“This is Jack Morgan,” I said.
“Mr. Morgan—” the operator began, but I cut him off.
“I know. Don’t believe everything you hear on the news. Put me through to Hector Lopez, and if anyone asks, you never heard from me.”
“Yes, sir,” the operator replied.
The line went silent; then there was a ringing tone and the call connected.
“Jack?” Hector Lopez said.
I could hear the disbelief in his tone. He was the new head of Private Vegas, and was a decent, honest man. The rumors and scandal wouldn’t have been easy for him.
“No names,” I said. “This isn’t a secure line. I’ve been framed by Russian intelligence. Whatever you’ve heard is a lie.”
“I never thought otherwise,” Hector replied.
“What’s the situation where you are?” I asked.
“Feds are freezing our assets and operations,” Hector informed me. “Part of a counter-espionage operation. My read is someone’s putting the squeeze on you.”
“You read it right,” I told Hector, relieved I’d hired this perceptive former FBI agent out of the Vegas field office. “I need you to meet me upstate. Municipal airfield. Name of a late-night talk-show host.”
If Salko, Veles or any of their SVR associates were listening in, they’d probably guess where we were heading, but I wasn’t going to make it easy on them.
“Got it. What’s your ETA?” Hector asked.
I performed a quick calculation. “Flight time of around twelve hours. We should touch down just before eleven.”
“I’ll be there,” Hector said.
“Come prepared,” I replied.
“Copy that,” he said, before hanging up.
“We’re going to be cutting it fine,” Dinara observed. “The system goes online at midday.”
“We’ll make it,” I replied, but in truth I wasn’t so sure.
Chapter 102
Instead of flying over the continental United States, which would have attracted attention, I tracked the Pacific coast over international waters. Dinara managed a few hours’ sleep, but I was too amped to rest and was running on adrenalin. I disabled the aircraft transponder, but there was nothing I could do about radar except keep clear of known installations and air corridors. I spent a long time studying everything I could find on Ann Kavanagh. Justine had been right; Kavanagh fit the Bright Star profile. A ward of the state, distinguished service in the military, a successful career, a wealthy recluse. She wasn’t often photographed, but the pictures that did exist showed a tall, athletic woman with blond hair, pale, unblemished skin, and wide, flat eyes. There was something ethereal about her, and she looked as though she might have had Scandinavian heritage.
We finally entered American airspace over the Mendocino National Forest, a large stretch of wilderness some 350 miles from Fallon, approximately forty minutes out. My gamble paid off, and we weren’t challenged until we were a hundred miles from Fallon and had started our final descent.
“Unidentified aircraft, this is Naval Air Station Fallon. Identify yourself and state your destination,” a stern voice said over the radio.
“This is November Six Three Zero Sierra Tango,” I replied, giving the tail number of a G650 based in San Francisco. “We’ve run into electrical problems. All our systems are failing intermittently. We’re heading for Fallon Municipal, and will put down there until we can get an engineer out.”
“Copy that,” the NAS Fallon controller said. “Do not deviate from your current course.”
“Understood,” I replied. “Will stay on heading one-three-two.”
Dinara entered the cockpit.
“Better strap yourself in,” I said.
She took the co-pilot’s chair and buckled up.
I switched to Fallon Municipal Airport tower frequency. “FLX Fallon, FLX Fallon, this is November Six Three Zero Sierra Tango flying from San Francisco to New York. We’ve encountered an electrical fault and need to land to make repairs.”
“Copy that, November Six Three Zero Sierra Tango,” a man replied. Calm and measured, he lacked the authoritarian tone of the military air traffic controller. “Are you deadstick?” he asked, using the aviation term for an unresponsive aircraft.
“Negative,” I replied. I didn’t want the airport crash tenders being deployed. “We think it’s a blown fuseboard.”
“Copy that,” the Fallon Municipal controller replied. “Stay on approach one-three-two. Runway thirteen is clear.”
“Copy,” I said, making my final preparations. “We’ll be on the ground in ten minutes,” I told Dinara. “I hope Hector’s there, because when they realize our tail number doesn’t match the one I’ve given them, there’s going to be trouble.”
Chapter 103
I needn’t have worried. Hector was there waiting in a gray Jeep Grand Cherokee and drove across the airfield to meet us the moment the airstairs touched the asphalt. Hector Lopez had a high forehead, chiseled cheekbones, and narrow eyes that exuded intelligence. He was an approachable man with a strong sense of honor, and I’d warmed to him the instant he’d arrived for his interview. He stepped out of the jeep, wearing a light blue bomber jacket, a navy shirt and black jeans.
“Good to see you, boss,” he said as we hurried over to the SUV. “Wish it was under better circumstances.”
After the freezing cold of Moscow and New York, the sweet, cool breeze of a mild Nevada winter seemed almost tropical. I jumped in the passenger seat, and Dinara climbed in the back. The dashboard clock said 10:51 a.m.
“How did you get on the field?” I asked as he started driving toward the small terminal building.
“I flashed my old Bureau ID,” Hector explained. “I know, I know, it’s a felony to impersonate an FBI agent, but I used to be one, so it’s kind of a gray area. At least in my mind. I told the airport manager that no matter what he heard, this plane was Bureau and it was not to be interfered with.”
I was impressed with Hector’s resourcefulness.
“Hector Lopez, this is Dinara Orlova,” I said. “Hector runs Private Vegas. Dinara is head of Private Moscow.”
“Good to meet you,” Hector said.
“You also,” Dinara replied.
“So where are we going?” Hector asked.
“Naval Air Station Fallon,” I replied. “We need to get inside.”
Hector puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly, and a look of disbelief swept across his face. “I don’t think my old Bureau ID will work on those fellas.”
“Leave it to me,” I said. “I’ll get us in.”
Hector didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. He flashed his Bureau ID at the airport gate guard, and moments later we were gathering speed on Rio Vista Drive.
Chapter 104
The municipal airport was located northeast of Fallon, and the Naval Air Station was seven miles directly south, on the other side of town. They traveled through a flat, arid landscape, which was broken only by the occasional single story-home. High mountains wrinkled the distant horizon. No one said anything, and Hector Lopez covered the distance in twelve minutes.
Dinara had felt strange being introduced as the head of Private Moscow. She’d appreciated Jack’s gesture, but it had rung hollow. There wasn’t really anything to be head of. Leonid was gone, which only left Elena Kabova. Dinara wondered if the office administrator had been pulled in for questioning, or whether she was sitting in the Moscow office, puzzling over what had happened.
Dinara had slept on the plane, and her kaleidoscopic dreams had been dominated by Leonid’s death. She kept replaying the awful moment, despairing at her inability to save him. She’d slept but she didn’t feel rested, and the flat, desolate, alien landscape made her experience feel even more surreal. She was traveling with one of the world’s most wanted men, and they were about to attempt to infiltrate a high-security military installation.