It was already past four in the afternoon, and most of the lab technicians had gone home. As Lutz rounded the corner of the long hallway that led to his office, he saw someone coming out. The man’s back was still to him as he turned a key in the door. Lutz recognized the man’s shape, the shapeless dark wrinkle-free trousers and white shirt.
The FBI agent. What the hell was his name?
It came to him. Swinford.
Swinford has a key to the lab.
Lutz ducked back around the corner, his pulse racing. What was Swinford looking for? Had they figured out that Feingold wasn’t the leak? Time was running out. Lutz could sense his world collapsing around him. It was time to conclude this chapter in his life, leave Groom Lake, collect his money and exit the United States.
First, though, he had business to negotiate. He had to see Tom.
Maxwell watched the man walk away, past the security gate at the exit and out of the hangar.
It had to be Lutz. He was sure of it — that hunched, thick-shouldered shape, the way he walked with a shuffling, bear-like gait.
And he was sure that Lutz had recognized him. So why did he whirl like that and leave?
It was strange, but he remembered now that Raymond Lutz had always been strange. Even when they were at Pensacola together, years ago, Lutz carried a giant-sized chip on his shoulder. He could never hide his resentment of the officers like Maxwell who were lucky enough to possess good vision and thus were handed a ticket to fly fighters. Lutz thought he had been cheated.
It didn’t stop there. Later, when he didn’t make the cut for NASA, he became hostile and bitter. Soon after that, Maxwell recalled, he had left the Navy and come to work here at Groom Lake.
On the Black Star.
For a while Maxwell stood there gazing out at the shimmering desert. Something was scratching at the back of his subconscious — some connection he couldn’t quite make.
Maxwell and the Chinese Black Star had stayed together. He rode aboard the CH-53 that hauled the shrouded stealth jet from the Reagan to a waiting C 5 in Taiwan. He managed to sleep for most of the seventeen-hour, non-stop flight to Nevada, which included three in-flight refuelings.
His orders had come directly from the Joint Chiefs: Report to the Director, Groom Lake Test and Research Facility, for extensive debriefing regarding Operation Raven Swoop.
Dreamland hadn’t changed much, he thought. Still barren and brown, grim as the moon. The runway was even longer than when he had been assigned there several years ago. It was now 27,000 feet, nearly twice as long as the space shuttle runway he’d used at Cape Canaveral.
Gazing out the window of Hangar 501, Maxwell could see Bald Mountain and the hills of the Groom Range. To the south was Freedom Ridge, where the UFO zealots used to gather to get glimpses of the facility before the Air Force chased them away.
Dreamland had always attracted strange people, he thought. Both inside and outside the fence. He thought again about Raymond Lutz.
“I’m sorry,” said Tom. “No more deposits. The payments have stopped. Those are my orders.”
“Orders?” Lutz was on his feet, pacing like a tethered animal. He could feel the anger bubbling up inside him. “Orders from whom? You know the terms of our agreement. Five million dollars. It’s supposed to be on deposit in six accounts.”
Tom sat on the edge of the bed. On the table was an ice bucket with an unopened bottle of Moet Chandon. Twelve floors beneath was the main floor of the casino. “It’s time to be realistic, Ray. Five million was a hypothetical amount. That much would have accumulated only if your services continued to be in demand. The situation has changed. As you know, the project has been… ah, interrupted.”
Lutz struggled to control his temper. Interrupted. That was a bullshit way of saying that some sonofabitch had gotten into China and stolen the stealth jet that he risked his life to develop. And Lutz already had a very good idea who the sonofabitch was.
“I don’t care what’s changed. I delivered what you wanted, and now I expect to be compensated. Five million, just as we agreed.”
“You have received half a million, Ray. Five hundred thousand dollars is still a great deal of money. I think it would be in your best interest to be satisfied with that amount. Remember the source of these funds, and then consider… the consequences of a misunderstanding.”
Lutz recognized the not-so-subtle threat. Tom’s lilting voice had taken a nasty edge. Lutz had never met any of his Chinese employers. Just Tom.
Lutz was too furious to reply. He turned and gazed out the window that overlooked the street. The Las Vegas strip was ablaze with glittering light. Feingold’s favorite banality came to him. Did you know Las Vegas burns more kilowatts than the rest of Nevada combined?
He still didn’t give a damn. What he wanted was to get out of Las Vegas. Out of the espionage business and out of the United States, and he needed money to do it. A lot more than five hundred fucking thousand dollars.
He could feel Tom’s eyes on him. As he stood peering down at the blazing lights, he considered his options. He could gather his funds from the half dozen accounts, then go make another life for himself. But it wouldn’t be the life he had dreamed about. Not on half a million.
An ominous silence had fallen over the room. Tom’s normal patter was missing. Lutz could feel that something had changed.
He wondered if it was just his paranoia taking off again. He and Tom had disagreed about money before. It was nothing new, just part of the normal bargaining process. But this was different. Consider the consequences of a misunderstanding.
It wasn’t just paranoia. Tom had threatened him.
Always before he had been afraid of the FBI and the CIA and the Defense Intelligence goons who snooped into his activities at Groom Lake. Now his warning system was sending a different alert. He could sense immediate danger.
Something alerted him — a rustling noise, a miniscule movement of air. He turned from the window.
Tom had slid across the bed and was reaching into a leather satchel on the night stand.
In a flash of understanding, Lutz understood.
He bolted across the three feet of space that separated them just as Tom’s hand emerged from the satchel. The muzzle of the .38 caliber revolver was just coming up.
Lutz glimpsed the surprise on Tom’s face. No one could ever believe that someone the size of Raymond Lutz — six-three and a solid 260 pounds — could move with such agility.
His hand caught Tom’s narrow wrist, snapping it back with such force that he heard the crack. Tom shrieked and kicked out at him.
With a backhanded slap, Lutz smashed Tom across the face, cutting short the piercing shriek. Tom reeled back from the blow, toppling to the floor beneath the oncoming rush of Lutz’s weight. The pistol dropped to the carpet.
Lutz clamped his hands on the slender throat.
“Ray… don’t! Please, Ray…”
He cut off the protest, pressing his thumbs into Tom’s larynx. He let all the animal rage spill out of him. A low guttural noise swelled from his chest. He could feel the fragile bones and gristle and capillaries crackling like matchsticks beneath his fingers.
Tom fought back, flailing with frantic but ineffective blows. With Lutz’s full weight atop his victim, it was no contest. His powerful hands clamped down like a vise on Tom’s neck.
For nearly a minute Tom’s hands fluttered in the air like moths, then they relaxed and went limp. Lutz maintained his grip, squeezing hard, the animal growl rising from some dark place within him. Spittle bubbled from his lips.