Collision(107)

“Agent Vochek,” Pilgrim said. “You want our cooperation, that’s what we’ve got to do. Decide. Or we’ll decide for you, with all due respect.”





35

Sam Hector aimed his Learjet down his private runway. The compound fell away below him. He set the plane’s course, radioed into Dallas airspace. Then he went silent, slipped off the headphones, and called a number on the plane’s phone. He said, “I hope you’re leaving some gumbo for me.”

“Hardly. I expected to hear from you before now . . . ,” Margaret Pritchard said.

“Listen. There’s been a break in the project.”

“I’m listening.”

“Early this afternoon Dallas police found a body in an apartment. I have a source inside the department. The body is that of a woman who, I believe, is connected to Randall Choate.”

“How do you know she is . . .”

“I don’t. But it might be worth it if your agent flashes Choate’s picture to the landlord, see if anyone recognizes him. See if you can match the woman’s photo to any known ex-CIA, including those missing in action. My source at the force will send you complete info.” He cleared his throat; he didn’t need to go into detail about the additional findings in the police report: the scattered photos of Emily Forsberg in the moments before her death and the description of Ben Forsberg given by the bus station witnesses. Better for her to hear it from an impartial source. The only thing he’d taken from the apartment was the laptop; no reason to let the cops recover Ben’s deleted report from the hard drive.

“Too many deaths,” she said. “We can’t keep this under wraps.”

“Wrong. They’ve been in hiding for years, and thanks to Adam’s work and my digging, I’ve rooted out three of them in the past few days; this woman could be the fourth. This group is imploding under the pressure I’m putting on them,” he lied. “They know they’re close to being discovered. Choate might be trying to eliminate everyone who might talk.”

“I don’t need dead bodies. I need live ones that can tell us where the rest of this group is.”

“I know, Margaret,” he said. “We’re getting very close. There is one problem.”

“What?”

“They know it’s me after them. Ben Forsberg called me. Threatened me. Said they would smear me and my company with all sorts of allegations if I don’t back down. Who knows what he might claim, what he might say? None of it would be true, but I want you to silence the story as much as you can. When you speak to the police chief in Dallas, and I know you will, about this case having implications for Homeland Security, you need to be sure she understands that I’m doing your work and any allegations against me are baseless.”

She hesitated, as though he were asking too much. “Sam . . .”

“Should I call the Homeland secretary? Would that be easier?”

“Of course not, Sam, we’ll handle it on this end. Are you coming straight here after you land?”

“No. We have further leads to pursue. But I’ll call you when I’m on the ground.”

She thanked him and hung up.

Jackie said, “You might have overplayed your hand there.”

“Ben and Pilgrim can’t hurt us now. Ben fled a murder scene and left behind pictures of his dead wife. No one’s going to believe a word either of them say.”

“They know about New Orleans. He talked to Delia Moon—”

Hector didn’t want to think about how Ben had gotten him to let down his guard. “She knew no specifics. And they can’t get there in time. We move tonight.”

Hector pointed the plane southeast toward New Orleans. The hard work was nearly done. Within a day, he knew, his future would be assured.





36

The pilot stirred awake. Voices jabbered in the kitchen. Two men. Vochek. Talking about . . . taking the plane. He could smell the tomato soup he’d started to heat and he thought that his nose was the only part of his body working normally. His neck ached, he could barely see, and his hands weighed heavy, as though his flesh had converted to iron. He groped his front pocket for his cell phone—gone. But he remembered the scattering of panic buttons in the safe house. Pressing the button would send a silent alarm to the Homeland office in Dallas and an alert to the Plano Police Department.

He heard whoever was in the kitchen leaving, and he staggered to his feet, fell to his knees, and started to crawl for the alarm button in the bookcase.

The plane was already fueled and loaded, and Pilgrim was going through the flight check when sirens approached.