Blinding Fear (12 page)

Chapter 18

Ilse Koch had to admit she had called herself “Sabrina” for a bizarre reason. She wanted to ironically contrast herself with her favorite female movie character from the 1954 picture of the same name. It had starred Audrey Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart. The movie Sabrina was beautiful, sweet, young, shy and awkward. Ilse knew she was a polar opposite in nearly every way—with the possible exception of the attractiveness factor. Hepburn was too girlish in Koch’s studied opinion, however.
Her
chosen profession required her to use her mature, well-honed sexuality on a regular basis and she did so with great relish—her current assignment no exception.

She watched dispassionately as Beckett drifted into semi-consciousness. She’d spiked his champagne with something similar to Rohypnol; better known as a “roofie” or the “date-rape” drug. She couldn’t help but smile at the exciting new use she’d found for it.

Of course she had never been drunk to begin with and mentally applauded her Academy Award-winning performance; One of her best ever! She felt she’d earned her $5,000 fee simply for the “hook” in the bar, not to mention the rest of her handiwork. But she still had much to do.

After a few more minutes to make sure he was “out,” she went to work.

Entering the bedroom section of his suite she could see Gnash had been right. Beckett had made copies of the investigation documents and other materials. She calmly went back to her room and returned with two, oversized, wheeled suitcases. Gnash had tried to estimate the volume and weight of Beckett’s copies when he bought the luggage and had again been right on target. Although she didn’t like the man at all, she had to admit he had an uncanny knack for anticipating every eventuality and planning for it.

Without much thought to exactly what she was doing, she quickly stuffed all the materials into the suitcases, then did a sweep of the room to make sure she’d missed nothing. If it ever came to light she had missed something, her life would probably be forfeited within hours.

The suitcases rolled easily and she was able to briskly move them to the van that was waiting in the back parking lot. Under normal circumstances she would have worried about the hotel’s security cameras that covered every public space both inside and out. But she knew at that moment one of Gnash’s tech boys in the van was “hiding” her from any camera’s view. Once she was done they would permanently wipe her nefarious comings and goings from the hotel’s servers. The innocuous portions of her stay at the hotel would remain.

‘Ah, the simplicity and beauty of digital, wireless technology,’ she mused. ‘It makes life so much easier!’

Now came the tricky part.

Returning to Beckett’s room, she could see the roofie was still working. Someone under the influence of a true roofie would be unable to walk or talk. Beckett could—although with help or coaxing—even though he was for all practical purposes, unconscious.

She had to marvel at what modern pharmacology could do.

With some effort she pulled him to his feet where he stood swaying slightly, his head lolling on his shoulders.

“Okay Mr. Beckett. Time for us to take a little walk.”

“No pobem,” he responded thickly. “Where we goin?”

Now it was her turn to provide support as she cautiously guided him out the door. As they left she placed a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door knob.

She knew the most dangerous part of the entire operation would be the next few minutes, so she used extra care to guide her charge down the hall, to the elevator and out the side door. If another hotel guest or employee saw them it could blow everything to pieces. They’d originally considered simply drugging Beckett into complete unconscious, pretending to be an EMT crew and wheeling him out on a gurney. But Gnash quickly ruled that out. He was concerned the noisy, cumbersome equipment and additional team members would surely attract attention both inside and outside the hotel. With some reluctance, and due to the short time they had to plan the op, he decided that an obviously drunk couple was the lesser of the two operational risks.

After nearly falling several times, she managed to get her “mark” to the van where he was roughly hauled inside by the other members of Gnash’s team and summarily dumped on the van’s floor. She was confident no one had seen them leave. Very quickly she made three more trips to Beckett’s room to retrieve the evidence duplicates Ludlow suspected would be there. She deposited all of it on the van’s floor next to the virtually unconscious body.

Just so much trash to be buried in the city’s landfill.

Lt. Austen Beckett, late of the Massachusetts State Police, would now disappear. How he had gotten out of the hotel without being seen by anyone or recorded on video was a mystery that would never be solved; his current whereabouts never discovered. His suspicions about the Cambridge explosion would disappear with him. His investigative team members would be unwilling to take them forward against the authority and intimidating presence of Special Agent Ludlow of the FBI.

Ilse Koch, AKA Sabrina Fairchild and many other alias’s, would return to her room, have a restful night’s sleep and check out normally the next morning. The 1s and 0s that comprised her fake credit card information, driver’s license, home address and other pertinent data would shortly thereafter evaporate from the hotel’s reservation systems due to a mysterious computer glitch.

Two days later the Cambridge Inn’s efficient house cleaning staff would enter Room 623 in spite of the “Do Not Disturb” tag and find it apparently still occupied, given that luggage and other personal effects were still in evidence. They would report as much to management who would initiate a fruitless attempt to find him. Eventually, they would charge his state-issued American Express card $3,282.39 for his five-night stay in the pricey business suite including meals, tips, two movies and laundry service.

They would also bill the card $60 for a quarter bottle of Laurent-Perrier Champagne.

Chapter 19

Among an annoyingly slow cluster of passengers, Claire McBeth made her way down the boarding bridge at Gate E22 pulling her carry-on bag. She’d just deplaned from a United Airlines 737 that had taken her from New York Laguardia to Dallas-Fort Worth to interview Kayode Seok. She’d spent the majority of the nonstop, four-hour flight trying to get comfortable in the narrow economy-class seat. Trapped between two male passengers “of size,” it had seemed as if she had no place to put her arms except in her lap with elbows tucked in tightly. Originally she’d hoped to review her notes on the plane but quickly gave up when faced with the daunting prospect of trying to get it out of overhead storage.

Ever since the economic near-melt down of 2007-09, the Sentinel had made serious efforts to cut costs and one of those was travel expenses. In bygone days she probably would have traveled First Class given she was working on a major article. She hoped it might make it “above the fold,” albeit in the Science and Technology section.

After fighting through hordes of other travelers to retrieve her large checked suitcase, she finally made it to the passenger pickup area. She dropped everything, took a deep breath and tried to scan for whomever was supposed to meet her. Anaya Williams-Jones’ travel instructions had stated a representative of KS Space Systems would meet her and provide the final leg of her journey to their facility. What that mode of transportation was she didn’t know.

With the teeming mob of humanity and vehicles blocking virtually every sight line she began to get nervous about how she would ever see, let alone meet, anyone.

At that moment she heard her name called from somewhere out of the crowd. As she turned to look for the source, she saw a smiling, young, athletic-looking man approach her. He wasn’t wearing cowboy boots or the proverbial 10-gallon hat. He was wearing apparel items just as cliched in her opinion: shorts, sneakers and a Dallas Cowboy’s T-shirt. “Are you Claire McBeth?” he asked with studied politeness.

“Yeah. You must be from KS Space Tourism. How’d you know who I was?”

“Your office sent us your photo, ma’am. Scott Service, at your service. May I take your bag?”

“That would be great. I’m about done in.”

He stooped over and with chiseled arms easily picked up both of her seriously overstuffed bags. “Our transport to the Corporate Aviation Terminal is over here.”

‘Corporate terminal,’ Claire thought. ‘Excellent! Probably a very expensive private jet.’ Things were definitely looking up after the “Cattle Air” flight from New York.

Service swiftly moved through the crowd to the curb where dozens of vehicles were in various stages of being loaded by their central Texas-bound drivers and passengers.

Hoping to see a wonderfully cool limo to whisk them through the early afternoon heat to the corporate terminal, she was somewhat disappointed to see Service put her bags in the back seat of an obviously vintage, navy blue convertible sedan with its oddly-yellow top down. He immediately opened the passenger door and waited for her to take a seat.

As she sat down he ran around and jumped in the drivers side.

“What kind of car is this?’ she asked.

“1964 Pontiac GTO. To answer your next question, among other hobbies, Kay likes to collect classic American muscle cars.” He turned the key and she heard the unmistakable sound of a large V-8 rumble to life.

“You call your boss ‘Kay’?”

“Yes, ma’am. He insists on it. He’s really cool to work for!”

“I guess so. And he lets you drive around very pricey classic cars in heavy traffic while picking up visitors?”

“Oh, I’m
very
careful, ma’am,” he said as he eased into traffic departing the terminal.

“You’ve got to do me a favor, Scott. Please don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ It makes me feel old.”

“Sorry. Guess it’s just my southern roots and all. Down here that’s one of the ways we’re taught to show respect to our female guests. What would you like me to call you?”

“‘Claire’ will be just fine.” As he maneuvered through the congestion, she continued. “By the way, how many times have you used that ‘Scott Service, at your service’ line when picking up guests at the airport?”

“Every time. I suppose it might seem a little bit hokey but Kay insists we treat every guest with 100% courtesy. The ‘Service’ thing is just my little touch.”

In 10 minutes they had cleared the madhouse of the main terminal and pulled up to the much smaller and relatively serene DFW Corporate Aviation Terminal on the North end of the sprawling international airport. A valet rushed to greet them. He immediately pulled Claire’s bags from the back, gently placed them on the sidewalk and then came around to open Claire’s door while Service stepped out by himself. As Claire walked around the car to stand by her luggage the valet jumped into the idling car and took off without a word to Service.

Watching the car pull away Claire asked, “You must do this frequently. You didn’t tip the valet.”

“Yeah. Three or four times a week we get visitors that I pick up. We’ve got a contract with the corporate terminal folks for all their normal services—including valet tipping. Now, if you’ll follow me, our next chariot awaits.” He picked up her bags again and began to wind his way through the very tastefully decorated interior of the terminal. They quickly walked through the empty waiting room and out the back door to the aircraft tarmac.

As she looked around she couldn’t see the hoped-for private jet, just an ancient two-wing trainer of some sort—which he walked straight toward. She stopped and stared. She was going to fly in that!

Service sensed she wasn’t following, turned around and with a large smile said, “It’s another one of his hobbies. He collects vintage aircraft. Don’t worry. You’ll have a blast!”

She reluctantly and slowly started walking again as she watched Service place her bags in a small compartment just behind the rear seat of the two-seat, open-cockpit plane. As she approached the navy blue and yellow aircraft, he handed her what was obviously an old fashioned leather flying helmet, goggles and pink, foam ear plugs.

“It’s a 1944 Boeing E75 Stearman. They used it to train Army Air Force pilots during World War Two,” he said as he pulled on his own helmet. She could see it included ear phones and microphone which she assumed he needed for contact with air traffic control.

“But it’s nearly 75 years-old!”

“No problem there. Kay maintains it and all his aircraft in better-than-new condition.”

“This is how he transports all his guests to your facility?” she asked incredulously.

“Naw. Just the ones he likes or wants to impress.” He chuckled, then added, “He knows some of his visitors can’t or won’t fly in the Stearman. He sends a helicopter or regular fixed-wing plane for them.”

“Now I know where I stand on his need-to-impress list.” Again she looked around. “Where’s the pilot?” she asked, expecting to see a mid-50-ish, distinguished-looking, former airline captain.

“That would be me.” Service smiled broadly.

“You! You couldn’t be more than, what, 20?”

“26, actually. And yeah, I know I look young but I’ve been doing this sort of thing since I was 13. Flying the visitor shuttle run in the Stearman is one of the first steps in the KS pilot training program. I hope my next step will be to move on to his short-haul, two-engine Cessna. I’ll be taking my two-engine certification exams next month.” He looked at his watch. “We’d better get going. If you don’t mind, you’ll need to put on your helmet and goggles.”

“But I’ll get helmet hair!”

“Visitor accommodations are very comfortable,” he replied. “You’ll be able to redo anything that gets mussed during the flight.”

She grudgingly stuffed in the ear plugs, pulled on the helmet and slipped on the goggles. She stepped on a small stool that allowed her to clammer into the front seat of the plane. “Why don’t you get up front?” she loudly asked as she settled onto the wicker seat and slipped on the shoulder and lap belts. For a moment she fondly remembered her seat on the 737 from New York.

“Tradition, mainly,” he yelled back. “Dates back to the First World War when observers and gunners always sat there for a little better view.”

Before she could think of a witty reply she heard and felt the massive rotary engine fire up with a near-deafening roar. She was now thankful for the ear plugs.

Service revved the motor, released the brakes and taxied out toward the runways. She could hear him in the back asking over the radio for, and then apparently being given clearance, to taxi and finally depart from the airport. Within moments they were airborne, much to Claire’s relief, given all the negative stuff she’d heard about the heavy aircraft congestion both on the ground and in the skies above one of the busiest airports in the world.

As they climbed into the brilliantly blue and cloudless Texas sky Claire had to admit the flight was indeed a “blast” as Service had described it.

For a little over two hours they flew straight west over the sun-baked, west Texas flatlands. Except for a few, minor air turbulence bumps the flight was nearly flawless, although she was definitely looking forward to being on the ground again. The one thing she enjoyed most about the trip was how much of the tranquil farm and ranch life she could make out from the 5,000 foot cruising altitude of the small plane. In a commercial jet at 32,000 feet all she could see—if anything at all—were clouds, roads and other larger landmarks.

Finally, out of the haze in the distance, she could make out a cluster of buildings of various sizes, including the extremely large hangar she’d seen in the information package her boss had given her. As they drew nearer she could also discern what looked like several other hangars of varying sizes, a control tower, and perhaps what could be a headquarters building. There were several dozen cars she could just make out parked in a nearby lot. There were also thirty or so houses in what looked like a typical housing development. Near them were two, side-by-side, eight-story buildings that she guessed could be apartments given she knew Seok provided housing for some of his employees; again, with many cars parked nearby. Next to them she could see a large, outdoor swimming pool and what appeared to be a nine-hole golf course. She couldn’t help but wonder how much it cost to keep the pool filled and the grass green in the middle of what was quite simply a desert.

As she looked over the edge of the Stearman at the scene below Service yelled at her. “Welcome to KS Spaceport! I’ll take you for a turn around the place.”

She signaled ‘Thanks’ with a thumbs up.

As he turned to begin the aerial tour, she could also see three runways that had to be at least three miles long. They intersected each other to form a very large triangle. Next to one leg she could see a massive concrete apron, that she guessed was at least a quarter mile long, with all the hangars adjoining it. A variety of different aircraft were parked in neat array. Since she gained a working knowledge of airplanes writing other articles for the Sentinel, she could make out those of many different eras and types: World War I and II, Korea, Vietnam, experimental and some she had no idea what they were.

After a full circle, Service shouted, “Gonna land. Your first appointment with Kay is in about 40 minutes.” She could also hear him talking to the facility’s control tower; asking for and gaining permission to land.

Finally, she felt the Stearman begin to sink and bank as he swung around and lined up on one of the long runways to land.