The Bergamese Sect (46 page)

Suddenly, Walsh remembered that he still hadn’t contacted Lewis. They’d put a disaster in motion by rescuing Castro. It was probably already too late for Koestler, but now the target was dangerously exposed. Walsh had revealed himself and Sewell would already be taking steps to eliminate the threat to his conspiracy. If Walsh didn’t react fast enough, their link to Sebastian would be lost for good.

Reaching into his pocket, Walsh fished out his mobile. He punched in the number for Lewis and lifted the handset to his ear.

‘
Just a moment,’ he said to Castro, but the man was absent-mindedly pushing the dust around with his foot again.

There was silence followed by the frustrating unavailable tone. ‘Shit,’ Walsh said, looking over at Linsky, ‘I still can’t get him.’

Castro looked up. ‘Who?’ he asked.

‘
We’ve been following someone who may lead us to the truth. But now we’ve rescued you from the clutches of that Society, he’s in great danger. We’ve got a man there to protect him, but I can’t get hold of him to warn him. He needs to get this man to safety.’

Walsh glanced at his watch. It was now past four o’clock; still at least four hours before Lewis would be splitting the target from Sewell’s men. More than enough time for Sewell to contact the girl or her accomplices.

Another thought surfaced in Walsh’s mind, one that worried him even more. If Lewis succeeded in duping Sewell’s men into following his decoys, they’d be in danger too. One of them at least would be killed. Walsh tried to shake the thought from his mind, to override its terrifying implication; that an innocent man would have to die to lead them to Sebastian. Perhaps they should call off Lewis’ plan, avoid unnecessary deaths until they really were unavoidable. If only the agent would pick up his damn phone!

The fear lingered on, refusing to submerge. The inevitability of death made Walsh grow cold.

He turned to Linsky who was now sitting on the hard floor. ‘We should get ourselves to Lima as soon as possible. Castro’s coming with us.’

Linsky nodded.

Castro stood slowly and gave Walsh a look of resignation.

―
§ ―

Three figures sauntered out of the plushest restaurant in the complex. It was early for dinner but they’d eaten well, even taken a bottle of the best
Bordeaux
on offer.

Sitting in a far corner, partially hidden by a partition painted an attractive olive green and hung with wicker baskets, sat Jeff Lewis. He watched the group disappear through the door then drained his glass of flat, warm beer.

He stuffed a twenty-dollar bill into the check holder and threw it on the table. It was a good tip, considering he’d only had the grilled chicken salad.

Pushing the chair behind him and rising, Lewis suddenly felt a hard object digging painfully into his groin. He grimaced and reached into the front pocket of his black moleskin trousers.

It was his mobile. He glanced at it disapprovingly and moved the handset toward the inside pocket of his jacket.

Wait! He pulled it back in front of his face, stared at it. Shit! The display was dead.

He pressed the standby button, but the liquid crystal remained a dull grey. He tried a few more times. Nothing. The fucking thing was out of charge!

His quarry was escaping toward the busy check-in desks, moving into the irritated crowds of travellers who mingled across the acres of marble floor space. Lewis swore under his breath and crammed the device into his jacket. He shot after them, nodding a thank-you to the girl who’d jovially served him and now stood about awkwardly, waiting to see if the handsome stranger had left evidence of his approval.

The three figures were meandering through the terminal, killing time. Lewis followed far enough back that he could see only their heads bobbing among the crowd. He’d tailed them all day, innocuous, indistinguishable from the thousands of other confused, hurried or delayed passengers.

He felt safe while they were together. The last thing he wanted was for the girl to separate from the other two, giving her the opportunity to contact her superiors. Since he’d talked with Walsh earlier that morning, she hadn’t left his sight. Except when she was in their hotel room. But she wouldn’t make the call with the others listening over her shoulder. As long as they stayed together, everything would be fine.

With relief, Lewis saw they were heading back toward the hotel concourse. That’s what he needed, to shepherd them into a pen, out of sight.

The girl’s protectors were conspicuous by their absence. They’d been missing all day. In one way, that unnerved Lewis. But it also made things easier. No interference.

Everything was in place. The group had booked their tickets for Lima at lunchtime, the
Lan Peru
flight departing at a minute to midnight. Lewis had also made a reservation. He’d been talking by phone to the same ticket desk as he’d watched the group from across the busy concourse.

The decoys were briefed. All Lewis had to do was ensure the targets were out of the way and the girl’s protectors ready to receive their deception. They wouldn’t be able to resist the enticement. As soon as the three people had disappeared through the departure gate, they would be booking themselves on the next flight to Vegas. Then, Lewis only needed to stall the real targets until the protectors were lifting into the air. It would be beautiful to see, if it worked.

It was nearly six o’clock. Same time as New York. It was unlikely Walsh’s new targets would show up at the
Tagaste
Society now. Or had they already shown up and Walsh had been frantically trying to get in touch? Lewis tapped the phone at his breast. How long had the stupid thing been sitting redundant in his pocket?

The Assistant Director hadn’t given him a charger, and Lewis didn’t have time to go hunting in the electrical store just now. It was a simple oversight, but it could spell disaster. Result in unnecessary death. Lewis swallowed uneasily as he suddenly felt a twinge of apprehension, something to which he wasn’t accustomed. He was still winging this whole thing!

‘
You’re a damn amateur,’ he whispered to himself.

Chapter 27

Jim Deeley loved his job. He was good at it too. He told people that was because he’d misspent his youth. Hours of shooting up aliens in 1980s arcade games had honed his skills to perfection. It had made his senses keen and agile, his fingers adept, almost intuitive. His mind could analyse complex systems of moving objects with ease, like a juggler who doesn’t have to think too hard to keep five balls in an amazing aerial loop.

And that was what his job was all about – keeping the balls in their orbits. Air traffic control was like one huge game of
Defender
, but of course, the stakes were much higher. Failure didn’t mean your name got knocked off the high-score list; it meant the difference between life and death.

There was a brief lull in Jim’s headset. A static hiss filled his ears. The late evening traffic was dying down and the skies were relatively free of congestion. The pilots were content to cruise, reading the late newspapers or teasing their chief stewards. It had been an uneventful evening, monotonous in fact.

He watched the glowing blocks of flight data dancing around his display. He ran his eyes down the stack of flight progress strips. Everything seemed fine, the symphony beautifully orchestrated, the performers behaving.

The phone rang. It was Frank Holden, a controller sitting 400 miles away in Albuquerque, juggling his own traffic through airspace to the east of Jim’s. He requested permission to handoff another flight into Denver airspace. An America West flight, call-sign Cactus 879.

Jim checked the southeast portion of his screen. A small blip had appeared at the far right of the display, dragging a small data block with it.

‘
Sure, Frank,’ he said and hung up.

A minute later the sound of the pilot’s voice crackled through his earpiece, announcing his crossover into Jim’s jurisdiction. There was a southern drawl in the pilot’s cheery accent.

Denver centre. Good evening. Cactus eight-seven-niner heavy. With you at flight level two-eight-five.

The flight’s transponder code was conflicting with Jim’s sector, but the altitude was steady and agreed with the pilot’s report. He reached down and pressed the transmit button on the radio box attached to his belt.

‘
Cactus eight-seven-niner. Denver centre. Roger. Standby.’

He punched up a transponder code request and then flicked the radio on again. ‘Cactus eight-seven-niner. Reset your transponder. Squawk three-four-two-four. Maintain flight level two-eight-five. Direct to TBC VOR. Contact me ten miles from Tuba City for handoff back to Albuquerque.’

The pilot confirmed the request.
Three-four-two-four coming. Flight level two-eight-five. Contact passing Tuba City. Eight-seven-niner heavy. Roger.
 

High above Beautiful Valley, Arizona, the America West flight was just crossing over US191 south of Chinle. It raced through the freezing twilight at 400 knots, a thick plume of steam dark against the indigo sky.

Jim watched the blip slide slowly across the screen. The data block flickered briefly then showed up the correct squawk code. Assured that the new target was behaving, he ran his eyes around the display again. The game was progressing well. He glanced at his watch. It was exactly 22:00.

His shift still had a couple of hours to run. He’d been on duty for four hours, the last two of which he’d been operating alone, directing the traffic above the skies of northern Arizona, five hundred miles to the southeast. The associate radar controller had been called to other duties, since the sector was less busy than usual. Jim was looking forward to getting off the console at midnight and sinking a few beers at
Hurricane Charlie’s
before heading back home.

A pilot’s voice punched through his thoughts.

Denver centre. United three-twenty-seven, er, we’d like to request lower due to turbulence.

Jim located the flight on his display and assessed the traffic. It was in the northern part of his sector, about to cross over into another man’s airspace. The pilot wanted to descend and there was nothing Jim could see to prevent the manoeuvre, as long as he did it quickly. He flicked on the mike.

‘
United three-twenty-seven. Denver centre. Roger. Descend flight level two-six-zero. Maintain present heading.’

Denver centre. United three-twenty-seven. Roger. Descending to flight level two-six-zero.

‘
United three-twenty-seven. Could you give me a good rate of descent? You’re about to leave my airspace. Denver centre.’

Denver centre. Okay, we’ll shimmy down quickly. United three-twenty-seven.

Jim grabbed his phone and stuffed it under his cheek while he punched in a number. A controller at the back of the room picked up his receiver and Jim got the okay to handoff the United flight. He slammed the phone back in its cradle and flicked the radio on.

‘
United three-twenty-seven. Denver centre. Contact Denver on one-two-five point three-five.’

After a brief pause, the pilot’s voice crackled his confirmation and gave Jim a respectful thank-you. Jim watched the data block move off toward the edge of his display.

Once a radar blip had crossed his screen, had been handed off to a colleague, it was history. He had no further interest in it. The flight numbers came and went, instantly forgotten. And that was the way it was supposed to be. Air traffic control is all about the future. It didn’t matter where a flight had been, where it had come from. The only thing that mattered was where it would be in five minutes, ten minutes, in half-an-hour.

Jim reached over his console and grabbed his bottle of water, flicked the cap up, and took a long gulp. He was about due for a break. He thought about calling Dan Robertson, the supervisor, to arrange cover for his console, but hesitated. Instead, he swivelled in his chair and quickly surveyed the room.

Four rows of consoles swept in arcs across the huge, dimly lit enclosure. At each sat a controller, sometimes two, themselves pawns in the vast arcade game that raged far above their heads. Their faces were lit by the eerie green glow of the radar screens. They looked like zombies. Lights were blinking throughout the room, casting strange, distorted shadows into the ceiling recesses. The room was oddly quiet.

Jim was looking for Kat, the cutest and youngest controller at Denver. A woman he was surprised to find held more than a passing interest in his forty-something, expanding frame. She’d been at a console at the back of the room earlier, but now she was gone.
Pity
, Jim thought,
I was going to see if she wanted a drink later
. He’d wait until she returned before taking his break; catch her on the way out.

He turned back to the console just as the phone rang. It was Frank Holden again.

‘
I’ve got another handoff. South West twenty-twenty-three. Jetway 72, eastbound.’

Jim quickly checked the airspace where the new flight would cross over. The radar return was already showing. ‘Sure, pass him on,’ he said.

Frank disappeared off the line to give the pilot the new control centre frequency. The pilot’s voice came through almost immediately.

Denver centre. South West twenty-twenty-three. With you. Flight level two-niner-five. Good evening.

Jim was happy with the radar return and the data block looked fine. Punching a button on the keypad in front of him, he printed off a flight progress strip. He reached down to his transmit button, but his hand stopped, hovering over it. On the screen, to the north-west, there was something not quite right.

It took only a moment to recognise the lapse in harmony. He had perhaps seven aircraft in his sector, all racing along en-route jetways, all beaming out their identifying codes, playing by the rules. But, there, ticking along an unauthorised route, was a raw radar return. The identifying data block was missing. It was just the unmistakable echo of tonnes of reflective metal hurtling through the atmosphere. The controllers called it
skin paint
, the basic reflection unenhanced with information from a transponder signal.