halfway home.”

“Can you land here?”

“On water I don’t know? Why?”

“What’s the closest place to put down?” he persisted.

“Why?”

He tilted his flashlight toward the package he had just opened. “It looks as if you weren’t the only one who wanted to terminate your business arrangement.”