Bursting into his apartment, he dismissed the maid and headed directly into his bedroom. There he went right to his wife’s jewelry safe.
He filled one of her small handbags with everything valuable, then went into his own walk-in closet and took down a large Louis Vuitton suitcase from a shelf. He threw in the handbag and three of his best suits along with a tuxedo and two pair of shoes, then as much summer-wear as he could fit.
He heard Katie come in, mix a drink, and then ease herself down on the bed with a heavy sigh that ended in a long self-pitying groan. Rangle reached up under his sock drawer and sprung the latch on the wooden panel behind his suits. He pushed the clothes aside and spun the tumbler on his own safe. Inside was a black velvet bag that crunched softly when he lifted it. He opened the top, scooping up a handful of diamonds.
Twenty million dollars’ worth of investment-grade stones. Better than a Swiss bank account. Better than cash. He slipped the bag into a leather briefcase and slung the shoulder strap across his body. In his bathroom, next to the toilet, was a phone. He dialed information and got the number for the charter at Teterboro. Yes, there was a G-V available on short notice. He asked them to put together a flight plan for Grand Cayman and hung up.
With the suitcase in hand, he walked back out into the bedroom and stopped at the foot of the bed. Katie was propped up on a mountain of pillows with her arm up over her face. He set the suitcase down.
“I’m leaving, Katie,” he said, straightening his back and his hair at the same time, “and I’d like you to come with me.”
His wife’s body started to shake. First just slightly, then almost convulsively, she sucked in some air and let it out in small spurts. At first he thought she was hysterically crying, but when the sound started to come it was pitched with laughter.
She actually shrieked, then said, “Oh, Bob, what do you mean, leaving? You’re in mourning, remember?”
“You’re sick,” he said, spitting the word.
Her arm came down off her face and he saw the glitter in her eyes.
“I am sick,” she said. “Sick of you.”
“Katie, I don’t care about everything. I’ll take you with me,” Rangle said. “If you stay here, there’s not going to be anything. The money’s gone. All of it.”
“But you’re wrong, Bob,” she said, still grinning. “Martin and I have plenty of money.”
“What do you mean, Martin and you?” he said, choking.
“Doesn’t your French notion of marriage include business?”
“You have money together?”
“Of course,” she said, her lips tight. “Lots. He’s very good.”
Rangle felt his face twisting. He turned quickly and picked up the suitcase, stopping only to slam the bedroom door on her laughter.
When the limo stopped in front of the terminal at Teterboro, Rangle got out without a word to his driver. Inside, the girl behind the counter said that everything was ready and he snapped that it damned well better be. The driver delivered his suitcase and a handler scooped it up and said he’d put it into the jet. Rangle dismissed his driver and gave the girl his Platinum Card, enjoying the fact that since no one would be left to pay it, this ride was going to be for free.
The G-V was waiting just outside the hangar, its long white body shining in the sun, its massive engines looking almost too big for the rest of the plane. On board, he nodded to the pilots, who were checking their controls, and stepped through the galley into the main cabin.
One of the pilots came back and offered him a drink. Rangle settled into the leather recliner, fastened up his seat belt, and said, “Scotch and soda with ice. A double.”
The pilot nodded, and as he fixed the drink in the galley, he said, “I kept the shades down until we take off and get the air-conditioning going, Mr. Rangle, to keep you as cool as we can.”
Rangle took the drink from him and sipped the cool golden liquor, letting it dull his nerves.
“Can I take that briefcase for you?” the pilot asked.
“No,” Rangle said, clutching it to his chest. “I have some things in here that I need.”
“Okay, we’ll be taking off right away.”
Rangle nodded and looked at the shaded window. He lifted the shade a little and beyond the upward-bent wing saw a fuel truck drive away. He heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and felt the plane shake, then the sound of the stairs being retracted and the cabin door being secured.
Rangle loosened his tie and reclined the seat a little more. The engines screamed to life, and he angled the vent so that the cool air hit his face. The thought of Dani came on him suddenly and his chest convulsed. He swallowed some of his drink and held the briefcase tight as the plane swung around and headed up the runway.
He shut his eyes. After a brief pause, the plane accelerated, pushing him deep into the seat’s cushions. When they began to level off, he took another swig and pulled the shade all the way up. Sunlight streamed in. Below was the Hudson River littered with boats and the small white tails of their wakes.
Rangle sat up straight. He leaned across the cabin and opened the other shades. Mountains. He looked up the aisle. The cockpit door was closed. He sat back down and folded his arms across the briefcase, his mind spinning. He didn’t want to seem ridiculous. He looked out the window again. More river and more green hills. They were definitely going north.
He leaned into the aisle again and directed his voice toward the cockpit door.
“Hello?” he said.
Even when he raised his voice to a shout, nothing happened. Rangle got up and started through the galley. When he got halfway through, he realized one of the pilots was sitting in the front chair. A mountain of a man in a white shirt and dark slacks.
“I know this sounds crazy,” he said, putting on a foolish grin and reaching out to touch the pilot’s shoulder, “but aren’t we going the wrong way?”
When the man shifted his bulk around, Rangle clutched his briefcase and stepped back.
“What are you… you’re the Indian,” he said, his voice pitched.
Bert grinned up at him and pointed to the back of the plane with his thumb. “You better go sit down. We’re going right.”
“This is my charter,” Rangle said in a screech. “I’m going to the Caymans.”
“You’re going someplace a little chillier than that, old weasel,” Bert said, shifting around in his seat. “Now go sit down or I’ll make you sit down.”
“I can pay you,” Rangle said, raising his eyebrows and nodding his head, fumbling to open the briefcase. He loosened the neck of the velvet bag and took out a stone about the size of a half-karat. He held it up in the light so that the rays of its glitter dodged back and forth across Bert’s fat cheeks.
“That’s ten thousand dollars right there.”
Bert reached out and took the stone, then dropped it into his mouth and swallowed. Grinning he said, “You know what your stones mean to me? Shit. It’ll be a frozen shitsicle where we’re headed… I hope you packed warm.”
62
MY G-V ISN’T BACK for more than two days before I use it to head north across Canada, the Hudson Bay, the polar cap, and finally to Uelen on the Chukchi Peninsula in the farthest corner of northeast Russia. A couple hundred miles across the Bering Strait is Point Hope, Alaska, population 794. But for Bob Rangle, those 794 Americans may as well be on another planet.
I’m excited, but partway through the trip I take a pill, pull the shades on the unending sun, and sleep. When I wake up we’re in a place where the only person who speaks English is a hunting outfitter, Alexi Fedorovich. He meets us on the abandoned military runway twenty miles outside of town in an old Soviet helicopter. The runway itself is lined with the empty skeletons of the once-proud Soviet air force. Some are twin-prop babies from the Second World War and some are the sleek MiGs they pestered us with during the cold war.