The Killing House

18

As a federal fugitive, Fletcher no longer had the luxury of commercial flight. In the wake of 9/11, the Transportation Security Administration, the government agency responsible for safe air travel, had been moved under the Department of Homeland Security. His visage, fingerprints, age-progressed photographs and other distinguishing characteristics were stored on its database, which could be accessed easily by any TSA agent or passport official.

The TSA had also implemented a number of security measures designed to stop a terrorist from smuggling a bomb on to a plane. Careful attention was paid to clothing: shoes, coats and belts were checked — and now underwear, thanks to Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, a young Muslim man who had managed to board a Northwest Airlines flight en route from Amsterdam to Detroit, Michigan, with plastic explosives smuggled inside his pants. Fortunately, the bomb had failed to detonate.

While luggage X-rays, full-body scans and searches amounted to nothing more than theatre — a performance meant to impart a false sense of security to commercial-airline travellers — people who owned a plane or had the financial means to charter one weren’t subjected to the same scrutiny. Lobbyists working for the highly lucrative domestic private air-travel industry had thwarted the TSA’s attempts to implement similar security measures for people flying by general aviation aircraft. These travellers were allowed to access their planes directly, bypassing all security checkpoints.

Before leaving the townhouse, Fletcher had changed into clothing more suitable for surveillance work. Wearing sunglasses, he pulled a rolling suitcase behind him as he followed Karim across the windy tarmac. In addition to his sidearm and MTV vest, the suitcase contained a wide assortment of tools and equipment.

Fletcher had made no effort to hide anything; Karim had assured him that the suitcase wouldn’t be subjected to a search. Karim had also assured him that they could speak safely on the plane. His people swept it for listening devices, always, prior to takeoff.

Karim, Fletcher knew, considered owning a plane a waste of money. His business, however, sometimes required him to fly at a moment’s notice. The man had purchased a Cessna Citation, a modest jet compared to the lavish corporate Gulfstream parked near by. A Gulfstream could seat a dozen people comfortably and offered a host of amenities, such as an area for conferences and multiple flatscreen TVs with innumerable entertainment choices.

Karim didn’t indulge in such pomp and circumstance. The interior of Karim’s Cessna was entirely practical, consisting of six comfortable and spacious tan leather executive seats strategically arranged to maximize space. High-gloss veneer tables bolted to the floor and cabinetry with polished gold accents decorated the cabin, along with a beige carpet that showed no sign of wear.

The pilot stood outside the cockpit door. Karim shook the man’s hand and introduced Fletcher as a business associate who would be accompanying him to Alabama. The pilot didn’t ask for Fletcher’s name or passport, and he didn’t ask to search his suitcase. He retreated inside the cockpit, shutting the door behind him.

Blocking the aisle leading to the rear of the plane was a tall, thin woman dressed in a form-fitting black jacket and a matching pencil skirt. A long, side-swept fringe of stark white hair concealed her right eye, its tips hanging like daggers across her cheekbone. All of her hair was white, the sides cut short, the back cropped. Fletcher had seen this type of haircut on a good number of young cosmopolitan women. It complemented her sharp, angular features.

She held out a hand a good arm’s length away and said, ‘Your coat and suitcase please.’

She was British. Her accent suggested she had been raised and educated in the Midlands — Birmingham, Fletcher suspected.

‘There’s no need for that,’ Karim told her. ‘This is Robert Pepin, an old, dear friend and colleague. This is my personal assistant, Emma White.’

Fletcher extended a hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Miss White.’

She shook his hand and he felt the strength in her grip.

‘I’m not anyone’s miss,’ she said, polite but firm. ‘M. As in the letter.’

‘Yes. Right,’ Karim said. ‘Now let’s get — ’

‘I’m sure Mr Pepin won’t mind a security search,’ she said.

‘ I mind it,’ Karim replied. ‘Please step aside and let Mr Pepin through.’

The young woman complied but didn’t hide her disapproval. Her face, stark and severe in its beauty, expressed clear Teutonic characteristics — pale, almost translucent skin and a thin but strong nose in profile. She had applied a light touch of eyeshadow and lipstick to her porcelain features, but there was nothing delicate about her.

Fletcher moved to the end of the plane and stuffed his suitcase and jacket in the overhead compartment. Knowing he had aroused Emma White’s suspicions, he decided to take a seat facing the cockpit so he could keep a close eye on her.

He watched her behind his sunglasses. Emma White — M, as in the letter — reminded him of another woman he’d met several years ago, a Boston-based investigator and forensics expert named Darby McCormick.

The McCormick woman still fascinated him. Much like Emma White, Darby McCormick possessed a distinct and savage beauty. But it was the woman’s fierce intellect that had drawn him, and her physical mettle brought to mind comparisons with the legendary female Amazon warriors from Greek mythology. Fletcher wondered — and not for the first time — what it would be like to know Darby McCormick more intimately.

Karim strolled down the aisle, holding a cardboard box stuffed with pastries.

‘Would you like one? Coffee?’

‘No, thank you,’ Fletcher said. He leaned forward in his seat, and in a low voice added: ‘You neglected to mention that someone else would be on board.’

‘Emma takes over the role as my shadow when Boyd is away. She takes the job quite seriously.’ With a conspiratorial grin, Karim added, ‘She’s quite capable of handling herself.’

I’m sure she is, Fletcher thought. When the young woman offered to relieve him of his belongings, Fletcher had caught sight of fine scars along her callused palm and fingers.

‘In case you forgot, Ali, there’s a three-million-dollar bounty on my head.’

‘You have nothing to worry about. In addition to being stubbornly loyal, M is very discreet.’

Fletcher didn’t question Karim’s conviction; the man had a finely tuned internal Geiger counter for such matters. Still, he marvelled at Karim’s ability to trust. With the exception of Karim, Fletcher did not indulge in such sentiment. His survival depended on it.

‘And she can help us,’ Karim said.

‘How?’

‘Her knowledge of computers is… well, frightening. She performed the data mining on the Herreras. I’ll have her research this company you’re going to visit, see what we can find out about the premises.’

Fletcher said nothing. Karim was a meticulous planner; the woman’s presence here was no accident. Karim had intended to use her on this from the very start.

‘I’d prefer it if you limited our interactions.’

‘I’ll keep her up front,’ Karim said. ‘Would you mind if I joined her for the flight? She has some paperwork for me.’

Fletcher shook his head and Karim trudged away.

Fletcher closed his eyes as the plane taxied to the runway. He saw himself standing on the front doorstep of the Herrera home. Felt the falling snow against his hair and neck as he replayed his conversation with Theresa Herrera.

He paused the frame just before she was shot.

The shooter had been standing only a few feet away from Theresa Herrera. The woman in the fur coat could hear them talking but she couldn’t see him. There were no windows to watch from.

You couldn’t see my face.

You couldn’t see me drawing my sidearm.

So what made you panic and start to shoot?