Chapter 37

Varak approached the last of the maintenance hangars in the private area of San Diego's International Airport. Police and armed customs personnel in electric carts and on motorbikes drove continuously through the exposed narrow streets of the huge flat complex, voices and static erupting sporadically from the vehicles' radios. The individual rich and the highly profitable corporations who were the area's clients might avoid the irritations of normal air travel, but they could not avoid the scrutiny of federal and municipal agencies patrolling the sector. Each plane prepped for departure underwent not only the usual flight plan and route clearances, but thorough inspections of the aircraft itself. Furthermore, each person boarding was subject to the possibility of being searched, almost as if he or she were a member of the unwashed. Some of the questionable rich did not really have it that good.

The Czech had casually gone into the comfortable preflight lounge where the elite passengers waited in luxury before takeoff. He inquired about the Grinell plane, and the attractive clerk behind the counter was far more co-operative than he had expected.

'Are you on the flight, sir?' she had asked, about to type his name into her computer.

'No, I'm only here to deliver some legal papers.'

'Oh, then I suggest you go down to Hangar Seven. Mr. Grinell rarely calls in here; he goes straight to preclearance and then to the aircraft when it's rolled out for inspection.'

'If you could direct me…?'

'We'll have one of our carts drive you down.'

'I'd prefer to walk, if you don't mind. I'd like to stretch my legs.'

'Suit yourself, but stay in the street. Security here is touchy and there are all kinds of alarms.'

'I'll run from streetlight to streetlight,' Milos said, smiling. 'Okay?'

'Not a bad idea,' the girl replied. 'Last week a Beverly Hills hotshot got juiced in here and wanted to walk, too. He took a wrong turn and ended up in the San Diego jail.'

'For simply walking?'

'Well, he had some funny pills on him—’

'I don't even have aspirin.'

'Go outside, turn right to the first street, and right again. It's the last hangar on the edge of the strip. Mr. Grinell has the best location. I wish he'd come in here more often.'

'He's a very private person.'

'He's invisible, that's what he is.'

Varak kept glancing around while nodding his head at the drivers of carts and low-slung motor scooters who approached him from both directions, some slowing down, others rushing past. He saw what he wanted to see. There were trip lights between the row of hangars on the right, connecting beams from opposing short poles in the ground designed to look like demarcations—of what? wondered the Czech. Lawns between suburban houses of the future where neighbour feared neighbour? On the left side of the street there was nothing but a vacant expanse of tall grass that bordered an auxiliary runway. It would be his way out of the private field once his business was concluded.

The clerk at the preflight lounge had been accurate, Milos mused, as he neared the immense open doors of the final hangar. Grinell's plane was in the best location. Once cleared, the aircraft could move out to the field through the opposite door, take off subject only to control by the tower—no minutes wasted during slow hours. Some of the rich had it better than he had thought.

Two uniformed guards stood inside the hangar at the edge of the drive where the tarmac met the concrete floor of the interior. Beyond them a Rockwell jet with men crawling over its silver wings stood immobile, a metal bird soon to soar up into the night sky. Milos studied the guards' uniforms; they were neither federal nor municipal; they were from a private security firm. The realization gave birth to another thought, as he noted that one of the men was quite large and very full in the waist and shoulders. Nothing was lost in trying; he had reached his post for the kill, but how much more satisfying it would be to execute a traitor at close range, making certain of the execution.

Varak walked casually down the asphalt towards the imposing entrance of the hangar. Both guards stepped forward, one crushing out a cigarette under his foot.

'What's your business here?' asked the large man on the Czech's right.

'Business, I think,' answered Varak pleasantly. 'Rather confidential business, I believe.'

'What does that mean?' said the shorter guard on the left.

'You'll have to ask Mr. Grinell, I'm afraid. I'm merely a messenger and I was told to speak to only one person who should convey the information to Mr. Grinell when he arrives.'

'More of that bullshit,' added the shorter patrol to his companion. 'If you got papers or cash, you gotta get 'em pre-cleared. They find somethin' on the plane they don't know about, it don't head out, and Mr. Grinell will explode, you get me?'

'Loud and clear, my friend. I have only words that must be repeated accurately. Do you get me?'

'So talk.'

'One person,' said Varak. 'And I choose him,' continued Milos, pointing at the large man.

'He's dumb. Take me.'

'I was told whom to choose.'

'Shit!'

'Please come with me,' said the Czech, gesturing to the right behind the trip lights. 'I'm to record our conversation but without anyone in earshot.'

'Why don't you tell the boss himself?' objected the overlooked guard on the left. 'He'll be here in a couple of minutes.'

'Because we're never to meet face to face—anywhere. Would you care to ask him about it?'

'More bullshit.'

Once around the corner of the hangar, Varak raised his cupped left hand. 'Would you please speak directly into this?' he said, again pleasantly.

'Sure, mister.'

They were the last words the guard would remember. The Czech sent the hard flat base of his right hand into the man's shoulder blade, following the blow with three chops to his throat and a final, two-knuckled assault on his upper eyelids. The guard collapsed, and Varak swiftly began to remove his clothes. A minute and twenty seconds later he was overdressed in the large man's private security uniform; he cuffed the trouser legs and shoved up his sleeves, pulling the uniform over his wrists. He was ready.

Forty seconds later a black limousine drove down the street and stopped at the base of the asphalt entrance to the hangar. The Czech moved out of the shadows and walked slowly into the chiaroscuro light. A man emerged from the huge car, and although Milos had never seen him, he knew that man was Crayton Grinell.

'Hi, boss!' yelled the guard at the left of the hangar as the overcoated grey-faced figure walked quickly, angrily across the tarmac. 'We got your message; Benny's recording something—'

'Why isn't the goddamned plane out on the strip?' roared Grinell. 'Everything's cleared, you idiots!'

'Benny talked to them, boss, I didn't! Five, ten minutes, they told him. It would have been different if I was on the phone! Shit, I don't put up with no shit, you know what I mean? You should'a told that guy to speak to me, that Benny—'

'Shut up! Get my driver and tell him to move this son of a bitch out! If they can't fly it, he can!'

'Sure, boss. Anything you say, boss!'

As the guard started shouting to the driver the Czech joined the rush of activity and began running towards the outsized car.

'Thanks!' cried the passing chauffeur, seeing Varak's uniform. 'He goes on at the last minute!'

Milos raced around the boot of the car to the street side, yanked open the back door, and leaped inside to a jump seat. He sat rigid, staring at the puffed face of the astonished Eric Sundstrom. 'Hello, Professor,' he said softly.

'It was a trap—you set a trap for me!' screamed the scientist in the dark shadows of the car. 'But you don't know what you're doing, Varak! We're on the edge of a breakthrough in space! So many wondrous things to learn! We were wrong—Inver Brass is wrong! We must go on!'

'Even if we blow up half the planet?'

'Don't be an ass!' cried Sundstrom, pleading. 'Nobody's going to blow up anything! We're civilized people on both sides, civilized and frightened. The more we build, the more fear we instil—that's the world's ultimate protection, don't you see?'

'You call that civilized?'

'I call it progress. Scientific progress! You wouldn't understand, but the more we build the more we learn.'

'Through weapons of destruction?'

'Weapons…? You're pitifully naive! “Weapons” is merely a label. Like “fish” or “vegetables”. It's the excuse we employ to fund scientific advancement on a scale that would be otherwise prohibitive! The bigger bang for the buck theory is obsolete—we have all the bang we'll ever need. It's in the delivery systems—orbital guidance and hookups, directional lasers that can be refracted in space to pinpoint a manhole cover from thousands of miles above.'

'And deliver a bomb?'

'Only if someone tries to stop us,' answered the scientist, his voice strained as if the mere prospect was enough to summon his fury. Then that fury broke. His cherubic features suddenly turned into the grotesque components of some monstrous gargoyle. 'Research, research, research!' he cried, his strident speech like the squeals of a furious pig. 'Let no one dare stop us! We're moving into a new world where science will rule all civilization! You're meddling with a political faction that understands our needs. You can't be tolerated! Kendrick is dangerous! You've seen him, heard him… he'd hold hearings, ask stupid questions, obstruct our progress!'

'That's what I thought you'd say.' Varak slowly reached beneath the uniform to the fold of his jacket. 'Do you know the universal penalty for treason, Professor?'

'What are you talking about?' His hands trembling, his heavy body shaking as the sweat rolled down his face, Sundstrom edged towards the door. 'I've betrayed no one… I'm trying to stop a terrible wrong, a horrible mistake committed by misguided lunatics! You've got to be stopped, all of you! You cannot interfere with the greatest scientific machine the world has ever known!'

In the shadows Varak withdrew his automatic; a reflection of light beamed up from the barrel into Sundstrom's eyes. 'You've had months to say those things; instead you were silent while the others trusted you. Through your betrayal lives were lost, bodies mutilated… you're filth, Professor.'

'No!' screamed Sundstrom, crashing into the door, his trembling fingers hitting the handle as the door swung out, the scientist's rotund body following in frenzied panic. Milos fired; the bullet seared into Sundstrom's lower spine as the traitor fell to the asphalt shrieking. 'Help me, help me! He's trying to kill me! Oh, my God, he shot me!… Kill him, kill him!' Varak fired again, his aim now steady, the bullet accurate. The back of the scientist's skull blew apart.

In seconds, amid screams of confusion, gunfire was returned from the hangar. The Czech was hit in the chest and left shoulder. He sprang out of the street side door, rolling on the ground, over and over again directly behind the limousine until he reached the opposite curb. In pain, he crawled above it, scrambling on his hands and knees into the darkness of the tall grass that was the border of an auxiliary airstrip. He almost did not make it; from all directions there were the sounds of sirens and racing engines. The entire security force was converging on Hangar Seven, as across the street the guard and Grinell's chauffeur closed in on the limousine, firing repeatedly into the vehicle. Varak was hit again. An aimless ricochet, a wild shot, burned its way into his stomach. He had to get away! His business was not concluded!

He turned and started running through the tall grass, ripping first the uniformed jacket off, then stopping briefly to remove the trousers. Blood was spreading through his shirt, and his legs grew unsteady. He had to conserve his strength! He had to get across the field and reach a road, find a telephone. He had to!

Searchlights. From a tower behind him! He was back in Czechoslovakia, in prison, racing across the compound to a fence and freedom. A beam swung close, and as he had done in that prison outside Prague, he lurched to the ground and lay motionless until it passed. He struggled to his feet, knowing he was growing weaker but could not stop. In the distance there were other lights—streetlights! And another fence…! Freedom, freedom.

Straining every muscle, grip by grip, he scaled the fence only to confront coiled barbed wire at the top. It did not matter. With what seemed like his last vestige of strength, he propelled himself over, shredding his clothes and his flesh as he dropped to the ground. He lay there breathing deeply, alternately holding his stomach and his chest. Go on! Now!

He reached the road; it was one of those unkempt narrow thoroughfares that frequently surround airports, no real estate development because of the noise. Still, cars sped by, shortcuts known to natives. Awkwardly, unsteadily, he walked on to it, holding up his arms at an approaching vehicle. The driver, however, was having no part of him. He swung to the left and raced by. Moments later a second car approached from his right; he stood as straight as he could and raised one hand, a civilized signal of distress. The car slowed down; it stopped as the Czech reached into his holster for his gun.

'What's the problem?' asked the man in a naval uniform behind the wheel. The gold wings signified that he was a pilot.

‘I’m afraid I've had an accident,' replied Varak. 'I drove off the road a mile or so back and no one has stopped to help me.'

'You're pretty smashed up, pal… Climb in and I'll get you to the hospital. Jesus, you're a mess! Come on, I'll give you a hand.'

'Don't bother, I can manage,' said Varak, walking around the bonnet. He opened the door and climbed in. 'If I soil your car I'll gladly pay—’

'Let's worry about that in a month of Tuesdays.' The naval officer shifted into gear and raced off as the Czech replaced his unseen automatic in the holster.

'You're very kind,' said Milos, digging a scrap of paper out of his pocket and removing his pen, writing brief words and numbers in the darkness.

'You're very hurt, pal. Hang on.'

'Please, I must find a telephone. Please!'

The fucking insurance can wait, buddy.'

'No, not insurance,' stammered Varak. 'My wife. She expected me hours ago… She has psychological problems.'

'Don't they all?' said the pilot. 'Do you want me to make the call?'

'No, thank you very much. She would interpret that as a crisis far worse than it is.' The Czech arched back in the seat, grimacing.

'There's a fruit stand about a mile down the road. I know the owner and they have a phone.'

'I can't thank you enough.'

'Take me to dinner when you get out of the hospital.'

The perplexed owner of the fruit store handed Varak the phone as the naval officer watched, concerned for his damaged passenger. Milos dialled the Westlake Hotel. 'Room Fifty-one, if you please?"

'Hello, hello?' cried Khalehla from out of a deep sleep.

'Do you have an answer for me?'

'Milos?'

'Yes.'

'What's wrong?'

‘I'm not terribly well, Miss Rashad. Do you have an answer?'

'You're hurt!'

'Your answer.’

'Green light. Payton will back off. If Evan can get the nomination, it's his. The race is on.'

'He's needed more than you'll ever know.'

'I don't know that he'll agree.'

'He has to! Keep your line free. I'll call you right back.'

'You are hurt!'

The Czech depressed the bar on the phone and immediately redialled.

'Yes?'

'Sound Man?'

'Prague?'

'How are things progressing?'

'We'll be done in a couple of hours. The typist's got the earphones on and is pounding away… She's rough on all-night overtime.'

'Whatever the cost, it's… covered.'

'What's wrong with you? I can barely hear you.'

'A slight cold… You'll find ten thousand in your studio mailbox.'

'Yes, come on, I'm not a thief.'

'I roll high, remember?'

'You really don't sound right, Prague.'

'In the morning, take everything to the Westlake, Room Fifty-one. The name of the woman is Rashad. Give it only to her.'

'Rashad. Room Fifty-one. I've got it.'

'Thank you.'

'Listen, if you're in trouble, let me know about it, okay? I mean if there's anything I can do—’

'Your car's at the airport, somewhere in Section C,' said the Czech, hanging up. He lifted the phone for the last time and dialled again. 'Room Fifty-one,' he repeated.

'Hello?'

'You will receive… everything in the morning.'

'Where are you? Let me send help!'

'In the… morning. Get it to Mr. B!'

'Goddamn you, Milos, where are you?'

'It doesn't matter… Ask Kendrick. He may know.'

'Know what?'

'Photographs… The Vanvlanderen woman… Lausanne, the Leman Marina. The Beau Rivage—the gardens. Then Amsterdam, the Rozengracht. In the hotel… her study. Tell him! The man is a Saudi and things happened to him… millions, millions!' Milos could hardly talk; he had so little breath. Go on… go on! Escape… millions!'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

'He may be the key! Don't let anyone remove the photographs… Contact Kendrick. He may remember!' The Czech lost control of his movements; he swung the telephone back on to the counter missing the cradle, then fell to the ground in front of the fruit stand on a back country road beyond the airport in San Diego. Milos Varak was dead.

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