«They disappeared from their hotel rooms. Three days later their bodies were found in the river. They’d been shot.»
«Jesus! What river? Where?»
«The Isar. They were in Munich, Germany.»
One by one the irate passengers of Flight 591 passed through the door of the quarantined room. Their names, addresses, and telephone numbers were checked off against the 747’s manifest by a representative of British Airways. Next to the representative was a member of the Port Authority police, making his own marks on a duplicate list. The quarantine had lasted nearly four hours.
Outside the room the passengers were directed down a hallway into a large cargo area, where they retrieved their inspected luggage, and headed for the doors of the main terminal. One passenger, however, made no move to leave the cargo area. Instead, this man, who carried no luggage, but had a raincoat over his arm, walked directly to a door with thick, stenciled printing on the panel.
U. S. CUSTOMS. CONTROL CENTER
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
Showing identification, he stepped inside.
A gray-haired man in the uniform of a high-ranking customs official stood by a steel-framed window, smoking a cigarette. At the intrusion, he turned. «I’ve been waiting for you,» he said. «There was nothing I could do while you were quarantined.»
«I had the ID card ready in case you weren’t here,» replied the passenger, putting the identification back into his jacket pocket.
«Keep it ready. You may still need it; the police are all over the place. What do you want to do?»
«Get out to that aircraft.»
«You think they’re there?»
«Yes. Somewhere. It’s the only explanation.»
The two men left the room and walked rapidly across the cargo area, past the numerous conveyor belts, to a steel doorway marked NO ADMITTANCE.
Using a key, the customs official opened it and preceded the younger man with the raincoat through the door. They were inside a long cinderblock tunnel that led to the field. Forty seconds later they readied another steel door, this one guarded by two men, one from U.S. Customs, the other from the Port Authority police. The gray-haired official was recognized by the former.
«Hello, Captain. Hell of a night, isn’t it?»
«It’s only begun, I’m afraid,» said the official. «We may be involved, after all.» He looked at the policeman. «This man’s federal,» he continued, angling his head at his companion. «I’m taking him to the five-ninety-one aircraft. There may be a narcotics connection.»
The police officer seemed confused. Apparently his orders were to allow no one through the door. The customs guard interceded.
«Hey, come on. This man runs all of Kennedy Airport.»
The policeman shrugged and opened the door.
Outside a steady rain fell from the black night sky as pockets of mist rolled in from Jamaica Bay. The man with the customs official put on his raincoat. His movements were swift; in the hand beneath the coat held over his arm had been a gun. It was now in his belt, the buttons at his waist unfastened.
The 747 glistened under floodlights, rain streaking down its fuselage. Police and maintenance crews were everywhere, distinguished from one another by the contrasting blade and orange of their slickers.
«I’ll build your cover with the police inside,» said the customs official, gesturing at the metal steps that swept up from the back of the truck to a door in the fuselage. «Good hunting.»
The man in the raincoat nodded, not really listening. His eyes were scanning the area. The 747 was the focal point; thirty yards from it in all directions were stanchions connected by ropes, policemen at midpoints between them. The man in the raincoat was within this enclosure; he could move about freely. He turned right at the end of the parallel ropes and proceeded toward the rear of the aircraft. He nodded to the police officers at their posts, slapping his identification open casually to those whose looks were questioning. He kept peering through the rain into the faces of those entering and leaving the plane. Three quarters around the plane, he heard the angry shout of a maintenance crewman.
«What the fuck are you doing? Get that winch secure!»
The target of the outburst was another crewman, standing on the platform of a fuel truck. This crewman had no rain slicker on; his white coverall was drenched. In the driver’s seat of the truck sat another crewman, also without rain apparel.
That was it, thought the man in the raincoat. The killers had worn coveralls beneath their suits. But they had not taken into consideration the possibility of rain. Except for that mistake, the escape had been planned brilliantly.
The man walked over to the fuel truck, his hand on the gun concealed beneath his raincoat. Through the rain he stared at the figure beyond the truck window, in the driver’s seat; the second man was above him, to his right on the platform, turned away. The face behind the window stared back in disbelief, and instantly lurched for the far side of the seat. But the man in the raincoat was too quick. He opened the door, pulled out his revolver and fired, the gunshot muted by a silencer. The man in the seat fell into the dashboard, blood streaming out of his forehead.
At the sound of the commotion below, the second man spun around on the steel platform of the truck and looked below.
«You! In the lounge! With the newspaper!»
«Get inside the truck,» commanded the man in the raincoat, his words clear through the pounding rain, his gun concealed behind the door panel.
The figure on the platform hesitated. The man with the gun looked around. The surrounding police were preoccupied with their discomfort in the downpour, half blinded by the floodlights. None was observing the deadly scene. The man in the raincoat reached up, grabbed the white cloth of the surviving killer’s coverall, and yanked him into the frame of the open door of the fuel truck.
«You failed. Heinrich Clausen’s son still lives,» he said calmly. Then he fired a second shot. The killer fell back into the seat.
The man in the raincoat closed the door and put his gun back into his belt. He walked casually away, directly underneath the fuselage toward the roped-off alleyway that led to the tunnel. He could see the customs official emerging from the 747’s door, walking rapidly down the steps. They met and together headed for the door of the tunnel.
«What happened?» asked the official.
«My hunting was good. Theirs wasn’t. The question is, what do we do about Holcroft?»
«That’s not our concern. It’s the Tinamou’s. The Tinamou must be informed.»
The man in the raincoat smiled to himself, knowing his smile could not be seen in the downpour.
4
Holcroft got out of the taxi in front of his apartment on East Seventy-third Street. He was exhausted, the strain of the last three days heightened by the tragedy on board the flight. He was sorry for the poor bastard who’d had the heart attack, but furious at the Port Authority police who treated the incident as if it were an international crisis. Good Lord! Quarantined for damned near four hours! And all passengers in first class were to keep the police informed of their whereabouts for the next sixty days.
The doorman greeted him. «A short trip this time, Mr. Holcroft. But you got a lot of mail. Oh, and a message.»
«A message?»
«Yes, sir,» said the doorman, handing him a business card. «This gentleman came in asking for you last night. He was very agitated, you know what I mean?»
«Not exactly.» Noel took the card and read the name: PETER BALDWIN, ESQ.; it meant nothing to him.