Capital Crimes

55

TED’S ALARM WENT OFF AT 3 A.M., and he sleepily put both feet on the floor and looked at his watch, which wasn’t there. He’d misplaced it, somehow, and that annoyed him.

He showered, shaved, and, as an afterthought, flipped up the clipper head on his electric shaver and shaved his head, giving himself one more disguise and making it easier to use the wigs.

He had some breakfast, and by 3:45 a.m. he was on his way south; he avoided interstates, sticking to surface roads. He switched on the built-in, hands-free cell phone and dialed 1-800-WXBRIEE “You have reached Richmond, Virginia, Flight Services. To speak with a briefer, press one.”

Ted pressed one.

“Good morning, may I help you?”

“Good morning. This is November one, two, three, tango, foxtrot. Will you please brief me for an IFR Flight from Manassas, Virginia, to Manchester, New Hampshire, departing in one hour? I’d like winds for twelve thousand feet.”

“Well, it’s pretty simple today. We’ve got a large high-pressure area dominating your route, ceiling and visibility unlimited all the way. Manassas weather is clear below twelve thousand, winds light and variable, no notams. Forecast at Manchester is for clear below twelve thousand, winds zero ninety at eight knots. Winds at twelve thousand along your route, two four zero at thirty knots, pretty much all the way. One notam, unmarked crane one mile west of the airport at two hundred AGL. That’s about it.”

“I’ll file.”

“Go ahead.”

“IFR, November one, two, three, tango, foxtrot. I’m a Charlie one eight two Romeo, stroke Golf. Departing hotel, echo, foxtrot at five a.m. local ten hundred zulu, at twelve thousand feet. My route of flight will be direct. Time en route, two hours, twenty minutes. I’ll have four hours of fuel. My name is Kenneth Wills, based at Manassas. My phone number is 202-555-6189. The airplane is white over green. There’ll be one soul aboard.”

The controller repeated the plan. “You know you’re never going to get direct along that route, don’t you?”

“Yeah, whatever I give them, the computer will give me something else.”

“Right. Have a good flight.”

“Bye.”

Ted was at Manassas Airport by five o’clock, and he entered, as usual, through the back gate, using his card. He drove not to his usual hangar, but to a T-hangar in the row next to the runway. He parked the RV, opened the hangar door, disconnected the battery charger, and, using a tow bar, moved the Cessna 182RG out of the hangar. He drove the RV into the hangar, then moved a lot of gear from the RV to the airplane and closed the hangar door. The monthly rental for the hangar was paid by an automatic bank draft, so it would be years before anybody found the RV. He might even be able to come back for it, eventually.

Using a flashlight, he carefully performed a preflight inspection, then got into the airplane and started the engine. He called clearance delivery and got a better clearance than he would have thought possible, up to New York, across LaGuardia, then Connecticut, and on to Manchester. Ten minutes later he was rolling down runway 34 left.

The flight was wonderful, and he felt as if he were leaving one life and finding another. He landed at Manchester, and while the Cessna was being refueled, engaged the girl at the counter in the FBO in conversation long enough to plant in her mind the information that he had flown up from Georgia and was on his way to Canada. Then he took off again, without filing a flight plan and with his transponder off.

He flew north at three thousand feet, until he was sure that no one could see him from Manchester Airport, then he turned northeast and flew toward the Kennebunk VOR, then, after that, direct toward five, seven, bravo-Islesboro Airport. His route took him along the coast in bright sunshine, the last of the autumn color showing bright gold below him. Toward the end of his trip he detoured over Owl’s Head Airport, at Rockland, and had a good look for government helicopters or airplanes. All he saw was a single corporate jet and a lot of light aircraft tied down. He then flew up the coast past Camden, low, at a thousand feet, to Lincolnsville, where he checked out the ferry parking lot for black Suburbans, Humvees, or other government-type vehicles. There were only three vehicles in the lot, all ordinary-looking, and they were waiting for the ferry, which was just leaving Islesboro for Lincolnsville, on its winter half-schedule.

He picked up a little altitude, then flew over to Islesboro at two thousand feet, first checking out the harbor and the coastline for a Coast Guard cutter. There were few boats moored or docked and none that were threatening. He then flew up the eastern coast toward North Islesboro, checking for anything suspicious. There was one lobster boat motoring up the coast, with two men in the cockpit besides the driver, and he took note of that, but wasn’t worried about it. He flew past his house and saw nothing that alarmed him. Somebody was camping in the woods a few hundred yards from the cottage, but, even though it wasn’t the best time of the year for it, it wasn’t all that unusual. He saw no vehicles, which meant they must have hiked over from the ferry.

His inspection completed, he flew away to the northeast toward the Bar Harbor airport.

KINNEY’S CELL PHONE RANG. “This is Jack.”

“Jack, we’re calling from camp. If anybody’s in the barn, he’s sleeping late. We’ve been listening and haven’t heard so much as anybody breathing.”

“Keep listening.”

“Another thing, an airplane, a Cessna, flew over a couple of minutes ago and had a look at our camp.”

“Yeah, I saw him. He had a look at us, too, then he flew away to the northeast. I don’t think it’s anything, unless he comes back.”

“Right. I’ll call you back if we hear anything.”

Kinney hung up the phone and thought about the airplane, then he turned to Kerry Smith. “Call Washington Center at Dulles and find out if any Cessna light airplanes left the D.C. area since yesterday with a flight plan filed for Maine.”

“Will do,” Smith said and got on the phone. He was back in a few minutes. “A Cessna 182RG took off from Manassas at about five-thirty this morning and flew to Manchester, New Hampshire, on an IFR flight plan. I spoke to the FBO there, and she confirmed that they refueled the airplane. The pilot was in his fifties, heavy-set, dark hair and a beard. He said he was flying from Georgia up to Canada, and he paid cash and took off heading north. I talked to the tower there. He didn’t file a flight plan. He didn’t turn on his transponder, either, because Boston Center didn’t track anybody out of Manchester toward Canada. Center is checking to see if any Cessna 182s left any airport in Georgia in the past couple of days, headed north.”

“Did that airplane we saw have retractable gear?” Kinney asked.

“Yes, I think so. Normally, a Cessna 182 straight-leg would be obvious, because it has aerodynamic wheel pants.”

“Did you get a tail number?”

“No, but the aircraft that flew from Manassas had a tail number of November, one, two, three, tango, foxtrot.”

Kinney made a note of the tail number. “I’m going ashore,” he said. “Do we have a vehicle on the island?”

“No, but we have four in Lincolnsville.”

“Where are they parked?”

“In front of a row of stores, across the road from the ferry.”

They were around the northern tip of the island now. “You see that private dock over there, with the shingled house behind it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going ashore there. Call Lincolnsville and have the gray Explorer take the ferry and meet me there.”

“It could be quite some time,” Smith said. “The ferry is on a winter schedule.”

“If it’s not leaving right away, tell them to identify themselves and press the ferry to return immediately.”

“Will do,” Smith replied and got on the phone, while the lobster boat turned for the dock.

TED LANDED AT Bar Harbor, then he taxied to a remote part of the field and retrieved a roll of plastic sheets from the luggage compartment. He unrolled the two sheets, stripped the paper off the back side and fixed new numbers to both sides of the aircraft. The sheets had been carefully made to blend with the striping on each side, and, except from up close, the numbers looked as if they had been professionally painted on. The new number was November, three, six, six, nine, charlie, and if anybody checked, they’d find a Cessna 182RG registered with that number to a flight school in Atlanta.

He got back into the airplane, started the engine, and took off, then headed toward the northern end of Penobscot Bay at five hundred feet. That lobster boat worried him, and he was going to be very careful.