The Trojan Sea Page 11

  Finally one slowed. “Nice dog. Irish setter?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Marsten answered. “Duke’s a springer spaniel.”

  “He looks like a real gentleman,” the jogger said. He slowed to a walk, his bona fides established. ARA was very careful about maintaining the confidentiality of its clientele. “What can we do for you?”

  “Two items. Find out who bombed RTX Farm Supplies outside Miami on the twenty-first of September.”

  “No problem. I assume the FBI is investigating, so do you want proof leading to a conviction or just information?”

  “Information only. But I want it fast. You know how slow the FBI can be, and I’m worried they may hit us again.”

  “And the second item?”

  Marsten carefully considered his words. “A Lieutenant Colonel Michael E. Stuart who works in the Pentagon is probing into our business. I want to find out why and what’s going on.”

  “It’s difficult dealing with the military,” the jogger said. “We don’t have too many options.”

  “I’m aware of that. But he could make some connections I don’t want made.”

  “Exactly what are these connections?” the jogger asked.

  “I don’t want him talking to Laser Surveys or Emil Steiner, a French scientist, who you’re already watching.”

  “What exactly does Laser Surveys do?”

  “They charter a seismic vessel for offshore oil exploration,” Marsten said.

  “And if we discover a connection between Stuart, Steiner, and Laser Surveys?”

  They were entering dangerous ground, and Marsten needed to be cautious. ARA had no compunctions about operating in gray areas and would do many things. But even they wouldn’t do what Marsten was contemplating. Yet Marsten was sure they knew who would. “Then I’ll require, shall we say, services of a very specialized nature.”

  The jogger sensed where Marsten was going. “Services that ARA cannot and will not provide?”

  Marsten nodded. “Exactly.”

  The jogger took a deep breath. The next step was tricky, but the payoff was well worth it. He decided to commit. “I can help.”

  “I operate in a cutthroat, no-holds-barred world. There are many risks, very dangerous risks. But there are also great rewards.”

  “I understand perfectly. Of course, it will require some special arrangements.” He waited for Marsten’s response. A little nod confirmed they were on the same wavelength. “Will these special services be required only with the Stuart connection?”

  “It’s hard to say at this time,” Marsten answered.

  Now they had to set a price and work out their cover. “Say, double what you pay ARA, and we agree on bonuses before any difficult operations. And you continue to use ARA to provide a cover for us.”

  They had a deal. “I believe we understand each other perfectly,” Marsten said.

  “I’ll set up an account in an offshore bank.”

  “May I suggest Credit Central in Grand Cayman?” Marsten said.

  The jogger patted Duke’s head. It was just a chance encounter between two dog lovers. Then he was gone, running down the trail. He never looked back as he circled through the woods. After running for thirty-five minutes to be sure no one was following him, he headed for the minivan. A woman was in the back, monitoring the surveillance package. Sophia James was a tall, slender, dark-haired woman who could, when she chose to showcase her looks, be very glamorous. Her ability to change appearance and persona made her an invaluable agent for ARA. “You’re both clean,” she said.

  “Good,” the jogger replied, not that he expected anyone to be trailing him or Marsten. But in his business you could never be sure. He stripped off his sweats and rubbed down with a towel.

  “I got the conversation on tape,” Sophia said.

  The jogger stared at her, furious that she had eavesdropped and totally overstepped the bounds. “So?”

  “I want in.”

  “On what?”

  “My home is in Miami, and I speak Spanish.” She cocked her head as she studied his reaction. He was interested but needed convincing. She ejected the cartridge from the recorder and handed it to him. He stared at her. “I have many contacts in the Cuban community.”

  “How good is your Spanish?”

  “Very good. I was the only gringa in the neighborhood where I grew up.” She smiled. “In Miami.”

  “Welcome aboard.”

  8

  St. Louis, Missouri

  Ann Silton shifted her weight from foot to foot, feeling very uncomfortable as she waited for L.J. She had never been in a private FBO—fixed-base operations—at an airfield, and she found the masculine atmosphere oppressive. The urge to escape was overpowering, so she retreated to the ladies’ room. Inside, she found a very feminine lounge, in total contrast to the conditions outside. It helped ease her discomfort, and she lingered awhile before returning to the pilots’ lounge and flight-planning room.

  L.J. saw her the moment she entered the room. “Ann!” she called.

  “I’m so glad you could make it.” L.J. rushed up to her and held her at arm’s length. “You’ve lost weight.”

  Ann looked very unhappy. “It’s that damn video.”

  “I know you’re worried,” L.J. said. “That’s one of the reasons I’m here.” She led the way to the ladies’ room. “I told them to remodel the lounge the last time I was here. Otherwise I was going to take my business elsewhere.” She shut the door behind them, and they sat down.

  “What business?” Ann asked.

  “They do the maintenance on our Sabreliner, one of our corporate jets. It just came out of an annual inspection, and I’m here to pick it up. It was a perfect excuse to talk to you.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice. “We know who did it.”

  “Who?” L.J. shook her head. “I’m not so sure I should say.”

  “Who is it?” Ann demanded. “I’ll kill the bastard. Poor Clarissa. She’s so young and unsure of herself. This could destroy her.”

  “I don’t think you’ll believe me,” L.J. said. “If we only knew why.”

  “Who is it?” Ann shrieked, the lounge echoing with her fury.

  L.J. fell silent, timing her answer. “John Frobisher.”

  Ann Silton stared at her in disbelief. “But why?” Her eyes narrowed as she pictured the executive director of Front Uni in a new light. “He wants us out and his boys in. That must be it. He wants to take over Front Uni.”

  Again L.J. shook her head. “We can’t be sure of that.”

  “Oh, yes we can. John’s scheduled to testify before a Senate subcommittee next week.” Ann’s face turned hard, her worst suspicions about men reconfirmed. “He needs us out so he can cut a deal. I just know it.”

  “But why?” L.J. said. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  Ann laughed bitterly. “Of course it does. You haven’t heard—few people have—but President Turner is forming a Task Force on the Environment. John wants to be appointed the national director.”

  “I hadn’t heard about that.” The lie came easy for L.J. If she was going to make the slow roll work, she had to spread dissension among the environmentalists and split the leadership.

  “The bastards,” Ann hissed. “Why is it we can never trust a man?” L.J. patted her hand. “They don’t think like we do. But they are useful. We have a young scientist working on the benzene problem, and he may have made a breakthrough.” Ann’s head snapped up. Benzene was high on her personal hit list, and anyone solving that problem would be elevated to the environmental pantheon of saints. “Unfortunately,” L.J. continued, “it’s going to take money and time for development, and Congress is not very receptive right now to funding major research projects.”

  “Maybe we can help,” Ann replied.

  “What I need most right now is time.” L.J. shook her head. “I’m afraid John—or Congress, for that matter—doesn’t really trust us.”

  A knock at the door interrupted them. �
�L. J,” a man said in a loud voice. It was her pilot, Tim Roxford.

  “What is it, Tim?” L.J. called.

  “There’s a message from Life Flight. They need to get a heart to Norfolk for a transplant. It’s urgent.”

  “Tell them we’ll take it,” she said. “File a flight plan, and I’ll be right there.”

  L.J. touched Ann’s hand and lowered her voice. “Please, what I told you about John is confidential. Don’t do anything until I do more checking and get back to you.”

  “We need a woman to head that task force,” Ann announced.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” L.J. said, meaning every word. “But please don’t do anything rash.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to go. This is important.” She hurried out, Ann close behind her.

  Tim Roxford was waiting for her at the operations counter, putting the final touches on the flight plan. He was a young man, tall with dark hair. Like many corporate pilots, he wore a short-sleeved white shirt with epaulets, a dark blue tie, dark pants, and black shoes. He was amazingly fit and worked to cultivate an image of sober professionalism, all in the hope of landing a job with a major airline once he’d accumulated enough flying time. It didn’t hurt that he was ruggedly good-looking, with bright blue eyes.

  “One hour forty minutes to Norfolk,” he told L.J. “But most of the area is below landing minimums. Fog and forecast to stay that way for the next twelve hours.”

  A medical technician hurried through the door carrying a small white-and-red ice chest. “The clock is ticking on this one,” he told them. “A little boy has gone critical, and if we don’t get this to him…” He stopped, not willing to say more.

  “How long do we have?” L.J. asked.

  “Two, three hours,” the med tech said. “That’s all.” L.J. signed a receipt for the human heart. “Let’s go,” she said.

  Roxford shook his head. “We’ll never get in, not with this weather.”

  “We won’t know until we try,” L.J. replied.

  “Are you going?” Ann asked, worry in every word.

  “I’m the copilot,” L.J. said.

  “And it’s her airplane,” Roxford added.

  “Can I go?” Ann asked, wanting to be part of the flight and to be with L.J.

  L.J. shook her head. “You best not.”

  Ann took L.J.’s hand, her eyes glowing with pride. “You said you need time with Congress.”

  L.J. gave a little nod, picked up the cooler, and hurried out to the waiting airplane. Tim Roxford was right behind her.

  Over Norfolk, Virginia

  The small, two-engine Sabreliner entered the holding pattern exactly one hour and thirty-six minutes after lifting off from St. Louis. At altitude the moonlit sky was clear, but below them a blanket of gray stretched to the horizon. Roxford wired their airspeed at two hundred knots as L.J. copied the latest weather. Nothing had changed, and Norfolk International was still down for fog and forecast to stay that way. L.J. asked for an alternate, but the closest open field was over a hundred miles away and weather conditions there were deteriorating. “We’re running out of time,” she said. “We land here or the heart will never arrive in time. Let’s shoot an approach and take a look.”

  Roxford was convinced there was no way they could land. “Even the birds are grounded,” he told her. She gave him an encouraging look. “What the hell,” he said. “It’s your airplane.” He called for an ILS—instrument landing system—approach to Runway 23 and gave her his best grin. “I don’t mind pushing the minimums a bit. But I don’t think we’re going to see anything close to a hundred and a half.” They needed at least a hundred-foot ceiling and a half-mile forward visibility to land.

  Roxford broke out of the pattern and intercepted the localizer, the electronic beam that provided an approach path for exact alignment and descent to the runway. He inched the throttles back for the descent, and when their airspeed decayed to 165 knots, called for the gear and flaps. The Sabreliner slowed to 120 knots as they descended into the fog. Roxford’s eyes were padlocked on the instruments, and he was sweating. “Call the field,” he said, hoping L.J. would see the approach lights. But there was nothing, only dark gray.

  “Passing through five hundred feet,” L.J. said, her voice dead calm. “Three hundred, two hundred, coming up on decision height, no joy.”

  “Decision height,” Roxford said. “Going around.” He leveled off at a hundred feet above the ground, firewalled the throttles, and sucked up the gear and flaps. He never took his eyes off the instruments as they climbed out of the fog, reaching into the clear night air. L.J. announced the missed approach over the radio, and the tower told them to contact approach control on another frequency.

  “I think I saw the approach lights just as we leveled off,” L.J. told Roxford.

  “You got to be kidding,” he replied. “In this shit?”

  “I think so,” she said. “What else could it be? Let’s try again.”

  The look on Roxford’s face said he thought it was a crazy idea. But she reached out and touched his arm. “It’s important we try.” Reluctantly he nodded, and she radioed approach control for vectors back to the localizer to intercept the glide path.

  “We make it this time or we divert,” Roxford told her. She nodded in agreement, although it was a death sentence for the boy waiting for the heart. Again they intercepted the localizer and descended into the fog. Roxford’s shirt was soaked with sweat as he flew the best stabilized approach of his career.

  “A hundred feet above decision height,” L.J. called. An inner voice told her to go for it. “Fifty feet above. Stay on instruments. I think I see something.”

  “Decision height,” Roxford called, his voice strained, his eyes riveted on the instruments. They were at exactly a hundred feet above the ground and 115 knots airspeed.

  “Stay on instruments,” she said, “or you’ll get disoriented. I’ve got the approach lights in sight. Don’t look up, not yet.” She was lying through her teeth and couldn’t see a thing, only black. “Looking good. I’ve got the centerline lights, stay on instruments. We’re in and out of it.” The wheels touched down with a soft squeak. “Stay on instruments,” L.J. said as Roxford got on the brakes. “Come right a tad, that’s good, straighten it out. That’s good.” They came to a halt, and Roxford looked up.

  All he saw was black. “Where’s the fucking runway?” L.J. couldn’t answer. They had challenged death and won. Slowly her breathing calmed, and her heart stopped its frantic racing. She keyed the radio. “Tower, Life Flight is down and stopped on the runway. Please send the ambulance that’s waiting for our delivery. A follow-me would also be appreciated to take us to parking.”

  “Life Flight,” the tower said, “say position on runway.”

  “We’re near the five-thousand-foot remaining marker on Runway two-three,” she said. It was a wild guess, as she hadn’t seen a single marker in the fog.

  “Rog, Life Flight. The ambulance is headed your way. It’ll take about twenty minutes in this fog.”

  Another voice came on the radio. “Life Flight, this is the tower supervisor. Say landing conditions.”

  Roxford stared at her. “You never saw a thing, did you?”

  “I saw you,” she said. “That was enough to tell me we could make it.” She hit the radio transmit button on the yoke. “Tower, we had a break in the fog at decision height and acquired the runway environment. We went pop-eye on landing rollout.”

  “Sure you did,” the tower supervisor said. “I’m filing a report with Fisdo.” Fisdo, or FSDO, was the Flight Standards District Office, the FAA’s enforcement arm.

  “They’ll pull my license,” Roxford moaned. He stared straight ahead, his future lost in the fog.

  L.J.’s heart melted when she saw the forlorn look on his face. She had to reassure him that everything would be okay and that no matter what, they had done something good. “No they won’t,” she promised. She came out of her seat, her eyes glowing, and pushed his
headset away. Her hands were in his hair as she kissed him again and again. “I’m so proud of you,” she whispered. She pulled him back into the cabin, her hands tugging at his belt. “We’ve got twenty minutes,” she murmured.

  Dallas

  At best L.J. considered frustration a bump in the road that she might slow down to pass over, or if it was big enough and she had to come that way again, have it leveled. But this was the first time in years she had been totally stopped. And she didn’t like it. She sat in one corner of the couch in her office and stared at the culprit, a large whiteboard filled with a complex mathematical formula drawn with a black Magic Marker. She pulled her knees to her chest and concentrated. Unfortunately, her calculus had grown rusty from lack of use, and she was stumped.

  What’s the matter? she raged to herself. She bounced to her feet and attacked the board, circling part of the formula. Is that the problem? She returned to her nest on the couch and breathed deeply, her frustration mounting. Her intercom buzzed, and she hit the remote pad on the end table beside her. “Yes!” she barked.

  It was Marsten. “Do you have a moment?”

  Her voice turned warm. “For you, always.” She turned her attention back to the whiteboard, still trying to solve the problem.

  Marsten entered without knocking and glanced at the whiteboard. “Ah,” he said, hesitating. “I think you should see this.” He dropped an eight-by-ten color photo on the coffee table. Artistically the photograph was a gem. Fog misted over L.J.’s Sabreliner as it sat on the runway at Norfolk. Flashing lights from an ambulance cast a prismatic spectrum of color on the fuselage, and a woman was standing in the entrance handing a small plastic cooler to the ambulance driver. Unfortunately, the bare-shouldered woman in the entranceway was wrapped only in a lap robe.

  “I do believe that’s you,” Marsten said. She glanced at the photo, not bothering to pick it up. At times Marsten felt like a Dutch uncle, and he never hesitated to admonish her sternly. It was a twist in their relationship both accepted without questioning. “That was not a smart thing to do.”