Eventually someone in a cave on the Afghan-Pakistan border thought so, too, and the deal was struck. Now, after a lot of work and a bit of luck, the weapon was in place. The Mole had his passport in his pocket, along with an airline ticket to Copenhagen.
He looked up into the clouds with a pained expression as a sprinkle of raindrops dotted his windshield. Please, no more rain. Forget the rain. He had other things to worry about. Like their “friend.” They had set him up for his first kill, thinking that by taping the crime they could always blackmail him if they sensed him slipping outside their control. The opposite proved true. He couldn’t get enough of the tape. Now he wanted more.
But first they had to get through tonight.
Chapter Twenty-one
Broker and Kit watched the blue single-engine Piper Saratoga II HP cruise the Langdon strip at 500 feet then go into a standard landing pattern: flying counterclockwise, making a series of left turns around the strip, and finally lining up on approach and setting down. When the prop stopped moving, two men emerged: Doc Harris, the pilot, and Lyle Torgeson, a Cook County deputy. They greeted Kit and shook hands with Broker.
Harris, a tanned, well-preserved seventy, a retired general surgeon, asked Broker about his hand. Broker lied and said it was no problem. Lyle said, “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what’s going on here? Your mom had us lined up to pick up Kit before you called.”
Broker just smiled, clapped Lyle on the shoulder, and said, “I really appreciate this.”
Lyle said, “I figured that’s about all you’d say. Watch yourself.”
Kit, still in a huff from their minor tiff leaving Shuster’s equipment shed, remained distant and stoic. Broker wondered if she’d acquired the old army trick of picking a fight with loved ones before shipping out, to make the parting easier. But climbing into the small door aft of the wing, she turned and grabbed him in a bear hug and he had to pry her arms from around his neck as she shouted, “I want you and Mommy to come home together.”
Then she climbed into the plane, pressed her face up against a passenger window, and nagged him with her teared-up eyes. The prop revved up but the engine noise didn’t quite drown out the echo of her words.
Broker’s marching orders were getting more complicated.
Then the plane taxied down the strip and flew away. Kit’s face, framed in an aircraft window, faded into a blur as Doc climbed and banked east.
Broker stood awhile watching the plane disappear. He reminded himself that the Saratoga was a first-class high-performance aircraft. And that Doc Harris was a veteran pilot. But as he walked back to the Ford he was mindful of the moody clouds hanging overhead. And that JFK Jr. had taken his last flight in a Piper Saratoga.
He got in the Ford, pulled up to the highway, and looked right and then left. The entry road to the airstrip was about 300 yards from the bar and the equipment shed. He could just make out Dale Shuster and another guy walking across the highway and going into the bar.
Broker had dismissed Kit’s strange comment about Dale Shuster’s toilet, but he’d noticed something else at the shed that got him thinking. So he decided to pay another visit. Making no attempt to hide his approach, he drove down the highway and pulled into the weedy lot in front of the shed. There were two vehicles in the lot, both pretty beat up-a Grand Prix with a filthy windshield and a brown Chevy van.
Okay, he thought as he got out of his truck, so I’m being a little obvious. He threw a glance across the road at the bar’s brick facade. Maybe he wouldn’t mind a rematch with that Gordy guy.
Broker walked around the back of the shed to where the lone piece of earth-moving equipment was parked. Something about the Deere had caught his attention: on the left rear end, one of the counterweights was missing. A solid hunk of yellow cast iron two feet square, six inches deep, and weighing perhaps 500 pounds, a counterweight was the ultimate blunt object. Huge bolts held it to the machine’s frame. Its purpose was to offset the load in the bucket. It was not something that got damaged under normal use.
Broker cocked his ear when he heard a motor start. He peeked around the edge of the shed and saw the brown van pull onto the highway, caught a glimpse of the driver-the scarred-up dude he’d seen with Dale Shuster this morning. The van accelerated back toward town. He waited a few moments, heard nothing else, and moved off ten yards into the damp weeds along the side of the shed. Looked around to get his bearings. Right about here he’d seen a flash of yellow on his first visit. The ground was disturbed, dug up and refilled. Okay. He moved deeper in the weeds and found it. A corner of yellow cast iron peeked from the ground. The rain had washed away the top layer of dirt.
Broker stooped and rapped his knuckle against the dense iron. Now who in the hell would bury a counterweight? He got up, walked back to the Deere front-loader, and began to study it like a puzzle.
“Morning,” a voice said behind him.
Broker turned and saw the husky deputy-Jim Yeager-watching him. Yeager was in uniform, tan over brown.
“Hi,” Broker said.
“What’s up?” Yeager asked.
Broker held up a red Bic lighter. “Was by here earlier looking at this Deere. Dropped my lighter. Just found it.”
“Uh-huh,” Yeager said. “Mr. Broker, would you mind following me into town?” Polite but firm.
“I could do that,” Broker said. He walked back to his truck, pressed the lock remote, opened the door, and got in. As he turned the key in the ignition, he instinctively checked under the seat with his left hand.
Shit. After a fast inspection he noticed his window open a crack. And now the badge and gun were missing. Yeager? The brown van? Okay, so it was getting tricky.
Broker decided not to mention the missing pistol and badge as he followed Yeager back to town. He’d just watch and see if Yeager gave anything away. He pulled into the parking area in front of the motel, next to Yeager’s Crown Vic. Yeager got out and leaned against the cruiser’s front fender, hatless, smoking a Marlboro Light that looked like a white straw in his thick fingers. He could have got those arms lifting free weights, but you don’t lift iron for hours on end. Throwing hay bales, more likely.
“It’s Yeager, right?” Broker said.
“Yeah.” Yeager took a drag, exhaled. The steady breeze bled the smoke from his nose and mouth. “Kinda figured you’d be on that plane that took off.” Inhale, hold, exhale. “Guess not.”
Broker did his best to look attentive. He pointed to the Explorer and said, “I’ll be driving.”
“When?” Yeager asked.
Broker mugged a tight smile, looked away.
Yeager was mellow, totally relaxed. He was, after all, completely in control here. He raised his chin inquiringly. “So how’s the hand? Heard you tagged Ace Shuster with a left. Musta smarted some.”
“Some.”
“Uh-huh. And I noticed that you and the little girl dropped in on Dale Shuster this morning. I don’t think he’s going to sell that old Deere, do you?”
“Not likely,” Broker said.
Yeager looked away for several seconds. “You know, there’s this Air Force radar base east of town. Real sophisticated stuff. Tracks all the space junk, is what they say. Can spot a beer can at eight hundred miles.”
“Really.”
“Really. Got private security, though. Local guys man the gate. They stay on orange alert there. The rest of the country is on yellow. But they know what’s going on, and one of them tells me this helicopter showed up last night. One of those Black Hawks, like in that movie that just come out.” Yeager paused and watched Broker’s face for a reaction.
“No shit,” Broker said.
“No shit. The story is, the chopper was en route to Grand Forks on a routine flight and had to stop for minor mechanical repairs. Six guys plus the crew. ’Cept they all wear civilian clothes and keep strictly to themselves. This guy told me four of them are, like, in real good shape. Regular animals. The other two are kinda nerdy looking. Just hanging out, playing basketball next to the hanger. Thought you might be interested.”