Total Control, Page 6

  "Fine, but is there anybody who knows the records better than her husband?" Gamble looked at Rowe for an answer.

  The young man shrugged. "No, not right now."

  "Then let's get him on the line."

  "Nathan--"

  Gamble cut Rowe off. "Jesus Christ, you'd think that the chairman of the company would be able to get a status report from an employee, wouldn't you? And why is he taking time off anyway with the CyberCom deal heating up?" He jerked his head in Sidney's direction. "I can't say that I much like the idea of having husband and wife involved in the same acquisition, but you happen to be the best deal attorney that I know of."

  "Thank you."

  "Don't thank me, because this deal isn't done yet." Gamble sat down and took a long puff on his cigar. "Let's call your husband. He home?"

  Sidney blinked rapidly and sat back down. "Well, actually he's not right now."

  Gamble looked at his watch. "Well, when will he be?"

  Sidney distractedly rubbing at her brow. "I'm not exactly sure. I mean, I tried him during our last break and he wasn't. In, I mean."

  "Well, let's try him again."

  Sidney stared at the man. She seemed suddenly all alone in the massive room. Sidney inwardly sighed and handed the TV remote to Paul Brophy, a young New York-based partner. Dammit, Jason, I hope you really have this new job locked up because it looks like we're really going to need it, honey.

  The door to the conference room opened and a secretary poked her head in. "Ms. Archer, I hate to interrupt, but is there a problem with your plane tickets?"

  Sidney looked puzzled. "Not that I know of, Jan, why?"

  "Well, someone from the airline is on the phone for you."

  Sidney opened her briefcase, pulled out her shuttle tickets and quickly perused them. She looked back at Jan. "It's a shuttle ticket, so it's an open return. Why would the airline be calling me about that?"

  "Can we get on with the meeting?" Gamble bellowed.

  Jan cleared her throat, looked anxiously at Nathan Gamble and continued speaking to Sidney. "Well, whoever it is wants to talk to you. Maybe they had to cancel the shuttle for the rest of today. It's been snowing for the last three hours."

  Sidney picked up another device and hit a button. The automatic blinds covering the wall of windows slowly slid back.

  "Christ!" Sidney gasped in dismay. She watched the fat snowflakes pouring down. They were so thick she couldn't see the building across the street.

  Paul Brophy looked at her. "The firm still has that condo up on Park, Sid, if you need to stay over." He paused. "Maybe we could grab some dinner." His eyes were quietly hopeful.

  Sidney sat down wearily without looking at him. "I can't." She was about to say that Jason was out of town but quickly caught herself.

  Sidney thought rapidly. Gamble was obviously not going to let this one go. She could call home, confirm what she already knew: that Jason wasn't there. They could all go out to dinner and she could slip away and start calling around L.A., starting with the of-rices of Allege raPort. They could patch Jason through, he could satisfy Gamble's curiosity, and with a little luck she and her husband could escape with little more than a bruised ego and the beginnings on an ulcer. And if the airports were closed, she could take the last Metroliner train home. She swiftly calculated travel times. She would have to call the day care. Karen could take Amy home with her. Worse-case scenario, Amy could do a sleep-over at Karen's. This logistical nightmare only reinforced Sidney's desires for a simpler existence.

  "Ms. Archer, do you want to take the call?"

  Sidney snapped out of her musings. "I'm sorry, Jan, just put it through in here. And Jan, see if you can get me on the last Metro-liner, just in case La Guardia's closed."

  "Yes, ma'am." Jan closed the door. In another moment a red light blinked on the telephone perched on the credenza. Sidney picked it up.

  Paul Brophy ejected the video and the TV came back on, voices from the screen filling the room. He quickly hit the mute button on the remote and the room was once again silent.

  Sidney cradled the phone against her ear.

  "This is Sidney Archer. Can I help you?"

  The woman's voice on the other end was a little hesitant, but oddly soothing. "My name is Linda Freeman. I'm with Western Airlines, Ms. Archer. Your office in Washington gave me this number."

  "Western? There must be a mistake. I'm ticketed on USAir. On the New York to D.C. shuttle." Sidney shook her head. A stupid mistake. She had enough on her plate right now.

  "Ms. Archer, I need you to confirm that you're the spouse of Jason w. Archer, residing at 611 Morgan Lane, Jefferson County, Virginia."

  Sidney's tone betrayed her confusion; however, her answer was automatic.

  "Yes." As soon as the word passed her lips, Sidney's entire body froze.

  "Oh, my God!" Paul Brophy's voice cut through the room.

  Sidney whirled around to look at him. All eyes were staring at the TV. Sidney turned slowly toward it. She didn't notice the words "Special News Report" flashing across the top of the screen, or the hearing-impaired close-captioned subtitles flowing across the bottom while the news correspondent recounted the tragic story. Her eyes were riveted on the mass of smoky, blackened wreckage that had once been a proud member of the Western Airlines fleet. George Beard's face appeared in her mind. His low, confidential tones assailed her. Them was a plane crash.

  The voice on the phone beckoned to her. "Ms. Archer, I'm afraid there's been an incident involving one of our aircraft."

  Sidney Archer heard no more. Her hand slowly descended to her side. Her fingers involuntarily opened and the phone receiver fell to the thickly carpeted floor.

  Outside, the snow continued to pour down so forcefully it resembled one of the city's famous ticker-tape parades. The cold winds hurled themselves against the broad array of windows, and Sidney Archer continued to stare in complete disbelief at the crater containing the remains of Flight 3223.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  One man, dark-haired, with a cleft chin below chubby cheeks, dressed in a fashionable two-piece suit and clearly introducing himself as William, met Jason Archer at the airport gate in Seattle. The two exchanged a couple of sentences, each composed of seemingly arbitrary words. The coded greeting successfully exchanged, they walked off together. As William went through the exit doors to signal for their ride, Jason took the opportunity to unobtrusively deposit a padded envelope into a U.S. mailbox located to the right of the exit door. Inside the envelope was the copy of the computer diskette he had made before leaving home.

  Jason was quickly escorted to a limousine that had pulled up to the curb on William's signal. Inside the limo William presented identification to Jason that revealed his name actually to be Anthony DePazza. A few words of innocuous conversation were exchanged, but nothing further, as the men settled back into the deep leather. Another man, dressed in a conservative brown suit, drove.

  During the ride, at DePazza's suggestion, Jason took the opportunity to remove the wig and mustache.

  The leather briefcase rode on Jason's lap. Occasionally DePazza would eye it and then continue to stare out the window. Had Jason observed a little more closely, he would have noticed the bulge and occasional glint of metal under DePazza's jacket. The Glock M-17 9mm was a particularly deadly piece of ordnance. The driver was similarly equipped. Even if Jason had seen the weaponry, however, it would not have surprised him. Indeed, he expected them to carry guns.

  The limo headed east away from Puget Sound. Jason looked out the tinted windows. The sky was overcast, and drops of rain splattered against the window. From his small pool of meteorological knowledge, Jason knew this weather was apparently a fixture for Seattle.

  Within half an hour the limo had reached its destination: a collection of warehouse buildings that were accessed through an electric gate where a guam was stationed.

  Jason looked around nervously, but said nothing. He had been told to expect unusual meeting condit
ions. They entered one of the warehouses through a metal overhead door that rose up as the limo approached. Exiting the vehicle, Jason could see the door closing.

  The only light came from a daple of overhead light that were in need of cleaning. A set of stairs was at one end of the vast space. The men motioned for Jason to follow them. Jason looked around and felt an uneasiness start to wash over him. With an effort he brushed aside the feeling, took a deep breath and walked toward the stairs.

  Up the stairs, they entered a narrow doorway to a small, windowless room. The driver waited outside. DePazza hit the light switch. Jason looked around. The furnishings consisted of one cam table, a couple of chairs and a battered file cabinet with holes rusted through.

  Completely unknown to Jason, a surveillance camera, activated as soon as the light in the small room had been turned on, looked out from one of the file cabinet's rusty apertures, silently recording the even rs.

  DePazza sat down in one of the chairs and motioned for Jason to do likewise. "Shouldn't be long now," DePazza said in a friendly tone. He flipped out a cigarette and offered another to Jason, who shook his head. "Just remember, Jason, don't do any talking. They only want what's in that briefcase. No need to complicate matters.

  Okay?"

  Jason nodded.

  Before DePazza could light the menthol, there were three quick knocks on the door. Jason stood up, as did DePazza, who quickly put the cigarette away and opened the door. In the doorway stood a man, small in stature, his hair solid gray, his skin tanned and heavily wrinkled. Behind him were two men, dressed in cheap suits and wearing sunglasses despite the dim light. They both appeared to be in their late thirties.

  The older man looked at DePazza, who in turn pointed to Jason.

  The man looked at him with penetrating blue eyes. Jason suddenly realized he was drenched with perspiration, although the entire warehouse was unheated and the temperature must have been close to forty degrees.

  Jason glanced at DePazza, who slowly nodded. Jason quickly handed over the leather briefcase. The man looked inside the bag, briefly perusing its contents, taking a minute to scrutinize one piece of paper in particular. The two others did likewise; smiles sprouted on their lips. The older man smiled broadly and then replaced the page, closed the briefcase and handed it to one of his men. The other one handed him a silver metal case, which he held briefly and then handed over to Jason. The case was secured by an electronic lock.

  The sudden roar of the airplane overhead made them all jerk their heads upward. It seemed to be landing on the building. In a few moments it had passed by and the silence returned.

  The elderly man smiled, turned, and the door quietly closed behind all three.

  Jason slowly let out his breath.

  They waited for a minute in silence and then DePazza opened the door and motioned for Jason to walk out. DePazza and the driver followed. The lights were turned out. The surveillance camera instantly shut off as the darkness returned.

  Jason climbed back into the limo, holding tightly to the silver case. It was fairly heavy. He turned to DePazza.

  "I didn't expect it to go exactly like that."

  DePazza shrugged. "However you count it, though, it was a success."

  "Yeah, but why couldn't I say anything?"

  DePazza stared at him, faintly annoyed. "What would you have said, Jason?"

  Jason finally shrugged.

  "If I were you, I'd focus my attention on the contents of that." De-Pazza pointed at the briefcase.

  Jason tried to open it but without success. He raised his eyebrows at his companion.

  "When you get to where you'll be staying, you can open it. I'll tell you the code when we get there. Follow the instructions inside."

  He added, "You won't be disappointed."

  "But why Seattle?"

  "It's doubtful you'd run into anyone you know here. Correct?"

  DePazza's calm eyes rested on Jason's face.

  "And you won't need me anymore. You're sure?"

  DePazza almost smiled. "As sure as I've ever been about anything."

  He shook Jason's hand.

  DePazza leaned back in his seat. Jason put his seat belt on and felt something jab him in the side. He pulled his SkyWord pager from his belt and looked guiltily at it. What if it had been his wife calling earlier? He looked at the tiny screen and his face suddenly registered disbelief.

  Flashing across the screen, the pager's headline feature told the story of a terrible tragedy: Western Airlines' early morning Flight 3223 from Washington to L.A. had crashed in the Virginia countryside; there were no survivors.

  Jason Archer couldn't catch his breath. He tore open his black metal case and frantically reached for the phone inside.

  DePazza's voice was sharp. "What the hell are you doing?"

  Jason handed DePazza the pager. "My wife thinks I'm dead. Oh, Christ. That's why she was calling. Oh, my God." Jason's fingers fumbled over the phone case, trying to open it.

  DePazza looked down at the pager. He read the digitized headline and the word "Shit" silently passed between his lips. Well, this would only accelerate the process slightly, he thought. He didn't like to deviate from the established plan, yet clearly he had no choice but to do exactly that. When he looked back up at Jason, his eyes were cold and deadly. One hand reached over and snatched the cellular phone from Jason's trembling hands. The other reached inside his jacket and reappeared, holding the compact shape of the deadly Glock directly at Jason's head.

  Jason looked up and saw the gun.

  "I'm afraid that you're not calling anybody." DePazza's eyes never left Jason's face.

  Transfixed, Jason watched DePazza reach up to his face and rug at his skin. The elaborate disguise came off piece by piece. In another moment, next to Jason sat a blond-haired man in his early thirties with a long aquiline nose and fair skin. The eyes, though, remained the same blue and chilling. His real name, although he rarely used it, was Kenneth Scales. He was a certifiable sociopath, with a twist.

  He took great pleasure in killing people, and reveled in the details that went into that terrible process. However, he never did it randomly.

  And he never did it for free.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It had taken the better part of five hours to contain the fire, and in the end the flames retreated of their own accord after having consumed everything combustible within their long reach. The local authorities were grateful only that the conflagration had raged in an empty, secluded dirt field.

  A National Transportation Safety Board "go-team," outfitted in their blue biohazard protective suits, were now slowly walking the outside perimeter of the crash while smoke billowed skyward and small pockets of obstinate flames were attacked by diligent teams of firefighters. The entire area had been cordoned off with orange and white street barricades behind which a number of anxious area residents stood and stared in the typical mixture of horrified disbelief and morbid interest. Columns of fire trucks, police cars, ambulances, dark green National Guard trucks and other emergency vehicles were stacked along both sides of the field. The EMTs stood next to their vehicles, hands in their pockets. Their services would not be needed other than as silent transports of whatever human remains, if any, could be extracted from the holocaust.

  The mayor of the nearby rural Virginia town stood next to the farmer whose land had received this most terrible intrusion from above. Behind them, two Ford pickup trucks sported "I survived Pearl Harbor" license plates. And now, for the second time in their lives, their faces carried the horror of sudden, terrible and massive death.

  "It's not a crash site. It's a goddamn crematory." The veteran NTSB investigator shook his head wearily, removed his cap emblazoned with the letters NTSB and wiped at his wrinkled brow with his other hand. George Kaplan was fifty-one years old with thinning, gray-edged hair that covered a wide head; he carried a small paunch on a five-foot-seven-inch frame. As a fighter pilot in Vietnam, then a commercial pilot for many years,
he had joined the NTSB after a close friend had crashed a two-seater Piper into the side of a hill after a near miss with a 727 during a heavy fog. It was then that Kaplan decided he should do less flying and more work trying to prevent accidents.

  George Kaplan was the designated investigator in charge and this was absolutely the last place in the world he wanted to be; but, unfortunately, one obvious place to seek preventive safety measures was at the scene of aircraft accidents. Every night members of the NTSB crash investigative "go-teams" went to bed hoping beyond hope that no one would have need of their services, praying that there would be no reason to travel to distant places, to pick through the pieces of yet another catastrophe.

  As he scanned the crash area, Kaplan grimaced and shook his head again. Starkly absent was the usual trail of aircraft and body parts, luggage, clothing and the millions of other items that routinely would be discovered, sorted, cataloged, analyzed and papered until some conclusions could be found for why a 110-ton