Just like Platt had given up Peterson.
Shit. He had underestimated Hughes. He should have been more alert. The bastard.
He put the magazine down. He had to get the hell out of here. The two feds would be calling for backup, and the airport was going to be a stoppered bottle in a few minutes, if it wasn't already.
Maybe the feds didn't know he'd spotted them. That might buy him a couple of minutes. But he couldn't chance trying to leave by the front door. There could already be local cops heading that way.
He stood and walked toward the exit that led to the gates. It was the fastest way out of the building.
There was a keypad lock by the door, but nobody was looking right at him, so he figured he could put his shoulder against the door and pop it, but when he looked, damned if the door didn't open inward inward. Wasn't gonna shove that one open. Crap!
He looked around. A couple of women were opening up a computer station at one of the nearby gates. He headed that way.
"Ma'am? I'm sorry to bother you, but I just saw somebody go into that door over there." He pointed.
The airline clerks looked at him. One was tall and bottle-blond, the other was short and kind of plump, with red hair probably out of a bottle too. "Sir?"
"That door that says no entrance, right over there? Well, it was partway open, and some kid, I dunno, about eight or nine? she just went in and closed the door behind her."
"I'll check it, Marcie," the redhead said.
"It's right over here," Platt said, smiling.
Once she'd punched in the number and opened the door, Platt considered his options. Grab her and haul her ass inside, close the door, clonk her on the head, and haul ass? Or just remember the number, wait until she got done looking for the kid who didn't exist, then sneak in himself?
If he'd had more time, he'd have gone with the second choice. Less fuss. But even as they stood there, FBI and local cops could be tossing a net over the building. Seconds might count.
He stepped in behind the woman, wrapped his arm around her throat, and squeezed her carotids shut. She struggled and tried to scream, but that came out like a gargle. Thirty seconds later she was out cold, the blood shut off from her brain. If he held on and squeezed a little tighter, she'd croak, but he wasn't that desperate yet. It wouldn't do any good besides; they already knew who he was. No point in adding murder to whatever they had. Once she was out, he tore off her blouse, ripped it into strips, tied her hands and feet, stuffed a piece in her mouth and used her scarf to hold it in place, then picked her up and put her over his shoulder. He went down the ramp, laid her on the floor at the end, around the turn where nobody could see her, then opened the emergency exit and went down the ladder to the concrete. She was coming to as he left. She'd be okay.
Noisy as hell out here.
They were unloading a jet two gates over, and Platt hurried in that direction. A guy on one of those motorized conveyer trucks passed him. Platt waved him down.
"What's up?" the guy said, yelling because he was wearing headphones.
Platt smiled. Grabbed the guy, then gave him one in the gut and one upside the head, knocking the guy senseless. Platt grabbed his earphones and hopped on the conveyer truck. He put it in gear and took off.
Probably there'd be roadblocks leading to the airport pretty quick.
Think, Platt, think!
All right. He had an emergency passport and about twenty thousand dollars of Hughes's money-a thousand in cash, and the rest in a cash-card account-plus he had a hundred grand of his own fuck-you money stashed in another cash-card account under a name nobody knew.
What he needed was a ride, and he needed it from somewhere close.
Ahead was a section of the airport where the express package and cargo service planes were parked.
He grinned as the idea hit him.
"Good morning, sir," the manager of the freight office said. "How can I help you?" He was a kid of maybe twenty-four, twenty-five, wearing a white shirt and a blue tie.
Platt smiled. "Well, sir, I have me a little problem. My name is Herbert George Wells, I've got this big ole shipment of farm machinery sitting on a loading dock in London, England, and no way to git it home." He put a lot more grits in his accent than usual. Stupider he sounded, the better.
"That's what we're here for, sir."
"Thing is, the original airline I hired? Well, they crapped out on me, blew an engine or something, and in order to get my tax break, I needed to have spent the money for the plane by December 31st of last year."
The manager raised an eyebrow.
"See, it saves me about ten thousand dollars if I can show I paid the money about three weeks ago, you understand what I'm sayin' here?"
"I think so."
"I'd like to hire one of your planes to fly over there and pick up my machinery-nothin' illegal here, sir, I got proper papers on everything-but if I don't use my first charter, I'm gonna lose ten thousand dollars. On the other hand, I really need those parts, it's costin' me bidness every day they're sittin' in England and not in Mobile-that's where I need to get it, you see, Mobile, Alabama."
"It does appear to be a problem, sir."
"Well, yes. And since there's nothing illegal about my stuff over there, let's just say, just, you know, for instance, if you had taken this order from me, oh, say, around Christmastime, how much of a problem would that be?"
The manager looked around. Then he looked at Platt. What he thought he saw was a big, musclebound mechanic with his butt in a crack. "Well, sir, if I had taken the order and somehow forgotten to enter it into the computer, that would be my mistake. I could, ah, correct correct that when I filled out the paperwork, pre-date it so it matched the actual date I took the order." that when I filled out the paperwork, pre-date it so it matched the actual date I took the order."
Platt smiled, one man of the world to another. "Well, sir, if you was to do that, I would be mighty grateful, mighty grateful. And Mr.Franklin and a baseball team of his twin brothers would also be mighty pleased." Platt reached into his shirt pocket, looked around, then removed ten hundred-dollar bills, folded in the middle. He put the bills on the desk and slid them toward the kid.
The kid covered the bills with his hand, opened his desk drawer, raked the money off the desk, then shut the drawer. He smiled at Platt. "All right then, Mr.Wells, what kind of equipment did you have in mind?"
Platt grinned. He had his ride, and any feds looking for him wouldn't find it-since it had been booked two weeks earlier and under another name.
Once he got to England, getting a flight to Africa would be easy.
Then he and Mr.Thomas Hughes would have some words. Yes, sir, they surely would...
Chapter Thirty-Seven.
Sunday, January 16th, noon Quantico, Virginia Michaels ate takeout Chinese food at his desk, using throw-away chopsticks to fish the stuff directly from the containers, not even bothering with the paper plate that came in the lunch bag. He'd ordered hot and spicy chicken with noodles, and sweet and sour tofu, but it all seemed kind of bland, and he ate for fuel, not taste. He had other things on his mind.
Toni came into his office. He looked up. Her face, while not grim, was certainly serious. "More good news?" he asked.
"Maybe we can't wait on White's chartered jet to deliver Mr.Thomas Hughes to us after all."
Michaels put the food box down. "Never rains but it pours. What?"
"It seems that about an hour ago, FBI field agents who went to Chicago's O'Hare airport to set up a surveillance on the gate where Platt was supposed to catch a plane to England goofed up."
"Goofed up. There's a nice phrase. What does 'goofed up' mean? And how did they know where he would be?"
"Once we knew who we were looking for, we found a couple of hidden accounts that Hughes had set up, small stuff, less than twenty or thirty thousand in each. Hughes tried to hide his connection to them, but not very hard. Platt used money from one of the accounts to book his ticket-and under a phony name."
"How do you know it was Platt?"
"Who else would be tapping into a slush account to buy a plane ticket overseas right now? We tipped off the field guys. The agents got there several hours ahead of the scheduled departure time, but Platt was already there. He spotted them."
"And he got away, didn't he?"
"The field agents aren't willing to concede that yet. But he did escape from the terminal building by assaulting a ticket agent and a freight handler. Stole a freight truck and disappeared. The FBI is looking, but it's a big airport."
"Yeah, that might be called a goof-up. Best-and-worst-case scenarios?"
Toni leaned against the wall. "Best case, they find him hiding behind a shipment of lawn furniture five minutes from now and take him into custody, whereupon he spills his guts and gives the federal prosecutors enough useful data to overload and sink an aircraft carrier. Hughes comes home, we grab him, he gets fifty years, and dies in jail when he's a hundred."
Michaels smiled at her. "I like that one."
"Worst-case scenario, Platt gets away, calls-or manages to get get to-Africa, where he informs Hughes the game is over and we're on to him. Hughes hunkers down behind his money and lives happily ever after in the guest room at the Presidential Palace, then dies at a hundred from eating too much caviar." to-Africa, where he informs Hughes the game is over and we're on to him. Hughes hunkers down behind his money and lives happily ever after in the guest room at the Presidential Palace, then dies at a hundred from eating too much caviar."
"I don't much like that story. Why is it I think it is more likely?"
"They could still catch him."
Michaels shook his head. "Somehow, my faith in the FBI's field ops is not as strong as it once was." He paused, staring at the congealing noodles and tofu. "Where is Colonel Howard?"
"In the air, on an Air Force jet. He should be here within the next couple of hours. What are we going to do?"
"Right now, if Platt wants to pick up a phone and call Hughes, can we stop him?"
"Jay says we can. If the virgil number Platt called before is the only one Hughes is using, we can jam it so it won't accept incoming calls. But there are other phones in Bissau, some of which probably even work. We can't block them all."
"Did you lay out what's going on for the colonel?"
"Not yet."
"Call him, tell him. Tell him to lay out his incursion scenarios. Find out what our chances are of going in and grabbing Hughes."
"Are we ready to take that road yet, Alex?"
"This guy terrorized the country, caused people to die, nearly gave a big chunk of a nuclear bomb to a bunch of nuts, and stole a shitload of money. I want to see him behind bars. If we do it right, we're in and out before anybody figures out what's going on, and Mr.Thomas Hughes belongs to us. I'm ready."
"I'll call the colonel."
The intercom buzzed. "Yes?"
"Sir, your wife's lawyer is on the phone."
Great. "Get his number. Then have my lawyer call him."
Toni looked at him.
"It's a long story. I'll tell you about it when we get caught up."
Sunday, January 16th, 5 p.m. Bissau, Guinea-Bissau Hughes stood on the terraced balcony outside his room, looking over the pink buildings of the compound at the surrounding grounds. It wasn't so bad here, when you had this kind of accommodation. You could build yourself a decent house in this country for twenty thousand dollars, a mansion for less than a hundred thousand. And he had forty million. He'd manage.
He leaned against the balcony railing, watching a shirtless native gardener with a hoe dig weeds from a flower bed. You could hire a guy like that for twenty bucks a month.
Yes. He'd do all right here.
The deal with Domingos had gone as smoothly as it could have gone. A hundred million dollars had gone into El Presidente's private Swiss account, and the mineral rights for the country of Guinea-Bissau now belonged almost entirely to Thomas Hughes. All All the mineral rights were his, for the next ninety-nine years. The oil, bauxite, and phosphates alone were potentially worth billions-at least that was what Hughes's geologists and petroleum engineers had told him. Not to mention any gold, silver, copper, or whatever else might lay under the completely unexploited ground here. The problem was, the country had never had enough money in the till to do any serious digging, and not enough trust from the big international corporations for them to take the risks. You didn't want to spend a couple hundred million dollars to set up an operation in a place like this if you were worried about the locals putting your managers to the spear and taking over. the mineral rights were his, for the next ninety-nine years. The oil, bauxite, and phosphates alone were potentially worth billions-at least that was what Hughes's geologists and petroleum engineers had told him. Not to mention any gold, silver, copper, or whatever else might lay under the completely unexploited ground here. The problem was, the country had never had enough money in the till to do any serious digging, and not enough trust from the big international corporations for them to take the risks. You didn't want to spend a couple hundred million dollars to set up an operation in a place like this if you were worried about the locals putting your managers to the spear and taking over.
But with Hughes owning the rights, it would be different. He was an educated American, somebody that the big oil and mine companies could deal with. He had plenty of experience in high-level negotiations, courtesy of his work for White. He'd tell his potential partners he had resigned to come here and make his fortune. Hell, even if they knew he'd ripped off the banks, it wouldn't matter. If a man thought you were going to make him billions billions on a business deal, he'd likely be willing to overlook a few shady things in your past. There were folks wanted for crimes in the States who had gone on to lucrative careers in other countries. Who was that movie director who had run off to France or somewhere and stayed there because the locals admired his work and refused to extradite him? on a business deal, he'd likely be willing to overlook a few shady things in your past. There were folks wanted for crimes in the States who had gone on to lucrative careers in other countries. Who was that movie director who had run off to France or somewhere and stayed there because the locals admired his work and refused to extradite him?
Money was money. And in the billion-dollar range, ethics got real rubbery.
Hughes had scanned fully legal electronic copies of the freshly signed hardcopy agreements already stored where there was no chance of them getting lost.
He also had half-a-dozen major corporations falling all over themselves ready to drop planeloads of money on him for exploration leases.
Of course, Domingos would get a piece of that too, to go along with the "advance" he'd just collected. But when you were talking about billions, there was enough to go around. Besides, Domingos would probably have a heart attack or a stroke in the not-too-distant future, given his excesses. And if not naturally, something could be... arranged.
If ever a man had been in the driver's seat and in control of the bus, it was Thomas Hughes. Things were almost perfect.
When Platt showed up, he'd be getting a little surprise too. Domingos would be happy to furnish a well-trained shooter who would just as soon blast Platt as look at him. And even if Domingos hadn't been eager to help, as poor as most of the people in this country were, you could hire a small army of locals who'd be willing to put a knife into somebody-and for less than the cost of dinner for two in a good Washington restaurant.
Platt was going to become past tense within hours of his arrival. He was expecting to come and collect twenty million dollars, then vanish.
He was half right anyway.
Hughes straightened, and turned to head back into his room. Monique would be arriving soon for a little afternoon delight.
It was good to be the king, but being the man behind the king was almost as good-and certainly it was a lot safer.
Sunday, January 16th, 3 p.m.
In the air aver the North Atlantic Ocean Platt had the 767 to himself, save for the flight crew. Wasn't any stewardess to offer him drinks or membership in the Mile High Club, but he could stretch out in a nice hammock somebody had rigged in the empty cargo bay, and that was a plus. He was on his way to Merrie Olde England, and practically home free. Even if the feds happened across the kid in the freight office and questioned him, the kid had a thousand bucks he'd lose if he gave Platt up, plus some explaining as to why he had forged a date on a rental agreement.
Platt had hit a cash machine just outside the office, so he had money left, plenty enough to catch a flight to Senegal, rent a car, and buy himself a few toys. He didn't want to be landing at the Bissau airport-no, not hardly. That would get back to the Presidente pretty quick, and from the Presidente's lips into Hughes's ear, and that wouldn't do at all. Hughes expected him to be in the federal pokey by now; Platt wanted his appearance to be a real surprise.
Course, it might be tricky sneaking into the guarded compound, but even jigs couldn't see in the dark. Platt had learned how to move in the woods when he'd been a kid, and some African forest couldn't be much worse than the swamps back home. Once he was over the wall, the rest of it would be a walk.