“They would do that?”
“Sure. I would.” He flashed the smile again, and Morrison was in that moment as afraid of Ventura as he was the Chinese. Thank God the man was on his side.
“They’ll know you’re at the airport, but since the phone isn’t in your name, they don’t know who you are, so they’ll look for the phone. When they find that, they’ll look for single men traveling alone. You’re under a pseudonym, ticketed as part of a group of three passengers, including two women, so they won’t get that immediately. With enough computing power, they can strain out all the flights leaving here today, and check on every passenger. Our phony IDs will hold up under a cursory scan, but if they can dig deep enough, they’ll figure out they are fake eventually, though that won’t really help them except to tell them we were going to Seattle, and that we weren’t on the plane.
“We could probably get to your house in Washington before they get who you are. You are dealing with some serious people here, and it’s never been a matter of ‘if,’ but of ‘when.’ ”
“My wife—”
“—is being watched by my people, and I’ve just sent more ops to back them up. She’ll be safe. And we aren’t going there.”
“Where are we going?”
“To a place where I can control access for the meeting.”
“We’re going to drive there?”
“No, we’re going to drive to a private airstrip and rent a plane. We want to be in the air as soon as we can.”
Now that he had been put on alert, Morrison regarded the other people in the airport hallway with a newfound suspicion. Those young men with snowboards, that middle-aged gay couple laughing over a laptop, the tall man in a gray business suit carrying a briefcase. Any of them could be armed and out to collect him.
“Frankly, I don’t think they will scramble the A-team to grab you, yet,” Ventura said, as if reading his mind. “They know about the tests you did in their country, what the effect was on their villages, and they know you know about it, but they don’t know for certain that you caused it. They’ll have to check you out. Once they believe you, that’s when we’ll have to be extremely careful.”
Morrison’s mouth suddenly felt very dry indeed. He’d known this was coming, but it hadn’t seemed so… real before. The pit of his stomach felt like it did on a roller coaster. Well. There was nothing for it now. He was committed.
“This isn’t quite what I expected,” Morrison said.
“It never is,” Ventura said.
14
The boomerang championships were being held in Washington Park, which Tyrone thought was funny. They’d driven a couple thousand miles from Washington, D.C., to wind up in an Oregon park with the same name. It wasn’t like any park in his neighborhood, though. The place was a giant sprawl that contained a lot of hills, tall evergreen trees, the Portland Zoo, plus a forestry center and some other stuff. Up and away from the zoo parking, they had carved a flat field out of one of the meadows, big enough for three or four soccer teams to play at the same time. The field was covered with what Tyrone thought of as winter grass, trimmed short, like something you might find on a golf course, instead of the coarser Saint Augustine grass you found on a lot of lawns back home.
“What a great venue,” Nadine said.
“Yeah.”
The contest didn’t start officially until tomorrow, and their event wasn’t until Sunday, but there were twenty or so throwers out on the green practicing. The warm summer air was full of colorful twirling ’rangs, blues and reds and oranges and greens, bright blurs looping back and forth.
Tyrone turned to his father. “Okay?”
His dad looked around, then nodded. “Looks safe enough. Mom and I will be back in a couple of hours.”
Tyrone nodded back, already thinking about practice. His dad had rented a car and left the RV parked back at the hotel, a place called the Greenwood Inn. His parents wanted to go check out downtown Portland, but they didn’t want to leave Tyrone and Nadine alone until they had checked out the park. Given the numbers of families with small children, the lack of gang colors, or guys throwing beer bottles at each other, Dad had decided that Tyrone and Nadine were probably safe enough here in the middle of the afternoon.
“You have your credit card?”
“Yep.”
“You got your phone?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“It’s on?”
Tyrone rolled his gaze toward the heavens. He pulled the little phone from his belt and held it up so his father could see the display. “Yes, Dad.”
What, did they think he was still a baby? This was Portland, not Baltimore. He almost said so, but realized that might not be the smartest thing, so he kept his mouth shut. He was learning that sometimes, that was the best strategy. If you don’t say it, they can’t nail you for it.
Nadine started unpacking her ’rangs.
“Go already, parental units, we’re fine here.”
His mom smiled.
Once they were gone, Tyrone and Nadine looked for a place to get started. There were circles drawn on the grass, but most of these were already taken. That didn’t matter — they had wash-away chalk; they could make their own circle.
“Over there,” Nadine said. “Wind is from the south, but it’s almost calm, we’ll have plenty of room for hang.”
“Hey, scope it. Isn’t that Jerry Prince?” He pointed.
She looked. “I think so.”
Best MTA guy in the world, the Internationals winner last year, and the world record holder. Word was, he threw eight minutes in practice on slackwind days, and had a witnessed-but-unofficial fourteen-minute flight.
“Let’s watch him. Maybe we’ll learn something.”
She laughed. “You will, for sure. I got style already.”
“You got mouth, is what you got. I’m gonna be pushing three minutes here.” He waved his stopwatch at her.
“You’re pushing a Dumpster full of horse pucky is what you are pushing. You are probably gonna trip and fall into it.”
He laughed. She was funny.
There were several events at most boomerang competitions — accuracy, distance, trick and fast catch, doubling, team throws. Like Tyrone, Nadine’s event was MTA — maximum time aloft — and the idea was to put a lightweight boomerang into the air and keep it there for as long as possible. There was no problem with judging this one — you put a stopwatch on them, and the longest time up won. They had dicked around with the rules for a while, trying different things in different competitions — you got two throws but one didn’t count, or you got three and you could pick the best — but now it was different. You got a practice throw once you were in the circle, but after that, it was one throw, period. You had to catch it when it came back, and you had to be inside the official circle for the catch, or the throw didn’t count. The record for somebody in Tyrone’s age group was just over three and a half minutes, but unofficially there were guys who had thrown into freakish wind conditions and kept a bird twirling for a lot longer. The longest unofficial time by anybody was more than eighteen minutes, though that kind of time came out of the professional adult ranks. It was hard to even imagine eighteen minutes aloft.
Tyrone himself had placed third in last year’s contest with a time of 2:41, using the Möller Indian Ocean, an L-shaped lightweight made of paxolin — layers of linen and rosin built up and then cut to shape. The winner — Nadine, which is how they’d met — had beaten him by seven seconds, using the same model boomerang as his, so he couldn’t blame it on better equipment. Some kid from Puerto Rico with a Bailey MTA Classic had slipped in between his time and Nadine’s to bump Tyrone out of second place, but since it had been his first ever competition, he had been happy to have third.