Black Ghosts

CHAPTER 17

An undistinguished brownstone on 24th Street and 27th Avenue — offering low-rent accommodation to businesses hanging on for dear life — housed on its third floor a nonprofit organization dedicated to awakening public awareness to the plight of some Amazon tribe about to be run over by civilization, and Icon Air, a small charter airline that like many of its kind sprung up in the wake of President Ronald Reagan’s deregulation of air transport and was now feeling the economic squeeze of reality. The rest of the third floor was vacant except for one suite, situated next to the airline, which had been rented to some entrepreneur that same day.

The landlords couldn’t care less what their new tenant was up to, as long as his rent came in on time. And this one had paid three months in advance.

Larry had chosen that building because of the airline. They were the proud owners — or at least were still paying the giant mortgage — of two jumbo jets and several DC-9 transport planes. At the close of the seventies they only had the two DC-9s and business was great. Then came deregulation and business became phenomenal. They had moved into a large suite of offices at the twin towers and money was literally falling from the sky. By now they owned five DC-9s, several Dash 8s, and the jewels in their crown — the two 747–300 jumbo jets delivered to them in 1989. But after only five charter flights, their house of cards collapsed. Within a year they were haggling over rent in this fleabag they called home. Icon Air was now down to two operational DC-9s, and the 747s were on mothballs in Arizona, eating up their savings with storage fees and interest payments on what they called the two killer whales — which was why Larry had rented the office space in the first place.

Larry was well aware of all that, and he found out much more as he listened for several hours to just about everything that was said in the airline’s office. His team had entered the building right after Edward had instructed them and Larry had located the company address. Sparky installed the bugs, allowing them to hear not only what was said over the airline’s phones, but also every word uttered in any corner of the office suite, even the washrooms, men’s and women’s.

Now that they were sure the Boeings were going to stay in one place for some time, and they had the access they needed through the suite Larry had rented, it was time to get to work.

They had been coming in and out of the brownstone all day, loading building materials into the office suite. Their cover story, should anyone ask, was that they were renovating the suite for use as a television production studio, which would explain the large quantities of electronic equipment they were bringing in. But no one asked. At one point Larry contemplated knocking on the airline’s door and telling them the cover story just so no questions would arise later. But at the last minute he decided against it.

At 6:30, Mr. Schmidt, the sorry owner and chief executive of Icon Air, left the building. A few minutes later, his secretary, who had been working late, decided to call it a night as well. That would leave the third floor deserted except for the longhair who seemed to spend most of his waking life trying to save that Amazon tribe. So it was decided that Dan, one of the two pilots, would have the job of getting the man out of the building for that evening. Playing the part of a philanthropist looking for a worthy cause to spend his money on, Dan suggested to the longhair that he explain the workings of the organization to him over a beer at the corner tavern. The young man was only too happy to oblige and, of course, one beer led to another.

At 6:39, Vern, the ex-SEAL, phoned in that the secretary had boarded her bus and the building was clear. Tom, the pride of the Green Berets, was watching the back entrance while Jeremy, also from the Green Berets, was inside the stairwell watching for pedestrians, as he had disabled the elevator for the time being.

“Let’s go,” said Larry, and his team headed down the corridor to the airline offices. They had slightly under two hours before the cleaning people would show up. They were not to interfere with any of the building’s normal activities. No one was to even suspect that something was going on. Jean-Pierre, the tall, blond Quebecer from the Canadian Airborne, knelt at the door and within twenty seconds it was swinging inward. Larry raised his Polaroid camera and took a picture, placing it on the table by the door. He kept on taking pictures as he moved deeper in, placing each on or near the object he had just captured on film. On their way out, they would use those pictures to verify that they had returned everything to its original location.

Sparky, who had been in the office before, lost no time and headed straight for a large computer console stationed on a desk in the corner of the front office. He opened a small tool kit wrapped in black tarp and started to remove the back of the computer tower. “This is the server,” he said, grinning. “We get inside this one and we got it all.”

“Where do you want this?” Doug, the SAS man, asked Sparky in his strong British accent, holding up a small metal briefcase.

“Here.” Sparky pointed to the table by the computer, without looking away from what he was doing.

Jean-Pierre removed the metal grille of an air return vent beneath the table Sparky was working on.

“Hi, Sparky,” Mario called from the door leading into an inner office off the main hall.

“What is it, Sarge? I’m busy now.”

“I just tagged the one phone you didn’t get to last time. We need to have them covered one hundred percent.”

“I’ll get to it right after I finish here.”

“Right,” said Mario, and he returned to the office.

Larry sat behind a large, scruffy metal desk, leaning back on the soft, expensive-looking leather chair that had probably made it out of the twin towers just before someone foreclosed on the airline’s offices there. He was watching the team work. He realized how lucky he was to have been able to call on Edward for help. The man was in Moscow, yet his presence in the room was so strong that Larry would not have been at all surprised if he’d suddenly heard him giving instructions.

Jean-Pierre dialed a number on his cell phone, and after the first ring Joe Falco answered. He was in the next suite with the rest of the team, getting all the surveillance equipment ready for hookup. “Yes?”

“What’s up?”

“We’re ready on this side,” Joe Falco said.

The return air duct that served the airline’s suite was the same one that opened into the suite Larry had leased next door. It was far too narrow for anyone to crawl through, and it turned and twisted, but Larry had come up with a way around that. Once Sparky was through with the computer connections, they would move on to Phase Two.

Sparky opened the briefcase and took out a small laptop computer. He attached a coaxial cable from the back of the laptop to the airline’s computer hard drive. Doug Findley was now standing by him, looking over his shoulder. “Are you uploading or downloading?”

“I’m changing their configuration,” Sparky answered, his head halfway inside the computer casing. “Whenever they do something on their computer it will be redirected through our computer in our office.”

“Won’t that make their computer work slower?”

“Not really. Our processor is faster than theirs, so it will compensate. Actually, I’ll have to slow it even more.”

“That’s neat. So they’ll really be working through our computer.”

“Right.” Sparky took his head out and grinned at Doug. “I’m downloading all their information now. You can start with the cable. By the time you fish it through, I’ll have the thing wrapped up.”

“Where are you going now?” Doug sounded worried as he watched Sparky walk away, leaving the open, gutted computer and his laptop which now displayed a series of flying toasters chasing slices of brown toast.

“It’s going to take some time to download. It’s a monster memory. I’ll install the bug in that phone for the sergeant in the meantime. Don’t worry, if you don’t piss on it nothing will go wrong.”

“Good thing you told me,” Doug said, and everybody laughed. Larry could still feel that pain in his chest when he laughed, but he figured there were times when it was worth it. Seeing Sparky the way he was now was one of those times.

Doug opened a large cardboard box they had brought with them and took out a blazing red remote-controlled toy jeep. It had thick, corrugated tires and a tiny video camera mounted where a driver would be expected to sit. In the box there was a monitor connected via a thin wire to the camera in the jeep. Doug handed the car to Jean-Pierre, who tied a cord to the back bumper.

“Who’s going to drive this thing?” Doug asked, holding up the remote control.

“I will,” came Mario’s thick voice.

Doug handed him the unit and a blueprint of the duct system. “You enter here,” he said, pointing to a spot on the sheet. “You try to come out here.”

The sergeant headed for the duct opening. “No,” said Jean-Pierre, “you sit over there and watch the monitor. I’ll get the thing in place. I’ll tell you when it’s ready.” He picked up the toy jeep and placed it in the hole, facing in the direction it was supposed to go. “Can you see anything on the monitor?” he asked.

“Nothing,” the sergeant replied, “fucking nada.”

“Ah, merde,” Jean-Pierre exclaimed, “anyone got a flashlight?”

“I have one back in the office,” Larry said, moving in the direction of the door.

“I’ll get it,” said Doug. “If we wait for you we’ll be here all night.”

“It’s on the shelf by the large receiver. Oh, and thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Anytime,” Doug said, already in the hall. It wasn’t long before the light was taped to the car’s hood and the toy returned to the cavity in the wall.

“It’s all yours,” Jean-Pierre said, moving away from the wall to stand by the sergeant and watch the monitor. Doug stayed by the opening and was feeding the cables to make sure they didn’t snag. Staring at the blueprint while keeping his eye on the screen, the sergeant piloted the car along the duct.

“There’s the third-world branch,” Jean-Pierre said as the car reached a junction in the duct. “Keep to the left.” The journey continued. The entire section of tubing had all but disappeared when the car came to a halt opposite another junction within the duct.

“They can see the lights about nine feet away,” Jean-Pierre announced, keeping an open cell line with Joe Falco in the other suite.

“Can’t they grab it?” asked the sergeant.

“The duct is too narrow. You’ll have to bring it right up to them.”

Several minutes later, the jeep made it through, to the cheers of all present. They put everything back into place, hoping that no one would decide to move the desk with the server computer away from the wall. Larry was backing up, collecting the Polaroids he had left and taking his time to verify that all was in place. They finished twenty minutes ahead of schedule and were back in their suite with ample time to spare before the office cleaners arrived. Tomorrow their efforts would be put to the test.

The telephone at the world’s largest airplane parking lot, in Greenfield, Arizona, rang twice before it was answered. Nothing was rushed at the former CIA airport since the agency had stopped supplying arms to the Nicaraguan Contras. Now it was more of a graveyard for mummified relics of a better age. It was hard to believe, looking at the hundreds of commercial airplanes lined in neat gleaming rows, some with their cockpits covered, some partially cannibalized, that not long ago they were all hauling passengers at full capacity. It was in places like this that the full extent of the recession that had hit the air transport industry could be realized.

“Greenfield,” Nancy said finally, after having slowly moved the receiver from its cradle to her ear, making sure not to strain any muscles unnecessarily.

“This is Icon Air. We’re going to pick up X34v231 the day after tomorrow, if that’s okay with you.”

“I’ll need your clearance code, items one to five on your release list, and a payment in full. Just a moment, please.” She typed on her screen the registration number the caller had given her. A small red symbol blinked next to the name Icon Air. “We will need the payment via certified checks and a prepayment for the fuel.”

“Sure,” said the voice at the other end. “Can you please fax us the exact amounts so we could get it all in order for you?”

“Sure.”

Several minutes later, a request for verification came through the computer modem in the office Larry had rented. The people in Icon Air’s real office never even knew it came, nor did they have any inkling of the fax that was sent to them but printed out in the office next door. They were about to be short one jumbo jet. They had no idea that their company’s mothballed 747-300L, one of only 46 that were ever produced, was about to make history.

When Edward called around noon he was informed that everything had gone smoothly. The only problem was where to put the beast.

“I can get it to Tucson,” said Larry. “I know someone who could let us hold it in a hangar for a few days. He’ll think he’s doing it for the agency. I worked with him before and he’ll keep his mouth shut. But what do we do with it after that?”

“You just get it there and get it ready, like I told you. I’ll give you the rest of the information later.”

There was little said after that. Larry didn’t have the news Edward wanted to hear about Natalie. Larry knew the agony Edward was going through. But he also knew he would do what had to be done, no matter what.