Iron Orchid

                                                                              
       Iron Orchid

                                                                                       
Stuart Woods

PROLOGUE

TEDDY FAY HAD ALWAYS BEEN a planner, and he had a plan now. He hadn’t expected to be rousted from his cottage in Islesboro, Maine, by the FBI, but when it happened, he had his escape route already prepared. The tunnel had taken him out of the house, and while they were searching the coast, he had headed for the little island airstrip.

For the past few weeks, Teddy had been methodically killing people with whom he disagreed politically, and, as he had expected, the nation’s law enforcement agencies had not taken it kindly. But he had been a step or two ahead of them all the way, and he was a step ahead of them now.

He had been in the air for an hour, now, and he was approaching the Kennebunk VOR at six thousand feet. He had been flying the day before at low altitudes, full rich, and he had burned a lot of fuel. He was down to nineteen gallons, now, and burning thirteen an hour. He couldn’t land at an airport, because the airplane would be discovered when the sun came up, and the FBI would know where to stop looking. He needed to ditch the Cessna where it wouldn’t be found.

Where would that be? He looked down at the Maine coast. There were few lights on, except in Kennebunkport, a short distance ahead.

Then something roared past him on either side, shaking the Cessna 182 RG and frightening him badly. What the hell was that? When he had calmed himself, it occurred to him that, maybe, he wasn’t as far ahead of them as he had thought. He switched his radio to the emergency frequency.

“Cessna 182 retractable, do you read me?” a young man’s voice asked.

The two jet fighters would have already started their turn back to him. Teddy pressed the talk button. “I read you loud and clear,” he said.

“This is the United States Navy,” the young man said. “You are instructed to turn on your transponder, your navigation lights and your strobes, then to make a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and fly a heading of zero six zero until you have the beacon of the Brunswick Naval Air Station in sight, then to land there on runway two. Do you read?”

“Negative, can’t do it. I don’t have the fuel.” That was no lie. He was down to almost eighteen gallons. It would take a little time for them to locate him again. Without the transponder on, he was only a primary target on radar, and a small one, at that. The moon was in and out in the partly cloudy sky, and they would have trouble getting a visual on him, too.

“Then you can land at Portland International on the same heading. You’ll be met there.”

“Negative, Navy. Can’t do it.” Teddy was a couple of miles from the beach, and he turned toward it, flipping on every light on the airplane. He wanted to be seen now. The two jets roared past him a second time.

“Listen, pal,” the young voice said. “I don’t give a fuck if you dump that thing in the Atlantic. My instructions are to force you to land or shoot you out of the sky, and those are my intentions. What’s it going to be?”

An excellent question, Ted thought. He was no longer a step ahead of them, and he had no doubt that the young pilot meant what he said. He began tightening straps and unbuckled his seat belt. “Navy, do you read me?”

“I read you,” the pilot said, “and I have a visual.”

“I’m afraid I can’t fly back with you, and it would be best if you stay well clear of me.”

“Don’t worry, little guy; I’m not going to bump into you.”

They would be setting up their shot from landward, so that any rounds that missed would end up in the sea. “That’s not what I mean,” Teddy said. “Just stay well clear.” He was coming up on the coastline, now, and he dropped the landing gear to slow him down quickly. The two jets blew past him again, causing him to laugh. “Sorry about that, fellas,” he said into the mike.

Half a mile to the beach. Teddy reached into the duffel next to him and took out a package the size of a thick, hardcover book. He unlatched his door and stood by, watching the beach. The moment he crossed it, he lifted the door off its hinges and let it fall from the airplane. He moved the gear lever to the retracted setting, and while it came up he hung the duffel around his neck and set the timer on the package to thirty seconds.

He didn’t waste another moment. Clutching the duffel to his chest, he rolled sideways and out of the airplane, counting. “Thousand one, thousand two, thousand three…” He wanted to be as far below the airplane as possible before it blew. On ten he tucked the duffel under his arm, grabbed the rip cord handle and pulled.

The chute opened with a jerk, and a moment later the sky lit up and the shock wave hit him. Two pounds of plastic explosive made quite a bang. A split second later he heard the noise, but he was too busy trying to control his wild swinging to pay attention.

He finally stabilized as the two jets roared over him, creating more turbulence, but it was manageable. As the water came up toward him he pulled two cords and stalled the chute, nearly stopping his descent. He stepped into the Atlantic Ocean as if into a swimming pool.

His feet touched bottom almost immediately. The water came not quite to his waist. He was already wading in when the chute collapsed into the water behind him. He struggled on toward the beach, maybe fifty yards away, trying to keep the chute from filling with water, while holding the duffel high and dry.

When the water was ankle deep he hung the duffel around his neck again and used both hands to gather up and wring out the chute. He shrugged off the pack and stuffed the chute into it, then put the pack on again and started wading down the beach. He wanted no footprints left in the sand.

A few yards ahead he saw a rocky outcropping running down to the sea and headed for that. When he reached the rocks he stepped out of the water and onto them, then began picking his way toward dry land, careful not to turn an ankle. He needed both ankles now.

He walked through some long grass and came to a road. He looked both ways and saw a darkened cottage a couple of hundred yards away. It was very unlikely that anyone was living on the beach at the beginning of winter, but he had to be careful. He was cold, though, and he needed to get dry and change clothes, so he headed toward the cottage.

He walked up to it slowly and noiselessly, he didn’t want to set off some barking dog. People would remember that. He reached the house, put down the chute and the duffel and leaned against the building, catching his breath. He was in excellent condition, but still, at his age…

When he had rested, he began circumnavigating the house, looking into windows, some of which had blinds drawn. When he reached the back door, he found it padlocked from the outside. Nobody home; gone for the winter. He picked the lock in seconds, and he was inside. He retrieved the pack and his duffel and, still treading lightly, he walked through the house and found it deserted.

He found a linen closet and removed a couple of towels and a thick blanket, then he stripped off his wet clothes in the kitchen and rubbed himself down with a towel. He wrapped himself in the blanket, found a flashlight and began exploring. He found a utility closet housing an electric hot water heater and turned it on, then he ran in place for a couple of minutes to get his circulation going.

After fifteen minutes, when the water from the tap was tepid, he turned off the hot water heater, so that it wouldn’t be found to be warm when the house was searched, found a shower and got clean. He dressed in the change of clothes from his duffel, then he went through the house to see what he could find.

He came back to the kitchen with a suit that was only a little too big for him, a couple of shirts, some underwear and a presentable felt hat from the master bedroom and a man’s Burberry raincoat from the front hall closet. He packed them in the duffel, put his wet clothes and the towels into the washing machine, then he went into the attached garage. There was a ten-year-old Ford station wagon parked there, along with a pair of bicycles. He found a shovel, then he went out behind the house to what, in the summer, would be a very nice garden, and dug a hole four feet deep. He buried the chute, filled the hole, and arranged the soil to match the furrows of the garden, then he went back inside and put the washed things in the dryer.

An hour later, Teddy left the house exactly as he found it, absent the clothes and a bicycle. He strapped his duffel to the rear of the bike and began pedaling toward the lights of Kennebunkport. It was nearly six a.m., and the sun wouldn’t be up until eight.

On the outskirts of Kennebunkport he came to a diner, glowing brightly in the predawn, and out front was a sign proclaiming the place to be a Greyhound Bus stop. He checked the posted schedule: a bus to Boston in forty minutes. He went around to the side of the building, found a Dumpster and deposited the bicycle there. Then he went into the diner, consumed a large breakfast and was outside when the bus arrived.

He paid the driver for a ticket to Boston, then put his duffel in the overhead rack, slipped into a seat, tipped his hat over his eyes and fell soundly asleep. The bus made it to the Boston Greyhound terminal at midmorning, and Teddy bought another ticket for Atlantic City, New Jersey, departing immediately.

Late in the afternoon, Teddy left the bus in Atlantic City, went into the men’s room, locked himself in a stall and, fishing them from his duffel, donned a wig and a mustache. He found a wireless phone store, bought a throwaway cell phone, then phoned the Algonquin Hotel in New York and booked a room. He then took a cab to one of the casino hotels, went to the concierge’s desk and booked a car and driver.

Late in the afternoon, the car dropped him at the corner of 44th Street and Madison Avenue. He went into Brooks Brothers and, telling a salesman that the airlines had lost his luggage, bought two suits, a blue blazer, gray trousers, some shirts, ties, socks and underwear, a topcoat, a new hat and a suitcase. Teddy was a perfect size forty regular, so the only alterations necessary were hemming the trousers. He paid for everything with a credit card that drew on a large sum in a Cayman Islands bank. That done, he changed into a new suit, tossed his old clothes into a wastebasket and left the store carrying his new suitcase and the duffel. He walked the two blocks to the Algonquin, checked in and was escorted to his room.

He unpacked his new clothes, then opened a secret place in the lining of the duffel and dumped everything onto the bed. He inventoried the contents: a second wig and other makeup, four complete sets of identification and credit cards, plus the ones in his pockets, the pieces of a nonmetallic .380 pistol with a silencer that he had built himself, and ninety thousand dollars in used hundreds, fifties and twenties. He locked them in the safe in the closet, had dinner from room service and went to bed.

ONE

HOLLY BARKER TOOK AIM and squeezed off a round. Her father, Senior Master Sergeant, U.S. Army (ret.) Hamilton Barker, looked through his hand scope.

“High and to the right,” he said.

“How high and how far to the right of what?” Holly asked in disbelief.

“An inch high and to the right of dead center,” Ham replied. “That’s not good enough. Push with your right hand, pull with your left.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing since I was eight, when you first taught it to me,” Holly said. She took aim and, this time, made a point of pushing and pulling.

“That’s better,” Ham said.

“How much better?”

“A quarter of an inch off dead center,” he said.

“Oh, please,” Holly said, laughing.

“How did the Orchid Beach town council take your resignation as chief of police?” Ham asked.

“They were appropriately sad, except for a couple who looked relieved. At least they accepted my recommendation of Hurd Wallace to replace me. They’re getting a good man.”

“They’re losing a better woman. What are you going to do with your house?”

“One of my young policewomen is going to move into the guest house and be my caretaker. I’ll need the house to decompress once in a while. Also to remind me of Jackson.” Jackson Oxenhandler, Holly’s fiance, had been killed in a bank robbery two years before, an innocent bystander.

Ham went to his range bag and came back with a mahogany box.

“What’s that?”

“Something for you to take with you on the new job.” He handed her the box and a small key.

Holly set down the box, inserted the key and unlocked it. “Oooh,” she said, gazing at the shiny stainless slide with her name engraved on it. “Nice Colt .45.”

“It’s not a Colt, and it’s not a .45,” Ham said. “It’s a nine-millimeter made of Caspian parts. The lightweight frame was designed by Terry Tussey, and the grip holds a round shorter than standard, but it will conceal nicely. Only weighs twenty-one ounces. I thought it might come in handy.”

Holly picked up the small gun and hefted it. “Nice,” she said.