King and Maxwell

CHAPTER 40

SAM WINGO SAT ON THE BED in his hotel waiting for his son to email him back. Tyler, he noted, had used a new email account. That was smart thinking on his son’s part. But Tyler had not written him back about the meeting he wanted. And as every minute passed Wingo’s concern grew. He wanted to go to his home and see that Tyler was okay. But the place, he knew, was surely being watched. He would be arrested before he even got to the front porch.

It was maddening to come all this way just to sit and wait. Wingo could be patient when it was necessary, but that didn’t mean it was easy.

A burn phone that he had been given in India vibrated, and he snatched it up. This could only be from one person, the man who had arranged for the phone.

Adeel, his Muslim contact in the Middle East, the man who had gotten him through Pakistan and into India. But Wingo had almost been killed on the Khyber Pass. He still didn’t know if he’d been betrayed by Adeel. Maybe this email would answer that question.

He read the message: Bodies discovered at target site. Identified as all Muslims. Interestingly enough, a group of Western males arrived in Afghanistan on charter flight from States on the day before and took transportation in vicinity of target site. Heron Air Service, based in Dulles, Virginia, was the charter service they flew in on. Preliminary investigation indicates that some of the Westerners had U.S. credentials. Exact agencies unknown. They were given passage by various tribal chieftains. Usual financial arrangements meaning cash so no trace possible. No other information obtainable on my end. If you are back in States, you may follow up. Good luck. And I hope you see your son. A.

Wingo deleted the message from both his inbox and trash. He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. A group of Westerners, some with U.S. creds, had flown into Afghanistan on the day before he was to deliver one billion euros to a group of Muslims. The Muslims had been slaughtered and these men had hijacked the shipment from Wingo, again while flashing U.S. creds. The money was gone and so were the men. Wingo was the fall guy and running for his life.

He had another thought, sat up, and clicked on his phone pad. He was Googling his own name. The same three articles that Sean had found – now expanded to ten – came up.

He read through them all quickly. They seemed to be a string, each merely regurgitating the facts of the others. Collectively, they were devastating.

Missing money, missing soldier.

Me.

How the hell had that leaked? Colonel South hadn’t mentioned anything about the story getting to the media. He wondered whether to call the colonel but ultimately decided the man would not be helpful. He was convinced of Wingo’s guilt. Maybe everyone was.

But then that meant Tyler probably knew about it too. What must his son think? That he was a thief or a traitor?

The news story went on to add that the missing money and soldier might have something to do with some classified operation that led all the way to the White House. However, neither President John Cole nor anyone at the Pentagon would comment, which of course was just creating a vacuum that was being filled by increasingly strident and hyperbolic voices.

Then he wondered about something else.

Where was Jean? Had she been pulled by the DoD after the mission overseas had gone to hell? If so, who was with Tyler?

That had been the hardest thing about this whole task for Wingo. Pretending to remarry and bringing what amounted to a complete stranger home to be his son’s new stepmom. But it had been unavoidable. Tyler needed a grown-up with him. Wingo had refused to leave without that condition met. Unfortunately, the simplest way to achieve it was to fake a marriage. And so he had. But he had regretted it from the very first instant Tyler had laid eyes on Jean and been told that this woman, in essence, was taking his real mother’s place.

Wingo turned on the TV in his room to see if there was any more news about the missing money. Every local station was chasing the same story, but it wasn’t this story.

There had been an explosion at a motor court in south Alexandria. The cause of the explosion was unknown as yet. But he sat up when the news anchor mentioned something else, namely that the room had been rented long-term to a Jean Shepherd, whose whereabouts were currently unknown.

Jean Shepherd? That was Jean’s real name.

He thumbed in another message to Tyler, urgently asking his son to contact him. He waited. And then waited some more. His phone never vibrated.

He debated whether to drive over to the house and see what he could find out. But that would be suicide, he knew. Yet he seriously thought about chancing it to make sure his son was okay.

He contemplated Adeel’s email. Westerners coming into Afghanistan on a charter flight. Heron Air Service based out of Dulles, Virginia, which was not that far away. Could he maybe get a line on Tim Simons from Nebraska? It was the only lead he had right now. He rose, slipped his gun into its belt holster, and headed out.

Later, from inside his car, Wingo watched a jet lift into the air away from a storm approaching from the west. It made a graceful ascent, then performed a long bank to the south before leveling out and continuing its climb out from Dulles Airport.

Wingo took the fork to the right and made his way to the general aviation section of the sprawling 12,000-acre airport. It had been opened in 1972, and for many years had been largely unused by the flying public, which had preferred closer-in Washington National Airport. Now Dulles was one of the busiest terminals in the country, with short-haul flights to New York and nonstop routes to Tokyo. Its terminal roof, roughly in the shape of a wing, had been ultramodern when it was first built, though now it looked dated. The original control tower with the enormous pearl-white ball on top was no longer used. It had been replaced by a new tower about five years ago, and there were currently six air traffic controllers stationed there to keep the busy area skies safe.

Wingo had flown out of Dulles many times over the years. He had landed in a cargo plane here not that long ago. His name had been on the flight crew manifest, something that had cost him quite a bit of money. With private flights, the CBP, or Custom and Border Patrol agents, would meet the deplaning passengers at the front door of the fixed-base operator, or FBO, operating the flight. With cargo flights they came directly to the plane. They would check the people on board, but their chief concern was the cargo. It had been an ignominious homecoming but at least he had arrived back in the country safely. Before the CBP agents had even arrived he had walked directly out of the FBO, into a parking lot across the street, and from there to the rental center where he’d picked up his car.

Now Wingo parked his car, partially slid down his window, and took up observation with a pair of binoculars. He kept looking around for anyone watching him. He knew there were surveillance cameras everywhere, and he tried to keep out of the direct sight lines of the ones he could see. He knew there was a ramp tower that housed individuals whose job it was to keep things safe on the ground, looking for anything out of the ordinary that would require airport security to be called in. Wingo kept low in the seat for this reason.

People came and went from Cargo Buildings One through Four. These narrow warehouses, barely sixty feet deep, were home to mom-and-pop cargo consolidator companies. They packaged freight and loaded it into the bellies of planes.

Heron Air Service was located next to one of these cargo facilities. In the restricted lot behind the building Wingo could see jets of varying sizes either sitting with wheels chocked or else being prepped for departure; there was one jet heading in after taxiing off the runway. This was how the rich and well connected flew. No security lines, no parking problems, no dealing with the little people.

Wingo didn’t know if Heron was simply a charter company or did any freight business, but he had situated himself to be able to see both sectors of business conducted there as best he could. Still, Dulles Airport had over half a million square feet of cargo warehouse space and nearly a million square feet of cargo ramp. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of employees worked here, Wingo thought. Not to mention all the millions of people who came through as passengers. And while there might not be as many charter flights and passengers as on the commercial side of the airport, he was still looking for a needle in a haystack.

And then a miracle happened right in front of him.

He stiffened when he saw the man exit the offices of Heron Air Service. He wore a pilot’s uniform. He headed across the parking lot to his car.

Wingo snapped a picture of him with his cell phone.

The man climbed into a late-model Audi.

Wing noted the license plate and took a picture of it and the car. When the man drove off, Wingo fell in behind him.

The man was not Tim Simons from Nebraska.

But he was one of the men in that stone building in Afghanistan. And thus he represented the best and only lead Wingo had right now to uncover what the hell was going on.