War Lord (13 page)

‘H
ey, Cooper, how you doin’, pal?’ said Bozey, glancing up from his blotter.

‘What kept you?’ Petinski had her back to the window. Her voice sounded tense, the tone clipped. She checked her wristwatch and glanced at Bozey, some kind of signal.

He gave her a nod and said, ‘Well, I gotta step out for a few minutes, go fight some crime. Make yourselves at home.’

‘Great, where’s the fridge?’ I asked him.

The detective grinned and pointed at me, then closed the door behind him.

‘Okay, Petinski,’ I said. ‘What’s up?’

Her tiny frame was silhouetted against the sunshine streaming through the window, and behind her I could see the sprawl of McCarran International. Directly adjacent to the police department building, on the other side of a high fence topped with stainless-steel razor wire, was the area designated for helicopters where a large corporate gnat hovered blowing the beige-colored desert dust off the taxiway. If I squinted, a quarter mile or so beyond it I could spy the executive jet ramp area and the hangar used by Nevada Aircraft Brokers.

‘There are a lot of people working on the King Air crash,’ she said.

‘So far, Petinski, all I’ve seen is an army of one – you, always one step ahead of the vast resources of the NTSB supposedly rushing in to fill the vacuum behind you.’

The investigator walked around Bozey’s desk and sat in one of the chairs reserved for visitors. ‘That’s a fair call,’ she said. ‘You’re going to have to trust me.’

‘Lucky for you I’m the trusting type, as my personality type indicators will tell you.’

She failed to catch the ironic tone and instead jumped straight to saying, ‘We’ve made progress. Sweetwater’s place at the King Air’s controls was switched with a stand-in at LAX. We think the switch was made voluntarily by Sweetwater and no coercion was involved.’

‘You told me most of that already,’ I reminded her. ‘Only now you’ve got proof, right?’

‘I’ll get to that,’ Petinski replied. ‘Preliminary results are in on the investigation of the crash.’

‘That was fast,’ I said. According to my Seiko, our boots had been back on home soil barely ten hours.

‘We’re in a hurry.’

‘Why are we in a hurry? And who is
we
, exactly?’

Petinski ignored the questions and that told me plenty right there. She pulled out an iPad and touched it up until she found what she wanted. ‘These are the photos of the King Air’s fuel gauges I took at the scene.’ She handed me the device. ‘This particular aircraft was fitted with the latest glass cockpit. It was equipped with both digital
and
the older-style analog gauges.’

‘That so unusual? If I was flying solo across the Pacific in a slow mover, I’d want backup,’ I said.

‘Take a good look at the gauge.’

The photo was of an analog fuel gauge, glass face cracked and the needle stuck at about half full. Several photos to the left and right of this image showed other instruments, all of which displayed critical damage. I returned to the fuel gauge question. ‘And then . . . ?’ I said. Whatever the point was, I was missing it.

‘There was no fuel in the tanks. Nothing. Not a drop. The pilot ditched on fumes, but that’s not what the instrument says.’

‘What was the digital instrument reading?’

‘We don’t know. There was no flight data recorder, and the fuel system’s processing units were also destroyed in the crash, so we can’t reconstruct with any certainty the information the pilot was getting. There’s speculation, though, that the digital instrument might have been rigged to fail, so that all the pilot had to go on fuel-wise was the analog instrument you see there.’

‘So you think the pilot believed he had plenty of gas up his sleeve when there was actually nothing left?’ I said.

‘Yes.’

I knew where Petinski was going with this – sabotage. But I wasn’t seeing it, not yet. Fuel starvation through poor fuel load calculation was a common killer in civil aviation. Some people just forget to fill ’er up. ‘And then . . . ?’ I said.

‘If you remember, Carol gave us a copy of the flight plan, which also included the fuel planning log, weather en route and so forth.’

I remembered.

‘Moresby to Darwin was one of the shorter legs. And each leg required different combinations of fuel tanks to be filled to allow for the best flight characteristics. According to the fuel planning, the pilot should have had enough to reach Darwin with plenty in reserve. The fuel gauges were doctored to overread.’

‘Who’s we, again?’ I asked.

‘I said I’ll get to that. We’ve modeled the fuel calculations with the aircraft’s actual fuel burn recorded in the pilot’s log, compared the performance achieved with the forecast weather conditions factored in, and then compared the outcomes with the actual weather conditions experienced.’

‘You’re losing me.’

‘Too many three-syllable words?’

‘I think you
want
me to get lost.’

‘We reach an understanding at last, Cooper,’ she said. ‘The modeling tells us that, based on the forecast weather conditions, and with the actual fuel load in the King Air’s tanks, it should’ve ditched at least two hundred miles
off
the coast of Australia. However, there was an unforecast tailwind of a hundred and ten miles per hour. It took the plane farther than expected – over dry land.’

‘If it had ditched at sea, it never would’ve been found,’ I said, some of the tumblers lining up for me. ‘He’d be pronounced missing, presumed dead. Except that he’s not, is he?’

‘No. At least, we hope not.’

There was that
we
again. ‘You going to tell me what’s really going on here, Petinski – if that’s what your real name is?’

‘Stu Forrest, the NAB guy who took off in a hurry to Acapulco, did the fuel planning for the flight. He hasn’t landed in Tucson, by the way. And, as you know, he can cross the Mexican border any number of places and evade detection.’

‘Who exactly do you work for again?’ I asked her.

‘Maybe now might be the opportune time to bring your supervisor in on the conversation.’ Petinski leaned across Bozey’s desk and spun the computer monitor around one-eighty degrees. Arlen’s face was on the screen.

‘Hey, Vin,’ he said. ‘How do?’

‘Colonel Wayne,’ I replied, keeping it official. ‘How long you been online, sir?’

‘Just got here and Arlen will do fine, Vin. We’re among friends.’

He could have fooled me. ‘I thought you were in St Barts.’

‘I was,’ he said, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘And I’d like to go back there once we’re done here.’

‘You got recalled because of this?’

‘Because of what I’m about to tell you, yes.’

‘Sounds serious. That was a hell of a nice bikini you left behind.’

‘Tell me about it.’

Petinski sucked in a breath that sounded like, ‘Can we please get the hell on with it?’

Arlen got the hint and cleared his throat. ‘Vin, I’ve only just been brought in on this myself, so don’t blame me for you being kept in the dark.’

‘No promises,’ I said.

‘Off you go, Kim,’ Arlen told her.

‘My name
is
Kim Petinski but I’m not NTSB, though I was formerly with that organization. These days I’m with DCIS.’

The Defense Criminal Investigative Service. ‘You’re a spook.’

‘Randy was my partner. He was working undercover at Nevada Aircraft Brokers. The Drug Enforcement Administration, under the Proceeds of Crime Act—’

‘Sweetwater was also a spook?’

‘DCIS,’ said Petinski. ‘Same as me.’

‘So the discharge from the Air Force, the court martial, the plea bargain – that was part of his cover story?’

‘What do you think?’

‘What does Alabama know?’

‘Nothing. As I was saying, the—’

‘What am I doing here?’ I asked.

‘Can you let me finish?’ said Petinski, the tiniest vertical stress line between her eyes.

I stretched my legs out in front of me and settled in for the long haul.

‘As I was saying, Randy, my partner, was working undercover at NAB. The Drug Enforcement Administration, under the Proceeds of Crime Act, has impounded three out of nine aircraft sold by NAB over the last twelve months. Its biggest customer – through several dummy companies – happens to be a Brazilian crime baron wanted by the FBI, CIA, Interpol and half a dozen other organizations and governments for drug smuggling and illegal arms trading. Things got extra complicated when Randy somehow managed to infiltrate this crime boss’s inner circle. From what we can piece together, we believe his cover was about to be blown unless he could be two places at once – create some internal confusion by flying that plane to Australia while also hanging out with this crime boss in Rio.’

‘You lost track of your own partner. Is that what’s going on here?’ I said.

‘Yes. Things were getting complicated.’ She stood up and went to the window.

‘DCIS couldn’t run an egg and spoon race.’

‘Don’t confuse us with CIA.’

‘I’m not – CIA hasn’t learned how to tie its shoelaces, so it wouldn’t even make the starting line.’

‘Just like the OSI.’

‘Oh, we can tie ’em just fine, or we could if our hands weren’t tied behind our backs by agencies like yours.’

‘Children – please,’ said Arlen, interjecting. ‘Vin, as of now, you’re off vacation. You’re working with Special Investigator Petinski as her partner.’

‘Oh, c’mon . . .’

‘It’s been cleared all the way to the top.’

‘Meaning Wynngate?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does the general know I’m an ESFJ – an extroverted, sensing, feeling, judgmental kinda guy? I mean, I’d have to know what Petinski is before I’m comfortable with it, going forward.’

‘Vin, we both know you’ve got no say in this. And as for your Myers-Briggs profile, you ticked box A for every single question, so who knows what you are,’ said Arlen.

‘I’ve got a pretty good idea,’ said Petinski.

‘See,’ Arlen concluded, ‘Ms Petinski has figured you out all on her own. It’s a perfect match.’

‘I’m an ES
T
J,’ said Petinski. ‘The T makes all the difference. He’s oil, I’m water.’

‘I get the picture,’ said Arlen. ‘Nevertheless . . .’

‘Who was flying the plane?’ I asked her. ‘Who’d they cut out of those sharks?’

‘One of ours,’ said Petinski. ‘Low level. A Brazilian native – an enabler with our South American desk.’

‘And you didn’t know that when you were in Australia?’ I said.

‘If I did, I wouldn’t have needed to go there, would I?’

From memory, Petinski had been far from comfortable around the human morsels reclaimed from the Aussie wildlife. Now I understood why – she had a personal connection to them, believing the remains really could have been her partner. The discovery of Sweetwater’s personal effects would have hardened up the identification of those remains, so the coroner’s conclusion at the end of our stay about them
not
being Randy’s must have taken her emotions on a rollercoaster ride.

Okay, so I found myself having some sympathy for Petinski’s situation, but not enough to go quietly into partnership with her. ‘The pilot was one of yours, but you didn’t know it? Are you
sure
you’re not CIA?’

Petinski flared. ‘Sometimes when you’re deep undercover, Cooper, you can’t just pick up the phone. And I think you know what it’s like to lose a partner, right?’

Raw heat bloomed in my face.

‘Whoa, let’s just back it off a notch or two,’ Arlen said, and no one spoke for a few seconds.

‘So, Vin,’ he said quietly when he felt things had cooled a little, ‘the name of this crime boss in Rio de Janeiro, one of the guys we want a piece of, is Falco White. His brother is one Charles White, the arms dealer you came up against in the Congo. You remember him?’

The name penetrated my anger. Charles White – big, black and dangerous – delivered US-made weapons and ammunition to all comers in the Congo, regardless of which side they were on, who then used them to kill and maim each other. Working with a few Special Forces soldiers, we’d managed to relieve White of enough arms to take on a company-sized force, freeing hostages being held for ransom. That was, in fact, my last case, the one that had ended with me up on a charge for assault with intent to cause grievous bodily harm. White had slipped through my fingers in the Congo, flying off in a chopper a few hours before the attack on the turds holding our hostages had been launched. I figured I had a score to settle with the guy. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘He’s a hard guy to forget.’

‘The White brothers are working with an even bigger fish, a man by the name of Benicio von Weiss,’ said Petinski.

‘Never heard of him,’ I said.

Petinski played with her iPad and handed it to me again. ‘He’s not exactly a public figure.’

I scrolled through half a dozen pictures of a man of around thirty-five to forty years of age, all pastel sweaters tied around his shoulders and boats and blond hair. ‘What’s this guy selling, besides poor color choices?’ I asked.

‘Among other things, the American weapons you found in Afghanistan and Africa – the ones with and without their numbers filed off,’ said Arlen.

‘This guy was responsible for them?’

‘White’s middle management. Von Weiss is your man,’ Arlen confirmed.

‘Vast caches of everything from M26 hand grenades and mortars to M16s and laser targeting systems are flooding the market,’ added Petinski. ‘We believe Benicio von Weiss is the guy masterminding the operation. He uses Falco and Charles White as intermediaries. Von Weiss is an arms dealer and one of the world’s wealthiest men – certainly one of the top three wealthiest men in Brazil. He even runs the favela in Rio responsible for a big slice of the city’s weapons and drug trade.’

‘Favela – sounds like something you dip in guacamole,’ I said.

I distinctly heard Petinski tsk. ‘A favela is a slum.’

Arlen glanced at the investigator. ‘Vin, you fell into this operation because of Anna’s friendship with Randy,’ he said. ‘The Department of Defense took OSI off the case, but you’ve put us back in the game.’

‘What game?’ I asked.

‘An organized crime ring operating within US bases is stealing arms for von Weiss and causing a lot of worldwide mayhem. We’ve got weapons in inventory that terrorists would love to get their hands on: Barrett rifles, Stingers – standoff weapons capable of bringing down aircraft.’