Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (49 page)

           
“They’re coming in here faster than
we can handle them,” the man said. “I’ll be of any help I can. You have your
pick of the litter, I can assure you.”

 
          
Harold
Lake did not say anything—he was too surprised to speak. He was looking not at
a puppy kennel or thoroughbred racehorse stable, but at two
mile-and-a-half-long lines of airliners—all shapes and sizes, in various states
of repair but all generally in very good condition. It seemed every airline in
the world had an airplane here, and the paint jobs looked brand new. Even Ted
Fell, Lake’s assistant, who hated airplanes and anything having to do with
flying, was suitably impressed. “My God, I never dreamed anything like this
existed,” he said, gaping at what he saw.

 
          
“I
imagine most folks don’t,” the facility manager responded, smiling at Lake’s
amazed expression as they drove down a taxiway in a thankfully
well-air-conditioned Range-Rover. “Mojave Commercial Air Services used to be a
boneyard for airliners—much like Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in
Tucson
stores and parts-out old military aircraft.
We’ve cut up and recycled over ten thousand aircraft since we opened back after
World War Two.

 
          
“But
airliners last longer and are much more expensive, so when times get tough and
nobody’s flying, companies send their planes out here for storage—low humidity,
not much rain, pretty good conditions for outdoor storage. Some companies buy
them and immediately fly them directly out here for storage. When they signed
the contract to buy them three years ago, the industry wasn’t in quite bad
shape. Now they own it, and it’s a big investment, but it wouldn’t pay to fly
it half-filled with passengers, so they bring it out here for storage. The
industry will bounce back, and when it does these babies will be put on the
line.” He motioned to one airplane, obviously the size of a DC-10 of L-1011,
completely cocooned in shiny aluminized plastic. “We used to just fly them in,
weatherize them, and let ’em sit, but more companies want a bit more protection
from blowing sand and moisture, so we shrink-wrap some planes.”

 
          
“That’s
shrink-wrapped?” Fell asked. “You’re kidding!”

 
          
“Nope.
Shrink-wrapped just like a copy of
Playboy
on the magazine racks,” the manager said. “Actually, it’s much better than
that. It takes only a couple hours to apply it, and it protects the planes
against most every hazard. It’s completely sealed—all the air is pumped out, so
it’s impervious to the elements. A plane in shrink-wrap like that will be as
good as new ten years from now—we guarantee it, in fact. No mildew, no
critters, no corrosion.”

 
          
“Incredible,”
Lake exclaimed. The array of planes out here was amazing—he saw quite a few
MD-11 and Boeing 757 and 767 airliners, the cream of the airline crop, sitting
here idle. “There has to be four or five billion dollars’ worth of machines
sitting out here.”

 
          
“Pretty
good guess, Mr. Lake,” the manager said. “The actual figure is
three-point-seven-two-billion dollars—we keep a weekly tally.” He pulled up to
a plane and put the Range-Rover in park. “Here’s 331. We started the prepurchase
inspection as soon as your people showed up. Isn’t she a sweetheart?”

 
          
Lake
distrusted and usually discounted anyone who talked about inanimate objects in
human terms, and he was proved correct on this one. They were looking at an
Aeri- talia G222 twin turboprop heavy transport plane, and it was a short,
squat-looking airplane with a tall tail and high- mounted wings—not exactly a
“sweetheart” unless you were into ugly-looking planes. This one was painted up
with high-visibility white-and-orange stripes, with the words
sistema aeronautico anti-incendio
painted
on both sides. Lake opened a thick information folder on the plane: “This is a
1988-model water-bomber? It looks in great condition.”

 
          
“The
G222 is the finest pure water-bombing aircraft on the market today,” the
facility manager said. “These actually have the newer uprated Rolls-Royce Tyne
turboprops, so they each put out closer to four thousand shaft horsepower
instead of the normal three thousand four hundred. She’s also been strengthened
to pull over four Gs instead of the normal two-point-eight—pretty important
when your clients are diving into the bottom of a deep canyon chasing that last
stubborn torcher. I’ve got to hand it to you water- bomber guys—you got balls
the size of coconuts. Which group did you say you were representing?”

 
          
“I’m
acting as the finance manager for a broker representing Walter Willis and
Company,” Lake said. “The G222 and any other aircraft I can find within the
next thirty days will be going to his ranch in Colorado for modification and
training—and possibly go operational if this summer stays hot and dry like
this.” It was all a lie, of course, but he had laid enough groundwork over the
past few days, with this deal and with a half-dozen others, to make the fiction
work unless a real in-depth investigation was begun. Years ago,
Lake
, working with the skinflint president of
Universal Express, Brennan McSorley himself, had helped finance the lease of
several aerial firefighting aircraft to Walter Willis, the biggest private
aerial firefighting company in the world. Lake had been involved in several
other financing deals since, so he had the credentials to visit this place in
Mojave and talk turkey.

 
          
“I’ve
never worked with Mr. Willis himself,” the facility manager said. “How is the
old buzzard doing?”

 
          
Fell
looked at the guy, then at Lake, and he could immediately sense that his boss’s
mood had suddenly turned as dark as the inside of a thunderstorm. He stepped
back a pace to watch the fireworks ...

 
          
“He’s
doing fine,” Lake said tightly. He glanced at the manager, who was suddenly
eyeing him with a great deal of suspicion, then added, “Walter is doing
fine—for a guy who’s been dead for eleven
fucking
months, you cold- hearted son of a bitch!” The manager’s jaw dropped open in
surprise, and Lake used his dumbfounded expression as a target for his anger:
“His son Brad Willis and the Universal investor group own the company; I was an
usher at Brad’s wedding last January in Aspen. Do you know the Willises?”

 
          
“Ah,
no, but you see ...”

 
          
“Then
why did you ask about Walter? My friend Brad almost had a nervous breakdown at
the death of his father.” Lake did not know Brad Willis except by his
ultra-irresponsible playboy reputation—Brennan McSorley and Universal got a
good deal when they bought the company from Brad. “And Walter was certainly not
an ‘old buzzard’ when he died—he was only in his early sixties, in the best
physical condition of his life.” Lake turned toward the manager, enjoying
watching the bastard wilt under his glare. “Is this some kind of test, Mr.
Adams?” Lake asked. “Are you actually
testing
me?”

 
          
“I
would never even
consider
...”

 
          
“Sir,
I do not have to submit to this,” Lake said, truly indignant that this old
bastard would dare to try to clumsily trap him like that. “I can drop names all
day to you, and you might be impressed or you might not. But I let my
credentials, my reputation, and my money speak for me, sir.”

 
          
“I
assure you, Mr. Lake, I did not mean to ...”

 
          
“As
I recall, I deposited a certified check in the amount of nine million dollars
in your bank account in Los Angeles two days ago, along with enough credit
references that my submission can be measured by the pound. It took a staff of
four two days to complete it, working night and day.” He reached into his
jacket breast pocket and withdrew an envelope, opened it, and showed the
contents to the manager. “This is another certified check for sixteen million
four hundred thousand dollars, made out to your company, with today’s date, as
the second deposit for the two aircraft.” Lake waited until he could see the
facility manager’s eyes grow wide with surprise and want—then crumpled the
check up in his right hand, right in front of the man’s face. Lake held his
clenched fist with the check inside it up in the man’s face until he saw sweat
pop out of his forehead. “I am not accustomed to being treated like a teenager
trying to buy a bottle of cheap wine at the Safeway, sir. Ted?”

 
          
Fell
turned to the Aeritalia G222, put his fingers to his lips, and whistled. The
three men he had hired to do the prepurchase inspection on the freighter looked
up and turned toward him. “Pack it up,” he shouted. “The deal has been
canceled.”

 
          
“Wait
a minute, Mr. Lake,” the manager pleaded. “Hold on. It wasn’t a test, I swear
it wasn’t. I wouldn’t do such a thing.”

 
          
“No,
and after your company finds out what happened, I would think you won’t be
selling too many aircraft, either.” “C’mon, Mr. Lake, I didn’t mean anything by
it,” the manager said. “It’s all these federal boys out here—I guess I started
thinking like some bozo gumshoe detective.”

 
          
Both
Lake and Fell twisted their necks around to stare at the manager when he
mentioned “federal boys.” Fell shot a subdued, panicked look at his boss, but
Lake
quickly regained his composure and shot a
warning glance at Fell, who turned away and walked toward the G222 so he could
effectively hide his shocked expression. “Federal boys? What are you talking
about?”

 
          
“This
place gets a visit by someone or other from Los Angeles or Washington or Las
Vegas or Sacramento damned near every day,” the facility manager said. “I guess
it has to do with that terrorist that’s dropping bombs on American airports.
The feds ask tricky questions all the time, trying to trip you up, like I can
hand Henri Cazaux to them on some shiny silver platter.”

 
          
“I
think that’s the last straw,” Lake said quickly. “Federal agents, indeed!
You’re just trying to pin your clumsy attempt at making me feel uncomfortable
on someone that doesn’t exist.”

 
          
“No,
Mr. Lake, they’re here—look, there’s one now,” the man said. He pointed at a
dark gray Chevrolet Caprice sedan cruising up and down the flight line. “That’s
. . . damn, I can’t remember his name ...” He fished around in a pocket and
came up with a business card. “Yeah, here he is—Timothy Lassen, Deputy U.S.
Marshal. Here’s his card.”

 
          
Lake
snatched the card away—he didn’t want to be so obviously upset, but a thrill of
panic had just settled into Lake’s brain, and he was no longer totally in
control of himself. Yes, the card said he was a U.S. Marshal, from Sacramento
... and now the man in the Caprice had spotted him talking with the facility
manager and had turned in their direction.

 
          
“Well...
perhaps I’ve been a bit hasty,” Lake said as the sedan approached. “I should’ve
realized you’re under considerable scrutiny these days.”

 
          
“That
is the truth, Mr. Lake, it certainly is,” the manager said, relieved that the
sale would actually go through. Lake motioned to Fell, who told the inspectors
to go back to work.

 
          
“I
will direct my bank to cut another check for you—it’ll take an extra day, I’m
sure you understand.”

           
“I certainly do, Mr. Lake,” the
manager said, practically kissing Lake’s hand in gratitude. “And I sincerely
apologize for my behavior. I’m very,
very
sorry . . .”

 
          
“I’d
like
nothing
more to be said about
it,” Lake said, adding a touch of his command voice into his request. “My
clients appreciate discretion as well as efficiency. There will be questions
about why the transaction is to be delayed an extra day, and that’ll have to be
handled.”

 
          
“You
can count on me, Mr. Lake,” the manager said. “Don’t worry about a thing.” Just
then the sedan pulled up to them, and a tall, good-looking man a bit older than
Lake emerged. His plain dark-gray suit coat was unbuttoned, revealing a plain
white shirt and plain dark-blue tie with diagonal red stripes. The sun was hot
and merciless already that morning, but the man kept the jacket on. “Excuse me,
Mr. Fennelli, but how do I get out of here? I’m lost already.” “Easy enough,
Agent Lassen,” the facility manager said, pointing southwest. “Just head for
the gap between the big hangars out there, you’ll see the front gate. Be sure
to watch out for planes taxiing around.”