3
ELYSIAN PARK
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
Special Agent Thomas Banks watched from an FBI van parked across the street. The house, obviously built pre–World War II, was one of those large four-bedroom monstrosities with a waist-high wraparound porch that was supported by wooden columns placed on a stone foundation. The ancient screens covering the windows were darkened from too many summers and not enough cleaning. The houses around the suspect house were lighted and visibly occupied by families who still clung to the illusion that Elysian Park was a safe neighborhood; an illusion that should have vanished in the area’s heyday just after the Korean War.
Banks and his three-man observation team had been called in to observe and assist the Los Angeles police department with the arrest of Juan Caesar Chavez, a man currently under suspicion for a little-known crime he may or may not have committed at the Denver Museum of Natural History six months before. A partial fingerprint was found on a door frame leading out of the area where the display for The Gold Rush, was being exhibited—old maps, letters and implements used in the early days of the Alaskan rush for riches. Although a small theft in stature, the works taken were valuable to collectors around the world for their historical significance. The police agencies of Denver and Los Angeles knew Juan Caesar Chavez to be adept at theft, and in the past had targeted well-respected collections far outside of his stature, and that meant the FBI and other authorities suspected he was well financed by another party. Chavez had a small group of burglars and second-story men on his payroll, and as a leading suspect in the case, was about to receive a big surprise.
Special Agent Banks watched as the SWAT team made their way around the house, covering every exit. He adjusted his binoculars and saw that the upper-floor team was already in position. He raised the cell phone to his ear.
“Who do I have on the line?” he asked.
“Agent Banks, you have the FBI director and assistant director of Intelligence, CIA—Nancy Grogan. Go ahead,” said his dispatch located in the federal building in downtown Los Angeles.
Jesus, Banks thought, why was Chavez important enough to have some of the top echelons of intelligence and law enforcement as audio witnesses?
“Director, Banks here, the SWAT team is just about to move, any last instructions?”
“Special Agent Banks, as soon as the arrest is complete, you are to take charge of the suspect and escort him to the federal building. Once there, a team of our colleagues from Langley will handle the interrogation. An American intelligence officer’s life is at stake in all of this, and time is the important factor here. The suspect may have to be handed over to another party outside of law enforcement. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir, my men are standing by to take charge of the suspect as soon as the arrest is made.” Banks held the binoculars to his eyes once more as he saw movement. “The assault element is moving in now, sir . . . hold on.”
Outside the small windowed van, several flash-bang grenades broke through windows and then exploded, as simultaneously, using ropes, the upper-story unit swung into the upstairs rooms. At the same time, two six-man teams entered through the front and back doors. Lights shone throughout the interior of the house as the SWAT team made their sweep. Banks gripped the binoculars tighter as he waited, satisfied at not hearing any shots. He never liked using local police agencies, but the FBI HRT team was not available for another two hours, and someone in Washington wanted this bad guy very badly; enough so that the directors of two agencies called in favors from the LAPD.
Suddenly it was over. The lights inside the house started coming on and Banks could see the silhouettes of several of the black-clad SWAT members mulling about. Then, as he watched closely, a small man in Levis and a white T-shirt was led out in cuffs. The FBI agent could see that the SWAT team was taking no chances with this man as he was cuffed both at his wrists, behind his back, and his ankles. He was being carried out of the house with a black hood over his head. Banks smiled, This poor bastard didn’t know what had hit him.
He laid his glasses down and then raised a small microphone. “Okay, B-team, move in and take custody of the suspect, make sure you Miranda the poor bastard, don’t leave it to the LAPD.” There were two clicks in answer to Banks’s call.
Again, Agent Banks raised the cell phone. “Sir, the suspect is in custody and we are now in the process of concluding the arrest.”
“Good. Now, Assistant Director Grogan, CIA, has requested that you have the LAPD SWAT unit accompany you to the federal building. We will not take any chances with the suspect; they need answers from him and time is a factor. Is that clear, Banks?”
“Crystal, Director.”
Ten minutes later, the chain of custody was transferred to the FBI from the LAPD. Chavez, although shaken, was defiant and angry at what he was being put through, and was totally confused as to why he was under FBI arrest.
As the SWAT unit stood down, they climbed into two large black vans. One would be placed in front of, and the other in the rear of, the white FBI van. As the teams loaded, Agent Banks looked over the suspect being held between two of his agents. He nodded for a third agent to do as he was instructed earlier. Chavez looked relieved when the ankle restraints were removed.
“That, Mr. Chavez, is a courtesy. I expect cooperation from you. If you behave, my agents will reciprocate. Is that clear?”
“Hey look, man, I don’t deserve any treatment at all. You have the wrong guy. I buy and sell needed goods on the open market.”
“Mr. Chavez, please, save it for your defense attorney. We have some questions that need to be answered, so I suggest you cooperate, and maybe these small charges might disappear.”
With that small announcement, Chavez allowed the two agents holding him to escort him to the van. He had seen the light as the ambiguous offer had been extended; he wasn’t dumb, and as a career criminal, he knew when it was time to be a model citizen. The rear doors of the van opened and he stepped inside with his special agent bodyguard beside him.
Agent Banks radioed that they were ready to move as he climbed into the passenger seat of the van, the small convoy moved out of Elysian Park heading for downtown L.A.
As the three vans pulled out and the smaller units of the LAPD started wrapping up the area, no one really noticed the small helicopter as it buzzed past the scene. They assumed it was an LAPD air unit.
That opinion would soon change.
The plan of egress from the arrest site was for the convoy of SWAT vans and the lone FBI unit to make their way down Solano Avenue, and from there make the connection to Highway 110, and then finally to Interstate 5.
As they pulled to a stop at the light, the crowd noise from Dodger Stadium erupted above them in Chavez Ravine. The lights of the beautiful stadium lit the roadway ahead of them.
“Any relation?” the larger of the two FBI field agents asked the handcuffed man beside him.
“Huh?” Chavez asked.
“You know, Chavez Ravine, where the Dodgers play, any relation to you?”
“Man, what are you talking about?”
“Alright, knock it off,” Agent Banks said from the front of the van.
The agent smirked as he turned away from the prisoner.
At that moment, several things happened at once. The leading SWAT van to the front started moving forward from the now green light on Solano Avenue; at the same time as the white FBI vehicle started to follow, a streak of blazing white light shot through the air just past the large windshield of following agents. The rocket-propelled grenade struck the rear doors of the leading black van, exploding its sides outward. Banks flinched in shock as SWAT team members were blown through the front windshield of their transport.
Before anyone could react, another RPG flew straight and true into the now exposed interior of the lead vehicle, exploding and bulging the sides even further outward and crumpling the disabled unit until it no longer looked like a van at all. Flames then exploded out and up as the horrible sound finally penetrated Banks’s eardrums. He tried to lift his handheld radio but stopped when another explosion from the rear threw him forward in his seat. He would have been thrown through the windshield if it hadn’t been for his seatbelt. Although he was saved, he had the breath knocked out of him. So he started slapping at the driver to throw the van into reverse. The flames billowing from the SWAT van behind them were framed in the driver’s side mirrors. Men could be seen jumping out, and as they did, they were being struck by small arms fire from the yards around them. All around them, families who’d been out in their front yards enjoying a warm summer evening started to run in a panic—a very small and deadly war had just erupted right in front of them.
“Move, move, move!” one of the agents said from the back as he reached out and threw the prisoner Chavez to the floor of the van.
Just before the driver threw the van in reverse, a SWAT sergeant from the trailing van pounded on the rear window, pleading to be let in; just as the other agent reached out to open the door it was rattled by several bullets. As he recoiled, he saw the SWAT sergeant’s head fly forward until it struck the window with a loud thump, breaking the safety glass. As the shocked FBI agents watched, the LAPD officer slowly slid away from the window.
“Go, goddamn it, they’re killing everyone!” screamed the agent as loud as he could, his foot placed firmly onto Chavez’s back.
The van finally started moving backward, screeching the tires and burning rubber. There were several sickening bumps as they made their way in reverse back up toward the stadium.
“All units, all units,” Banks screamed into the handheld radio, “we have officers down, Elysian Park, Solano Avenue, we’re taking heavy gunfire from an unknown number of assailants and are moving toward the stadium! We need air support and backup now!”
Banks didn’t wait for the dispatcher to respond, he pulled his nine-millimeter handgun free of his shoulder holster as the van traveled in reverse. He saw the burning SWAT unit slide by and noticed belatedly that several of the SWAT team had gotten free of the flaming wreckage and were in the process of firing into the night at unseen targets that were keeping them pinned down. As he started to turn toward the back, checking on the safety of their prisoner, one of the rear tires of the van exploded, sending the vehicle sliding into several cars parked along Solano Avenue. The van spun and then stalled. Before Banks could do anything, fifteen small-caliber rounds slammed into the windshield, shattering it and striking the driver and himself. As the two bodies jumped from the impact of the rounds, a small detonation knocked the others into a daze. The rear doors were snatched open and before the two agents in the back realized what was happening, three men were inside.
“This one,” one of the attackers said pointing to Chavez. At the same moment, he raised his handgun and the masked man quickly fired into the stunned agents—two bullets apiece.
When Chavez was taken out of the van, he was bleeding from a cut on his forehead and had a steady flow of blood coming from his ears. He tried to scream, but nothing came out of his mouth, or if it did, there was so much noise even he couldn’t hear it. As fifteen men surrounded the van, a small Bell helicopter suddenly appeared out of the darkness, its black paint reflecting the burning vehicles on the street. It flared seconds before touching the roadway, the twin skids clanking loudly on the warm macadam. Chavez was taken to, and then thrown into, the helicopter. As the small Bell lifted free of Solano Avenue, sirens were heard approaching from Dodger Stadium above and then from below in Elysian Park.
As stunned neighbors watched, the fifteen-man assault team calmly returned to six cars. They then removed their black hoods once inside. They slowly drove away, past the three bullet-riddled and burning vans.
In all, the assault and kidnap of the thief known as Juan Caesar Chavez, took no more than two minutes and eleven seconds. The Russians had proven they were still among the most efficient killers in history.
UPLAND, CALIFORNIA
After the short, hedgehopping flight from Los Angeles, the helicopter had set down just inside the small baseball stadium at Upland High School. The transfer of Chavez to a waiting vehicle outside the ballpark was made quickly and efficiently by men who had worked for Sagli and Deonovich for nearly twenty years. The rest of the assault element split into three groups, one remaining with Chavez, one heading north to Vancouver, and the last heading back to Virginia. Chavez was taken to a safe house on Mountain Avenue.
Chavez was blindfolded and led to a room at the back of the large five-bedroom house. As California basements weren’t much the trend, the large master suite would have to do. The windows had been sealed with aluminum foil and the house sat far enough back from the road as to be virtually soundproof through distance. They had the whole San Gabriel Mountains as a sound break from any screaming that may come from the house.
The thief was put in a large chair and his blindfold was removed. One of his Russian captors, a small man with beady little eyes and a well-manicured beard stepped forward as Chavez blinked in the bright lights being shone upon his shaking body. The Russian removed the handcuffs and then smiled at the even smaller Chavez. He then patted him on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry, my friend; a few answers for my employer and you will soon be set free.”
Chavez didn’t relax one bit at the reassurance. Even though no names had been exchanged, he knew who it was that was holding him. Sagli and Deonovich were widely known in criminal circles for their ability to find and acquire matchless antiquity and were also known to have the steely nerves to go after whole collections at a time. Jewels, icons, paintings, sculpture—the two Russian mobsters had taken them all, sometimes quietly, sometimes the hard way. They were especially good at the hard way as his former employer had warned him on many occasions and as he’d just witnessed.
The bedroom door opened and a large man with severely short cropped hair stepped inside the room. Through the glaring lights, Chavez saw that he was eating a hamburger. The wrapper held snug around the buns, he stepped up to his prisoner, taking a bite of the large burger. The man wore a black T-shirt under a black sport coat. In all aspects, he looked like any other Southern California business man, except for the eyes. The large brown eyes held not one ounce of humanity as he took in the sight of Chavez sitting before him. He took one last bite of the yellow-wrapped hamburger and then handed it to the man who had spoken a moment before. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and slowly wiped his mouth.
“Dispose of this garbage,” he said as he was relieved of his burden. He looked down and then leaned into the face of Chavez. “You Americans, no wonder you are becoming a fat country, a man cannot find a decent meal in all of Los Angeles.” He smiled. “Fast food is a fast death in my opinion.”
As Chavez swallowed, he saw the man straighten and then he held out his hand. Something was in his outstretched fingers and then before Chavez knew what was happening, a searing pain raked across his right cheek. He screamed out, more because of the pressure and fast motion than the pain, which was slow in coming. However, it did come and along with that pain was a steady flow of blood.
“That was to get your attention,” the man said in passable English as he stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Right now, the scar that I have left you could be well taken as a dueling scar across your cheek, my friend; at one point in European history that was known as a badge of honor. If you answer my inquiries, you can skip through your life telling your friends that you received your scar in battle with evil men. Answer me not, and the local county coroner will have a most difficult time sewing you back together so those same friends can view your remains at your funeral.”
Chavez opened his eyes against the pain in his cheek. Knowing his skin had been laid open to the bone, he tried desperately to focus on the man standing in front of him with the open straight razor, which now gleamed in the bright lights.
“My name is Gregori Deonovich. My partner and I are in search of something that is in your possession. I speak of the Petrov Diary, or the portions of it that has survived history that is. We understand that it was you who pulled off the robbery at the Denver Museum of Natural History, am I correct?”
“I don’t have the diary, it was—”
The flash of the straight razor advertized the split-second warning that Chavez had answered the question the wrong way. The blade struck him just above the right eyebrow, slicing through the thick skin until the razor actually cut into bone. Chavez screamed and grabbed for his face.
Deonovich stepped back and holding out the razor, he flicked twice to get the dripping blood off of it, and then he nodded his head to the right. The smaller man stepped forward and wiped Juan’s face, then he made the thief take the small towel and hold it against the two wounds.
“The cost of failure is high; the next time it will be your throat, comrade.”
As Chavez pressed the towel to staunch the flow of his blood, he knew he had to answer with the right words.
“The diary was given to the man who set up the theft—a man who paid me and my men for it and a few of the other items.”
“The name of your employer?” Deonovich asked as he stepped forward, his face set in a mask of anger.
“At the time he was using the name Ellison, but a few years back he used an alias of Tomlinson; before that another name.”
“You are not being very forthcoming,” Deonovich said as he raised his right hand to strike Chavez again.
“Quickly,” the Russian said, becoming angrier by the second.
“Listen, my employer, the man who originally wanted the journal, he went missing. He never showed up to give us the payment he owed us . . . so . . . so I burned the journal.”
Deonovich wanted to laugh out loud. “You want me to believe you went through all of that trouble to steal this item from a secure museum, and then knowing this journal may lead to a vast treasure, you destroyed it out of anger for not getting paid for the job?”
“How in the hell did I know what the journal said, it was written in Russian.”
“Then the journal is destroyed?”
“Yes, so you may as well let me go,” Chavez whimpered.
“Yes, we may as well,” Deonovich said as he nodded for the small man standing behind Chavez to finish up.
Chavez never really saw the shadow as it fell over him. The next sensation was of cold steel as it sank deep into his throat from behind. The razor severed his airway and his jugular vein in a practiced move perfected in the highlands of Afghanistan many years before.
Deonovich nodded as Chavez fell from the chair. As he lay on the floor, he continued to hold the towel to his face even as he wondered why he was no longer able to move. The large Russian stepped away from the quickly spreading pool of blood and removed the cell phone from his jacket; at the same time he held out his free hand and snapped his fingers. The smaller assassin understood and handed him the cheeseburger he had been given minutes before.
Deonovich took a bite of the burger and waited for the phone to ring on the other side of the country.
“Our friend Mr. Chavez turned out to be most helpful. It seems he was working for an outside contractor when he stole the journal from the Denver Museum. When this mysterious employer never showed to pay Chavez and his crew for the heist, the idiot burned it,” Deonovich said with a laugh, almost choking on the cheeseburger. He looked at his right hand and then tossed the greasy burger onto the finally still corpse of the Mexican thief.
“Yes,” the Russian said into the phone. “It turns out we wasted a lot of time and killed a few police officers just to confirm the man didn’t have what we thought he did. Well, we live and we learn. At least we have closed that end of the loop; now no one besides ourselves can find the area we are seeking. You will pass this along to our associate. Thank you, Dmitri, I’ll be back in a few hours.”
Deonovich closed his cell phone and then looked at the corpse of Chavez.
“At least no one can follow us using what you have stolen,” he snickered and then turned for the door. “Diamonds and gold—such small-minded people. Take his body to the sea and throw him in, then meet us at the Los Angeles Airport, you know where.”
Deonovich turned and gave Chavez one last look and smiled. “Yes, they won’t follow us from what you may have known.”
Deonovich knew they would find the man’s body in the next few hours, but that was to be a calling card of sorts warning that they were to be left alone, and Chavez would be a record of their seriousness. There would be shock and anger, but by then he, Sagli and their strike-and-recovery team would be well north of the border, and on the trail of their richest prize yet.
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
Gregori Sagli closed his cell phone and then eased the basement door open, and saw Lynn Simpson sitting in the dark. She didn’t move or respond to the creaking sound of the door opening, nor when it closed. Sagli smiled and then trotted up the stairs. He went to the kitchen table where a few of his men were sitting and eating sandwiches. He reached over and lifted his small briefcase from the end of the table and walked over to the kitchen counter. Opening the combination lock, he lifted the lid and pulled out a large plastic protector that held Xerox copies of the items sent to them by their associate who had planned everything from beginning to end, and thus far, this person had been perfect in that planning.
Sagli looked through the clear plastic at the documents known as the Lattimer Papers and Xerox copies of the pages from a journal once owned by Colonel Iosovich Petrov of the Red Army. The map was clearly seen on the last page as Sagli turned it over. In L. T. Lattimer’s own hand, the area was drawn from his eyewitness account of his find.
The copies had been taken from Lattimer’s last remaining relative in Boston by the man who now called Deonovich and Sagli partners. Sagli assumed that the relative had met the same fate as Chavez out in California—at least that was the impression both Russians had when given the orders to find the originals, and for the fact that their new friend didn’t seem to be the merciful type, nor did he seem to like loose ends.
Sagli knew they were close to starting on their final journey and he was anxious to get started. What waited was a new beginning for all involved, and a prize that few could ever attain in this jumbled and confusing new world—true power.
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
The director of the CIA paced in front of his desk, behind the backs of his seated assistant directors. Every word seemed like a dagger into the heart of Nancy Grogan. Even the usually cold-as-ice Stan Rosen was feeling for her.
“Has there been any communication from the Russians?”
“Nothing, sir. We, or I should say, I, have come to the conclusion that they have gotten what they wanted in Los Angeles, so there is no further need to communicate with the agency.”
“Fifteen Los Angeles police officers are dead; highly trained SWAT personnel. How in the hell could they have known we were moving on Chavez so soon?”
“I took it upon myself to assist in that matter, sir,” Rosen said, half turning in his chair to face his boss. “Sagli and Deonovich have had the police forces of most major cities plugged into their network for a while now, mostly to keep track of international warrants, Interpol requests, things like that. They basically pay for information. My operations people suspect they had a flier out to these moles about anyone suspected in the museum heist in Denver. Once informed, they released a hit team that was either already in the western states or close by.”
Nancy Grogan turned in her chair and looked at Rosen, his eyes lowered as he knew he had overstepped his bounds and his department. Grogan wanted to say something about it, but knew he had acted where she hadn’t. Her mind was on the lone fact that the two Russians no longer needed Lynn Simpson.
“Stan, you’re guessing. I want facts. If there are informants in the LAPD I want to know who they are, and then I want them brought to justice. I don’t believe that any brother officer would be a part of a massacre of their people. Now, what are we doing to find these Russians?” the director asked.
This time Nancy stood and buttoned her blazer. She took a deep breath and turned to face the director.
“The FBI and local law enforcement have been briefed on who they are looking for. I suspect there is going to be fallout about us . . . or me . . . not giving them everything before the raid.”
The director pursed his lips and then paced to his desk and sat on it edge.
“The president wants to know what the odds are now that these two maniacs and their organization have what they want, on us getting our agent back.”
Nancy Grogan’s silence was enough. She swallowed and bent over to pick up her case and then turned and started for the door, she stopped with her right hand poised over the handle.
“She’s my agent,” she said without turning, “my responsibility.”
Rosen cleared his throat and said what everyone was thinking.
“Director, Lynn Simpson is already dead. Sagli and Deonovich would never take the chance of keeping her alive. Remember their file: They executed ten hostages in a Prague antique shop for the simple reason they were late telling them where their third wall safe was located. The last three were shot after that safe was found. Yes, sir, Lynn Simpson is most assuredly dead.”
“Then confirm her death, and then bring me those two bastards’ heads on a platter!”
EVENT GROUP COMPLEX
NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE, NEVADA
Before Jack had even entered the Europa clean room, Pete Golding and Carl Everett had already begun. Pete looked at Jack, newly clothed in white smock and gloves. He was as miserable having to wear the clean-room attire as Everett was.
“Colonel, Director Compton gave us a short brief, but it didn’t give us much to go on. Europa did uncover these details as listed in the Montreal Police Departments computer. Even now, the Canadians are keeping the information limited, maybe slowing down the filing of their reports for security reasons.”
Jack sat in between Everett and Pete, silent as he adjusted the microphone in front of him. The steel door that protected Europa was up and Collins could see the Honda robotic arms as they swung into action placing and removing small discs from racks and placing them into the mainframe.
“Right now, as I understand it at least, your sister is in charge of the northeastern desk at Langley. If you don’t mind me asking, Colonel, why would she choose Simpson as her last name?” Pete asked as he started typing commands onto his keyboard.
“That was my mother’s maiden name—Simpson.”
“I see. The first thing we are checking on is the two names that seem to be popping up in the Canadian reports. Two Russian nationals are believed to have been responsible for the ambush in Montreal. At least those were the names placed on the all-points bulletins coming from Canada to all North American police agencies. Now, since Director Compton notified the captain and myself that we cannot expect cooperation from American intelligence apparatus, we have to use a little bit of stealth in finding what we need, am I correct?”
“At this point in time, Pete, yeah, you’re correct. That may change very soon.”
Golding saw Jack’s eyes as they didn’t waver from his own. The look wasn’t one of determination as usual, it was a faraway look he had never seen in Collins’s eyes before.
“Good. Now, the names of these two men are Dmitri Sagli and Gregori Deonovich. I ran them through Europa and she kicked back this”—Pete gestured at the blue writing scanning across the screen—“as you can see, they have . . . What is the police jargon? Oh yes, quite a rap sheet. Starting with their days in the old KGB, and what they learned of death in the early years of the Soviet war in Afghanistan. I believe that is where they acquired the taste for the more expensive decorations they probably have in their houses. From there, after their exodus from KGB, they quickly graduated to organized crime, financed principally from their thievery in Afghanistan and other war-torn places where Soviet occupation was in bloom.”
“What about my sister? What is the correlation between them and her?” Collins asked as he read the blue printed letters on the large screen before them. It was as if he was burning the pictures and the words into his mind.
Carl Everett watched Jack and he knew he was doing exactly that—etching the faces into his brain.
“That is what we are about to attempt to find out. This is going to be tricky: If the president has ordered us to stand down, he may have also ordered the CIA to safeguard an attack on their Cray system from Europa. If that is the case, they will not only be able to track the backdoor entry, but cause a security shutdown, not only at Langley, but here also. Then, I dare say, the cat will be out of the proverbial bag.”
“Do it, my authorization, my responsibility,” Jack said as he ripped the gloves from his hands and then tossed them on the floor.
Everett removed his also, and instead of protesting, Pete followed suit.
“Okay, Colonel, here we go. Europa, we are going to ask for a protocol 2267 exception to security rule Langley 111-1. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Dr. Golding, bypass security protocol protecting top-secret CIA analysis files, operational files and agency archives. Field agent protection lists are to be excluded under this protocol—is that correct, Doctor?”
“Correct,” Pete said looking over at Jack for confirmation. After all, that was the most guarded secret in American intelligence, the identity of undercover field agents across the globe. “Now Europa, you will use my security clearance for this operation, is that understood?”
“Yes, Doctor, clearance number 78987-2343, Department 5656 override.”
“Wait a minute, Doc, I said this is my responsibility,” Jack said, placing his arm on Golding’s.
“Colonel, you may not be thinking as straight as you usually do under the circumstances. If we are caught entering the CIA Cray system, there are going to be arrests made. No matter how secret we are, we are going against a presidential order. It just so happens we are not secret from him. How are you going to help your sister if a bunch of marines come down here and haul you away on presidential orders?”
Jack looked from Golding to Everett, who was sitting silently watching the exchange as Collins removed his hand from Golding’s arm and nodded his head.
“That’s why Pete gets the big bucks, Jack, he has the ability to step back and look at things logically,” Carl said as he turned in his chair and waited for the enquiry to start again.
“Europa, commence a backdoor entry into Cray system 191987—Blue Dahlia—Langley.”
“Yes, Doctor,” came the calm and ordered reply of Europa in her Marilyn Monroe voice.
The assault on one of the most secure systems in the world was underway. The funny thing was, it was Europa’s little brother at CIA, and they were both assembled only days apart. This backdoor mugging was to be a family affair.
It took Europa close to an hour to break into Dahlia’s mainframe. She was close to timing out on the attempted break-in when a small backdoor was found in the Langley system that ran out-of-date file subroutine revolving around agency retirement records.
After two and a half hours of skirting the main file location inside of intelligence and operations, they had uncovered the full extent of the ambush in Montreal. Besides confirming their number-one targets, Sagli and Deonovich, Golding, Everett, and Collins were starting to piece together what it was the Russians were looking for: The Lattimer Papers and what was being tagged as the Petrov Diary had been mentioned in no less than seventeen agency filings in the past twenty-four hours, filings the agency had received through their own Cray system, Blue Dahlia, and absconded from the CSIS authorities in Ottawa. That information had been filed inside of Europa for use later in tracking that particular subject matter.
“Okay, gentlemen, here is where it gets tricky, and why.” Pete looked at his watch. “I waited until two A.M. to try it. We are going to break into the files of the Intelligence Department, the section where your sister works, Jack. When Europa goes in, she will scan all files using the keywords we have already entered. She will be inside for less than one minute downloading what Miss Simpson’s department knows about the event that occurred in Montreal, and about your sister’s involvement. During that time, if someone happens to log into the system that is currently being scanned, alarms are going to sound from Virginia to Fort Huachuca in Arizona.”
“What will happen then, Pete?” Everett asked.
“That, I really don’t know Captain. Dahlia could send a transformer signal through, tracing the program, or send Europa a tapeworm, destroying her completely.” Pete patted the console before him and then looked inside Europa’s containment room. “But I think she’s too smart for that.” He smiled. “We’ve made a few modifications on her in the time she’s been here.”
“Let’s get started.”
Pete nodded at Jack.
“Europa, commence scanning the Langley North American Intelligence files.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
At 2 A.M. in the morning, Nancy Grogan, with fresh new orders from the director himself to stand down for three days, was staring at her computer screen. The file was open on Lynn Simpson. She had read everything she could in that file, trying to find out Lynn’s next of kin. She had decided that regardless of what her superiors said, her family, especially her brother, needed to be told about her possible fate, but she found she was loathe to contact the mother of the siblings because she couldn’t explain why she needed to find her son Jack. Grogan knew that Lynn had been in contact with her brother. She was the only person at CIA who had that little bit of information. She didn’t know how much Lynn had explained to her brother, so she thought it would be helpful to contact him herself if at all possible.
Grogan finally stretched and then started to reach for the monitor’s power supply. She still wanted to pack a few things from her office to take home, but she froze when she saw a small and intense flashing icon in the bottom left-hand corner of the screen. USER 5656 LOGGED ON.
“Well, at least they’re still working on finding her,” Grogan mumbled as she pushed the small button, closing down her monitor.
She stood and found a partially filled box and threw some paperwork from her department inside, then she grabbed the Lynn Simpson personnel file and was tempted to throw it in as well, but she knew that little item would never get through security. As she closed the file, she gently laid it on her desk. The file was a standard “secret” file with SIMPSON, LYNN H typed on its front. Below that was her operations number—1121. This was a series of numbers that all agency personnel had been issued. The number was everything from an employee number, a payroll tag, and Blue Dahlia’s computer systems log-in code—the higher the number, the lower the rank and time on the job.
Grogan lifted the cardboard box and then her eyes caught the number on the personnel file once more. 1121. Lynn’s number was one of the lower ones since her transfer from operations two years ago. The director of Intelligence let the box slide from her hand as she hurriedly opened her top desk drawer. She found what she was looking for and ran her index finger down the list. It was a directory of log-in numbers for everyone who was authorized to use Blue Dahlia. The numbers ended at 2267.
“Who in the hell is 5656?” she said aloud. As the incredulous thought struck her, she quickly reached for the phone. Someone had hacked what should have been one of the most secure systems in the world. In her haste to punch in security’s number, her hand struck Lynn Simpson’s file and it fell to the floor, along with Grogan’s own notes on Simpson’s family. As security answered the phone on the other end, she saw the name Colonel Jack Collins, United States Army, underlined in red ink several times.
“Security, Adamson speaking. Miss Grogan, are you ready to leave the facility?”
Nancy looked up from the file and thought quickly. The rumors of Lynn’s brother being very resourceful came flooding through her rapidly thinking brain. She hesitated only a moment.
“Yes, in about fifteen minutes. I’ll only be carrying home one box to be inspected.”
“Very good, ma’am, I’ll have two men standing by for escort to your vehicle.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly and then hung up the phone.
She knew that what she was doing was very close to committing treason. She also knew that this could have been the way Sagli and Deonovich came across their information on the Los Angeles raid. However, she knew for a fact that Blue Dahlia was as secure as systems can get. The rumor was that only another Blue Ice system could do what was being done, and even Sagli and Deonovich didn’t have the funding for that little trick.
As she sat back into her large chair, she flipped on the computer monitor again. The small icon was still flashing in the lower left-hand corner of the screen: USER 5656 LOGGED ON. Grogan sat back and watched the green numbers as they glowed in the semidarkness of her office. Then a small smile slowly crept across her features. She knew the log-on numbers had to be an American code for an agency—four numbers, and it seemed Blue Dahlia recognized these call numbers. Her smile broadened as she felt she had an ally somewhere in the world that would help her get Lynn home.
“The mysterious Colonel Jack Collins, I presume,” she said just under her breath.
She would give the hacking computer another sixty seconds before she hit the alarm. After all, there was still a small chance it may be someone not so friendly to her government.
EVENT GROUP COMPLEX
NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE, NEVADA
As Europa was scanning agency files at a blinding rate, the phone buzzed and Everett answered it.
“Yes . . . thank you,” he said and hung up.
“That was the director’s assistant. It seems the man that was kidnapped, this Juan Chavez, was found washed up against the pier pylons in Huntington Beach.”
Without saying anything, Jack underlined Chavez’s name on the list he was slowly putting together.
“Colonel, I still think investigating that end of things is as viable as it was before this news. Whatever these Russians are up to, they went through this man for some reason, more than likely a link to those papers, or the journal that was stolen.”
“Okay, what do you suggest?” Jack asked.
Pete pushed his thick glasses back up to the bridge of his nose and thought.
“The man dealt in stolen goods, antiquities, almost anything of value derived from antiquity.”
“Yes, but that could still mean anything,” Everett volunteered.
“Captain, the work we do here, the recovery of history, is a very limited field. There are very few people in the world who are truly good at it. Thieves are not as good as the Group, of course, but they are very adequate when it comes to selling what they steal to private collectors around the world. Our computer is good but there’s only so much we can uncover without leaving this room.”
“You’re suggesting we go into the field, fly to L.A. for a closer look?” Jack asked.
“Well, yes. Look here,” Pete said as he stood and pointed at a line of script on the large monitor in front of them. “Yes, here we are. Langley has run this guy Chavez through Dahlia a thousand times, arrest records and such. The man has never divulged his source, who it is that’s contracting his services. There wasn’t one piece of incriminating evidence to be found in his Elysian Park home. No artwork, no statuary, no antique of any kind. This man sold everything he came into possession of.”
“He has to have a buyer,” Everett said.
“Not only that, but someone had to fund the world travel the agency uncovered. According to overseas records, this man, Chavez, was worth only two and half million dollars.”
Jack looked at Pete and slowly nodded. “In other words, whoever was buying his stuff may have some clue as to what Sagli and Deonovich were seeking and why.”
“Exactly, Colonel.”
Pete was about to expand on his thoughts when the last line of script was entered onto the Europa main screen from the CIA mainframe. He grew silent as he watched the sentence run its course. Then he slowly removed his glasses and lightly touched Collins on the shoulder.
“Oh, God,” was all Pete said.
Jack looked up at what was written on the screen and his heart fell to the bottom of his chest.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” Everett said as he closed his eyes and shook his head.
As Europa finally came to a stop, the sentence pronounced their search may be over before it started.
RECOVERED RIGHT INDEX FINGER AT 2230 HOURS, POSITIVELY IDENTIFIED AS THAT SEVERED FROM THE AGENCY EMPLOYEE, SIMPSON, LYNN, H., DNA POSITIVE—FINGERPRINT ANALYSIS—POSITIVE.
“What did they do to her?” Jack asked as his eyes closed and his head sank to his chest.
“Doctor Golding, my entrance into the Blue Dahlia mainframe has been discovered; a trace is currently in process,” Europa said calmly.
“Shut down, damn it, shut it down!” Pete said as he stood, pushing his chair back so hard it slammed into the far wall.
“Shutdown complete, trace was lost.” Europa said in a calm voice.
Jack hurriedly put his notes in order and stood.
“Colonel?” Pete asked.
“I’m still going to L.A.”
“Jack, I guess this is a good time to tell you: The director ordered me to stop you if you tried to leave the complex.”
Jack looked from Everett and then to the monitor in front of him, and then returned his determined look to Carl.
“Right, I’ll get us a plane,” Everett said, shrugging out of his white electrostatic coat.
“Do that, Captain, and alert Mendenhall and Ryan. Tell them their weekend duties are canceled.”
Everett watched as Jack left the clean room.
“Doc, correlate what you’ve recovered; there may be something in there that can help.”
Pete Golding watched Everett follow Collins out of the clean room, and then he sat down and almost reached for the phone, but stopped. He almost shouted aloud when the phone startled him when it buzzed. He swallowed and then picked it up.
“Clean room,” he said meekly.
“Pete, I just received a call from the White House. The president was informed that we hacked into the CIA mainframe.”
“Niles, there’s no way they can know that; Europa cut the trace before it took hold.”
“Pete, I’ve had a few drinks here, but even I could figure out who did the hacking if I knew what agencies had the Cray system, and the president, in case you haven’t noticed, isn’t a fool. Where is Jack?”
“Uh . . . well . . . he and Captain Everett—”
“Have they left the complex?” Niles asked.
“Well, no, they haven’t had the time; they just left the clean room.”
“Do they have a lead on Jack’s sister?”
“Niles, the damn Russians cut that little girl’s finger off.”
“Do they have a lead?”
“Yes, sir. Los Angeles.”
“And they are still inside the complex?”
“Yes, sir,” Pete said, feeling like he was betraying Jack and Carl.
There was silence on Niles’s end of the phone. Then he finally spoke. “Okay, give them another thirty minutes to clear Nellis, and then issue an order for any Event personnel to detain Captain Everett and Colonel Collins.”
“Sir?” Pete asked, not believing Niles was letting them go.
“Hell, you may as well include their little sidekicks in that order, too. Detain Mendenhall and Ryan. No wait,” Compton said thinking as fast as Europa. “Get to Lieutenant Mendenhall, pry him away from Ryan and the others, and have him and Sarah McIntire report to me before the colonel can get to him, do it ASAP, Pete, you hear me?”
“But—”
“If Jack thinks there’s a chance of him finding his sister, we’ll give him the time he needs, but I also know for a fact that everyone from the FBI to Virginia farm boys will be out to stop him from doing so. I need McIntire and Mendenhall in my office; they are not to accompany Collins, Everett, and Ryan.”
The phone went dead and Pete just shook his head in wonder.
“It would be nice if someone asked me along for the ride sometime,” Pete said to himself.
After Niles hung up, he slowly kicked his shoes off and then lay down on his couch, a place where he had spent most of the last month sleeping, and where he would now try to dream through the dark storm that was about to hit. He pushed his glasses onto his balding head and then closed his eyes. He was wondering just how long it would take Langley to scream bloody murder all the way to the White House about the Group’s assault on CIA’s Blue Dahlia.
Just as Niles felt the onslaught of whiskey-induced sleep, his assistant stepped into his office and quickly walked to the couch and shook Niles. He came awake like a man falling from a cliff—that unsettling feeling of falling and not being able to stop yourself. Then he opened his eyes and realized he couldn’t focus on the face in front of him. His assistant reached out her slim hand and pulled his glasses back down to cover his eyes.
“Sir, the president is on the phone. He says you’re not answering your laptop.”
Niles laid there, not wanting to move, not wanting to face the man he had disobeyed. He took a deep breath and then slowly sat up on the couch, placing his stocking feet on the floor one at a time.
“Sir, you look horrible. Maybe you should just answer his phone instead of going visual?”
Niles looked his young assistant over. Her name was Linda, and she was reporting more and more for duty since Alice Hamilton was spending more time with Senator Garrison Lee these days, the former director of the Group. Compton figured that the two oldest members of the Event Group deserved all the time they had together; they had after all, earned it.
“I look that bad, huh?”
“Yes, you do,” she said.
“Well, your training progresses, young lady. I think I’ll follow your advice. Hand me the phone.”
She reached out and pulled the phone over from the small table next to the couch. She lifted the receiver.
“Mr. President, we have located Director Compton.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone line when Niles placed the receiver to his ear.
“Compton,” he said with a mouth full of cotton.
“I warned you, Mr. Director, CIA reported a backdoor hack of their Dahlia system. May I assume it was your people?”
“You may not assume it was my people,” Niles said with as much indignity as he could conjure up.
“Okay, then you’re telling me it was NSA, the FBI, or the boys at the Pentagon? They’re the only ones other than your Europa who has that capability. And believe me, I know what that nervous bastard Pete Golding is capable of, I’ve seen him work: He can twist that damn Cray system to do backflips if he wanted.”
“I resent that, Mr. President, just because Pete’s—well, anyway, I resent the accusation.”
“Just so you know, I have ordered the arrest of Colonel Collins and anyone in his security department that tries to fly out of Nellis, which I highly expect they’ll try. For Christ’s sake, Niles, as a friend, I asked you not to tell him. I wanted to let this thing play out a while. As it looks, we’ll never know the real reason for his sister’s reasoning for talking to her brother.”
“And as a friend, I told you what you wanted to hear. Would you want to be kept in the dark about your sister? No, you wouldn’t. And that man has done more for this country than anyone you or I have ever known, I think—”
“Don’t think, damn it. We may have serious problems here, his sister may have been getting close to something and Director Easterbrook has stuck his neck out to assist her. And don’t ask because we really don’t know yet. Look, Collins has already screwed the pooch here, he’s made a big mistake, he and his buddy, Everett, filed an advanced flight plan to Los Angeles out of Nellis. Hell, it took the FBI all of two minutes to get that information. And they have at least two agents at every dirt airstrip for fifty miles, too. Listen, Niles, Jack Collins is too close, and I don’t want to lose him along with his sister—that’s what I owe him, at least until we get a handle on what his sister was working on. So, let the FBI catch and detain him.”
“I know that, but I am not going to keep that man in the dark even if his sister is already dead. If she is, can you think of anybody else in this world who you would want to track the bastards down that killed her?”
“No, but consider yourself under house arrest Mr. Director, you little bastard. I should just fly out there right now and hang you.”
“Excuse me, but I’m a little drunk and I’m going to go back to sleep.”
“You do that!”
Niles winced as the phone was hung up.
“Is the president mad?” Linda asked.
“Yes, very mad,” he said as a smile crossed his lips. “He’s going to catch Jack at the base before he enters his aircraft,” he said as his eyes started to close and the smile was drifting but still present. “But I think I may have gotten a step on him. When McIntire and Mendenhall get here, give them this,” he said as he handed her a folded piece of paper.
“Is there anything else we can do to help the colonel, sir?” the young assistant asked.
Niles didn’t answer her question as he had fallen asleep with the phone still clutched in his hand and the smile still on his lips.
Jack, Carl, and Jason Ryan stepped from the tram that led to Gate Two just beneath the Gold City Pawnshop, the clandestine entryway for all Event Group personnel. They were dressed in civilian attire and had identification that indicated they were Los Angeles police detectives, and L.A. County sherriff’s officers. As they took the elevator up, Jack looked at his watch.
“Mendenhall was nowhere to be found?” Collins asked the small naval aviator.
“No, sir, he left his security badge in the security office, I couldn’t get a track on him through Europa.”
“Damn,” Jack said as the elevator doors slid open. The view ahead was the dusty and very dingy back storeroom of the Gold City Pawnshop.
They were met by Lance Corporal Jess Harrison, a black marine from Compton, California. The young corporal had the duty at Gate Two.
“Sir, this just came through from the director’s office,” he said handing Collins a flimsy.
“What’s the word, Jack?” Everett asked as he walked over to the arms locker and used his security code to open it. The corporal watched Everett with a wary eye.
“Oh, effective in,” Jack again looked at his watch, “exactly five minutes, the director has ordered us detained.”
“Do you agree with the wording Corporal?” Jack asked his gate security officer.
The marine looked around from watching Everett removed three nine-millimeter automatic pistols and their holsters from the arms locker, along with three clips of ammunition apiece. He also looked at his watch.
“Yes, sir. In five minutes, I am to detain you,” the lance corporal said, still watching Everett.
Everett handed Jack a holstered weapon along with Ryan. “Let’s not hang around for that five minutes so our young friend here doesn’t have to do his duty.”
The three men left the back storage area and into the back office of the pawnshop.
“Sir, Air Police, and what looks like the FBI is crawling all over Nellis looking for you guys,” the corporal said as he buzzed them through the secured office and past the armed army private that had his finger close to the trigger of a submachine gun clipped underneath his desk.
“I would be worried if that was where we were going, Corporal.” Jack stopped and turned to face his men. “Watch the place for us. If you can’t find Lieutenant Mendenhall after we leave, you’re in charge of security. I imagine you’ll have orders to lock down the complex.”
“Yes, sir. Good luck Colonel.”
Jack didn’t answer, but Everett slapped the young marine on the back as they left the back office and then a minute later the Gold City Pawnshop.
They didn’t use one of the three department vehicles sitting in the alley beside the pawnshop; instead, Ryan used his irritatingly loud whistle to flag a cab. With temperatures hovering around 108 degrees, they quickly climbed in and Collins ordered the driver to take them to McLaren Airport where there was a C-21, a U.S. air force variant of the Learjet 35, stashed in a hangar on the military side of McLaren, a hangar complex the gamblers and vacationers never knew existed.
The cab pulled into the far drive that led out onto the taxing tarmac after Jack had shown his fake Los Angeles Police Department ID. As the cab approached the aluminum hangar, the hackles rose on the colonel’s neck.
“The agency and the FBI may have outthought me on this one.”
“I feel it, too, they’re here,” Everett said.
“Jesus, we can’t shoot it out with our own people, Colonel,” Ryan said, pulling the Hawaiian shirt from his chest, having been stuck there with the sweat that was pouring from his body.
“Stop here,” Jack said as he tossed the driver two twenties as he climbed from the backseat.
He removed the nine-millimeter from his holster and made sure the safety was on. He looked at Everett and Ryan, making them do the same.
“No accidents—no one gets hurt, if it comes to them stopping us, give me time to do what I have to do, then you two surrender. Am I clear on this?”
Everett looked into Jack’s blue eyes and nodded once. Then he looked at Ryan.
“Hell, Colonel, I want to give up now. I’m allergic to the Feds.”
“Good boy, Lieutenant.”
Carl and Ryan fell into step behind Collins as he made his way to a line of employee cars parked outside of the private hangars that flanked the two military enclosures on the north side of the airport. As they moved, they kept their heads down. Ryan almost let loose a scream as they passed one of the private hangar doors that started rising with a loud whine. They hurried past before the opening could reveal them sneaking by.
Behind them from the hangar they heard a loud piston engine fire up, then a second, but they kept moving as quickly as they could toward the military doors now only ten feet away. Once they got to the personnel door of the first hangar, Jack reached out and took the handle. To their rear, the loud engine noise continued as the aircraft slowly taxied out from the privately leased hangar. Jack ignored the plane behind him and pulled open the personnel door of the military hangar and quickly stepped inside.
Collins, though very tempted, refused to pull his gun. He gestured for Everett to make his way to the far side of the C-21. The plane sat there gleaming in the bright sunlight streaming through two overhead skylights far above. There was no guard on duty and no mechanics evident. Collins shook his head as he saw Everett disappear around the rear-mounted engines just under the tail.
Ryan was the first to the door just forward of the wing. He looked back at Collins and grimaced, shaking his head. Jack nodded once as Everett came back around the front of the plane and shook his head from side to side.
“No one, Jack,” he said, barely above a whisper.
“Okay, Lieutenant, open it up.”
Ryan popped the stainless-steel guard and the handle popped free and the folding steps deployed as he stepped to the side. As he did, Collins went up the staircase in two steps, Everett followed and then Ryan. Once inside the small aircraft, Jack allowed his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the interior.
“Okay, Ryan, get to your preflight and let’s get the hell out of here,” Everett said.
Just as Ryan started to move, Jack took him by the shoulder and shook his head.
“Forget it, we have company.”
Just then, the cockpit door opened and first one agent, then another came through, and unlike Collins and his two men, they had their handguns drawn. As they watched the agents come toward them, the aft restroom door opened and another two agents came out.
“Goddamn sneaky little bastards,” Everett said, even though he knew through his SEAL training he could take at least the two from the back, because against all of the FBI training the two agents went through, they were too close to their targets. When he conveyed this to Jack with his eyes, Collins shook his head.
“Colonel Collins, you and your men are to be detained on a national security matter. Please remove your weapons and place them on the floor of the aircraft.”
Jack, Ryan, and Everett did as they were ordered just as the loud aircraft leaving its hangar outside became close to unbearable. The two agents at the front of the aisle slowly came on as Jack watched for some kind of an opening, one that would ensure no one got hurt—well, not too hurt anyway. As the first FBI agent reached down and collected the handguns, he remained low so the three men could still be covered by the man to their front and the two behind. One of the latter slipped past and went down the stairs.
“Okay, Colonel, we want no trouble. We’ll take you into our field office and from there, your people, whoever they are, can have you back. No booking, no cuffs, okay? We’ll call it a professional courtesy, and that comes from the highest source,” the lead agent said, his gun never wavering from the three men. “Now, Agent Williams is waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs. Please, let’s be nice,” the first man said loudly, trying to be heard over the idling engine noise of the plane just outside the hangar.
Jack could see no way out of this without using deadly force and these men didn’t deserve anything close to that. They were fellow Americans doing their job. Collins nodded for Everett and Ryan to start down.
Finally, as Jack made his way down the steps backward, he was suddenly and harshly pulled down and onto his back, knocking the wind from him. On his way down he saw Ryan and then Everett hop over the small cable that was used as a handhold on the stairs, he never saw them hit the concrete. Around him all was a blur as someone shot forward and pushed the stairs back up into the aircraft’s fuselage. He heard shots, then he was being pulled to his feet. Another single shot rang out.
As Jack regained his breath and his senses, he saw the man who had taken the single shot was Will Mendenhall. He watched as the black army lieutenant reached up and pulled on the door’s handle; when he was satisfied that the handle had been damaged enough to jam the door for a good while, he turned and smiled.
“I think we better go,” Will hurriedly said over his shoulder as he ran for the door, jumping over FBI Agent Williams who was writhing on the floor with plastic wire-ties on his hands and ankles. His weapon lay beside him with the slide back and the ammunition clip removed. Collins shook off the hands that helped him to his feet and then noticed who it was. Sarah smiled up at him.
“Compliments of Director Compton. He said you didn’t stand a chance getting out of the desert.”
Sarah pursed her lips in a pretend kiss and then ruthlessly shoved Jack toward the door and then through it and into the sunlight and the unbearable noise of the desert airport. When he looked up, he couldn’t believe his eyes. Sitting there only a few feet away, with a blue-and-white shining paint scheme, had to be the oldest seaplane he had ever seen. It was a Grumman G-21A Goose, a twin-engine plane that predated World War II. It was loud and noisy and with its twin landing gear sticking out of its boat-shaped hull, it looked like the most ungainly aircraft he had ever seen. The Grumman was beautiful and was well maintained. The Goose was designed during the heyday of the flying boats in the late 1930s and a good number of them were still active at air shows around the world. This was the aircraft that had started up inside the hangar they had passed by on the way in.
“Jesus, Colonel, look at this,” Ryan said as he pointed to the glassed-in cockpit.
“Unbelievable,” was all Collins could say as he saw the small arm of a woman hanging out of the side cockpit window, waving them forward, insisting they hurry.
“Is that Alice?” Everett said as he took off toward the cabin door.
“It belongs to Alice and Senator Lee. Niles thought it was the only thing we could use to get out of here; after all, the FBI and CIA would be waiting for us at any airport we wanted to land, but they can’t cover every waterfront in L.A.,” Sarah shouted as they bounded up and into the ancient seaplane.
Once inside, the old Grumman’s engines were goosed and she started to roll. Alice Hamilton, all eighty-seven years young, complete with leather helmet, headset, and flying gloves, threw the two throttles forward and the plywood and aluminum-framed flying boat sped toward the runway as Jack came into the small cockpit and sat next to Alice, and shook his head.
“You didn’t think Earhart was the only aviatrix this country turned out, did you?” Alice said when she saw the disbelief on the colonel’s face.
“What in the hell are you doing?” Jack yelled over the sound of the screaming props.
“Evidently rescuing you,” Alice answered with a smile as she reached down and started pumping the handle that brought the old Grumman’s flaps to the down position. When she looked over and saw Collins frowning, she smiled as the huge wheels left the airport runaway.
“Okay, Niles knew you would be caught if you tried to use a Group aircraft, then he knew even if you did, you would have to land at an airfield where any number of federal people would be waiting for you, so, he knew Garrison bought me this little toy back in 1955 for my birthday, thus, here we are—now hang on!”
Jack was thrown back in his seat as the Grumman shot into the sky at an angle Collins never thought a plane that old could achieve.
As he buckled himself in, he heard the shouts and grunts from the passenger area of the seaplane.
“This isn’t good!” Ryan screamed as eighty-seven-year-old Alice Hamilton threw the plane into a steep banking maneuver, heading for Los Angeles.
Director Niles Compton of Department 5656—the Event Group—was rarely, if ever, outthought by anyone in the world.