The Last Witness

[FOUR]

Love Field Airport, Dallas

Sunday, November 16, 8:55 P.M. Texas Standard Time

The manager of Lone Star Aviation Services-a tall man in his late thirties, with almost a military buzz haircut and dressed in slacks, well-shined brown loafers, knit shirt, and a brown leather A-2 flight jacket-walked with purpose over to the medium-dark-skinned man who stood stiffly, hands on his hips, staring out the bank of windows that overlooked the busy airfield.

Lone Star was a fixed-base operator-an enormous limestone-faced steel building that was the hangar, and a limestone two-story building that served as its corporate offices and lobby reception area, and a concrete pad that could hold fifteen to twenty jet aircraft and two big red fuel trucks-in the northeast corner of the airfield, in the general aviation section. It was separate from the airport’s main terminal building, visible in the distance with orange-bellied 737s lined up at the gates.

“Tango Romeo is on the ground, Mr. Badde,” the manager of Lone Star Aviation Services announced.

H. Rapp Badde, Jr., thirty-two years old, was a city councilman-at-large with a well-earned reputation in his native Philadelphia for being alternately arrogant and charismatic. Somewhat fit-he had a bit of a belly rounding out the fabric of his white silk shirt-Badde stood five-eleven and two hundred pounds. He wore a custom-cut two-piece black suit and his trademark narrow black bow tie. A brand-new roller suitcase, a cheap counterfeit Louis Vuitton, black with pink accents, stood at his feet.

“Tango Romeo?” Badde automatically repeated. “What the hell is that? Sounds like some kind of Roman lover’s Latin dance.”

He flashed his politician’s bright cap-toothed exaggerated smile, his belly shaking as he chuckled at his own wit.

“My apology, sir. I should have said Mr. Antonov’s aircraft has landed.”

“Then what’s Tango Romeo?”

“The aircraft’s identification number is N556TR. In the language of aviation, ‘T’ is said ‘Tango’ and ‘R’ is said ‘Romeo’ for clarity, to avoid confusion in radio communications.”

The look on Badde’s face suggested anything but clarity.

The manager pointed out the window at a Cessna Citation X.

“There it is now,” he said.

The twin-engine jet aircraft was turning off the runway onto the taxiway. On the side of the engine that was visible Badde saw: N556TR.

The aircraft’s paint scheme featured a pair of undulating bright red ribbons. They ran along its gleaming white fuselage, ending on the T-tail, which had two bright red dice, the face of each showing two rows of three white pips.

“Railcars,” Badde automatically said aloud to himself.

He had been more or less studying the various games of gambling since becoming involved with the ongoing development of the new Lucky Stars casino, and was quietly impressed with himself for remembering.

“Excuse me, Mr. Badde?”

“Those dots on the dice,” he then said loudly, with authority, “those are called railcars when there’s twelve of them.”

The manager hesitated before replying, “If I’m not mistaken, I believe, sir, that it’s boxcars.”

Badde turned his head in thought, then said, “That’s what I said. Boxcars.”

“Of course. My mistake.”

“Wonder if there’s any significance to their being boxcars?” Badde went on. “It’s not a train, it’s a plane. Guess it probably just looks good.”

The manager didn’t reply.

“What kind of plane is that?” Badde then said. “One of those Boeings?”

“Boeings are much bigger, sir.” He pointed toward the 737s at the main terminal gates. “Those are Boeing airliners.”

“I came here on that.” Badde pointed to the nearest business jet parked on the pad with eight others, a couple at least twice its size. “It’s a what?”

“A Hawker.”

“And this one coming in?”

“Tango Romeo is a four-month-old Citation Ten, the latest version. It’s a midsized jet, a little bigger than the Hawker.”

“And faster?”

“Yes, sir. A little. At flight level four-nine-zero it cruises around four-sixty, four-seventy knots.” He paused, then added, “That’s an altitude of forty-nine thousand feet, and speed just over six hundred miles an hour. With the headwind light tonight, it made the trip from Key West in right at two hours. And that included a stop, a brief one, in New Orleans.”

Badde nodded as he wondered, What did they do in New Orleans? Their casino downtown is at least a half hour from the airport.

“Had to stop for gas?” he said.

“They weren’t on the ground long enough for that. Besides, the Citation’s range is around thirty-five hundred miles. Depending on winds, that’s New York City to Los Angeles and halfway back again.”

“You’re just full of interesting flying facts,” Badde said. “How do you keep up with it all?”

“It’s my job, of course. But aviation is addictive.”

“Yeah. So I’m seeing! This Citation, how many can it hold?”

“In addition to the two crew, up to twelve passengers, depending on the cabin configuration.”

“What’s one worth?”

“New, around twenty million-”

“No kidding?”

“-but there are plenty of nice older ones to be had for eight, ten. We have a couple for sale in that range in the hangar, as well as others.”

Badde nodded, impressed. There had been plenty of general aviation airplanes at the fixed-base operator at Northeast Philadelphia Airport when the Hawker arrived that afternoon to pick up Badde. Most of the ones he’d seen, though, had propellers, not jet engines, and were much smaller than the Hawker.

There had to be some.

Maybe, like the Russian’s here, they’re gone somewhere.

The giant doors on the hangar began sliding open. The interior was brightly lit, and Badde could see even more aircraft inside. Enormous red, white, and blue flags-one of the United States of America with its fifty stars and one of the State of Texas with its Lone Star paying homage to when it was its own sovereign nation-hung in the middle from the steel beam rafters. A tractor tug drove out and connected to the Citation’s nose gear.

Looks like what they say about everything being bigger in Texas is true!

And this place is cleaner than the one today in Philly. That glossy floor looks clean enough to eat off of.

“Well, Mr. Badde,” the manager said, “welcome again to Texas. And please let me know if there’s anything else that we can do for you and the City of Philadelphia. Particularly if you’re in the market for a fine aircraft.”

“Now, that would be a very nice thing to get!” Badde said. “And none of that TSA security nonsense. Just hop onboard and go. I can get used to this kind of lifestyle.”

The manager smiled, then left.

H. Rapp Badde, Jr., watched with almost childlike fascination as the impressive Citation rolled up to near the limestone-faced hangar and was wanded to a stop on the well-lit pad. He heard the whine of the engines winding down.

Idling nearby was a highly polished black Cadillac Escalade ESV with darkened windows and shiny chromed wheels. The big SUV’s Texas license plate read Y-ROSE-5. It began moving slowly, then stopped alongside the aircraft as the jet’s stair door opened and rotated downward. The driver’s door swung open and a clean-cut brown-skinned young man in a two-piece black suit and collarless white dress shirt stepped out. He opened the door behind the driver’s.

Jan would like this kind of living large, too, Badde thought.

It’s a shame she already had the meeting set up for tomorrow and couldn’t come. But Santos assured Jan there would be more opportunities.

On paper, Janelle Harper, a graduate of Temple’s Beasley School of Law, was Badde’s executive assistant. In reality, the curvy, full-bodied (five-six, one-forty) twenty-five-year-old with silky light brown skin was his paramour.

Although Badde adamantly denied that they had a relationship that was anything but professional, the truth of the matter was not exactly a well-kept secret in Philadelphia. Months earlier, for example, a photograph of them on a Bermuda beach had appeared in the local media. Thus, it was known-though mostly ignored-by Wanda Badde, Rapp’s wife of six years.

He had spent the previous night with Jan, in the luxury Hops Haus twentieth-floor condominium he provided for her, after a furious Wanda had thrown him out of their house.

When Jan got the call that the Hawker would pick up Rapp at Northeast Airport that afternoon, he’d had enough clothes at the condo for the trip. But he’d found it necessary to borrow the counterfeit Louis Vuitton suitcase he had bought on the street in New York City for Jan as a surprise, not expecting she could tell it was a fake.

She had never touched it.