A Wild and Lonely Place Page 24

  Maynard looked at it and then at me. “What the—”

  “You’re free to try to keep as close a surveillance on me as possible, Mr. Maynard. But it’ll have to be on my terms. If you come any closer to me than, say, the distance from this table to those phone booths, I’ll call Security. Your Florida P.I.’s license doesn’t give you the right to harass or intimidate women, you know.”

  I let that sink in, then added, “As you said before, that kind of trouble you don’t need.”

  Twenty-two

  My first call was to Greg. “Anything on Joslyn?”

  “No. Sharon—”

  “No further postings on the Web?”

  “Nothing. Where—”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Kent Maynard was finishing his beer, narrowed eyes fixed on me. I saluted him. He scowled.

  For a moment I debated calling Renshaw to ask if he could help us out of this situation, but then I decided against it. Renshaw’s methods tended to be high risk, and I was damned if I would allow him to endanger Habiba. Besides, I had RKI’s best man only a Touch-Tone dial away. Between us, Hy and I would manage.

  Mick’s recorded voice was all I reached at my office. I redialed, this time Charlotte Keim’s extension at RKI. Keim answered, sounding too frisky for someone laboring in the data-search section. Mick’s voice in the background explained why. Oh, well, at least Keim had promised to be gentle with him.…

  Charlotte became even more animated when I identified myself. “Sharon, you were right. We’re definitely onto him!”

  “Go ahead.” I pulled a pad that I’d appropriated at Hy’s friend’s house from my bag.

  “No, I’ll let Mick tell you. These’re really his findings.”

  Keim knew how to reel my nephew in, all right. When he came on the line he sounded as puffed up with self-importance as a blowfish is with air. “We just finished,” he said, “and we found incidents like you described for each country—some of them outside the ten-year time frame that you originally set. You ready for this?”

  “I’m ready.”

  * * *

  In less than fifteen minutes I had it all. “Good work, Mick!”

  “Thanks. So what should I do? Turn it over to the task force?”

  I hesitated; something was cautioning me against that. “What you do is sit on it.”

  “But your friend Adah—”

  “Could be in more danger if the bomber realizes how close we’re getting. Do you think Parkhurst would keep this information confidential? It’s the first substantial break in the case; he’d call a press conference. You are to do nothing with the information. Understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, I’ve got another assignment for you. How good are you at surveillance?”

  “I’m—” He seemed about to extol abilities that he’d seldom tested, then retrenched. “I’m okay.”

  “Can you pick up somebody at the airport tonight and keep tabs on him indefinitely?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Subject’s name is Dawud Hamid. He’s on American’s ten-nineteen flight from Miami.” I gave him Hamid’s description. “Take that ridiculously expensive cellular phone you bought last month along with you so I can get in touch. And Mick—”

  “Don’t worry—I’ll be careful, I won’t run up any more expenses than I absolutely have to, and I won’t fuck up.”

  * * *

  Kent Maynard was still watching me. I returned his gaze with a steady and measured one of my own. Then I moved down the concourse to an empty gate and spread the pages of notes I’d taken during my conversation with Mick on a table between two chains of molded plastic seats. Tucked my legs under me and swiveled sideways so I could examine them. In a moment Maynard came out of the bar and moved to another gate, keeping exactly the distance I’d prescribed. I ignored him and hunched over the pages on the table.

  Brazil: assault w/ deadly weapon, Washington, 1982

  The son of the Brazilian ambassador had allegedly stabbed a bouncer at a nightclub, leaving him permanently disabled. The suspect spent a few hours in custody, then was released because of his diplomatic immunity. The embassy could have waived privileged status, but refused.

  Saudi Arabia: rape, D.C., ′83

  A fifteen-year-old girl was allegedly raped at a party by the son of a diplomat attached to the Royal Embassy. The father was persuaded to repatriate the young man to their native country, but he reappeared in the D.C. area several weeks later. The authorities told the girl’s parents there was nothing they could do because he was immune from prosecution.

  Pakistan: child molestation, D.C., ′82

  A military attaché to the Pakistani Embassy fondled an eleven-year-old girl at the post exchange at Fort McNair, Virginia. Both the military police and the Criminal Investigation Division told her mother that their hands were tied because he was a technical staff member at a diplomatic mission—a category granted full immunity from criminal prosecution.

  Ghana: rape, New York City, ′81

  The alleged perpetrator was the son of a United Nations delegate. In spite of a positive identification by the victim, he spent only forty-five minutes in custody and left the police station laughing. Later he voluntarily repatriated to Ghana.

  Yemen: vehicular homicide, NYC, ′86

  The son of North Yemen’s ambassador to the United Nations was driving along Park Avenue at lethal speed; his victim, a pedestrian, was dead on arrival at Bellevue Hospital. No charges were filed.

  Mexico: assault w/ deadly weapon, NYC, ′85

  The Mexican Ambassador to the United Nations broke another driver’s window and threatened him with a semiautomatic pistol in a dispute over a parking space. No charges were brought, although a cash settlement was later tendered to the victim.

  Panama: reckless driving, D.C., ′74

  A cultural attaché to the Panamanian Embassy ran a red light and broadsided another car, permanently paralyzing one of its occupants. He carried no liability insurance and offered no financial restitution to the victims. Again no charges were filed and the diplomat was later posted elsewhere.

  Libya: murder, London, ′84

  A Libyan assassin fatally shot a London policewoman in front of the embassy, where a peaceful demonstration of Libyan exiles was taking place. The murderer was never apprehended and the murder weapon never found, presumably because he had it in his sealed diplomatic baggage when he fled the country.

  Belgium: drug trafficking, La Guardia Airport, ′85

  The chancellor of the Belgian Embassy at New Delhi, India, delivered heroin smuggled into the U.S. in a diplomatic pouch to an undercover agent of the DEA. Diplomatic immunity carried no weight in this case, as the chancellor was not posted to a U.S. mission; he received six years in prison. The high-profile case revealed that drug smuggling in diplomatic pouches was not an uncommon practice.

  No wonder, I thought, that the Diplo-bomber’s attacks seemed to follow a completely random pattern. They occurred anywhere from five to eighteen years after the diplomats’ crimes. They were not necessarily directed at the perpetrators or even at the same missions. But now that I’d discovered the common link among his victims, it was apparent that the bomber was enraged at diplomatic crime—and that the specific crime that had fueled his anger was Chloe Love’s murder.

  Interesting that his last attack before the attempt at the Azadi Consulate had been on a diplomatic mission of a country whose lawbreaker had been brought to justice. A message, perhaps, about his future intentions?

  What had the bomber been to Chloe? Friend? Relative? Lover? What had he been doing in Washington, D.C, and New York City? Why the two-year period of inactivity preceding the San Francisco bombings? And why play this contrived game of cat and mouse with the Azadis, rather than locate Dawud Hamid and deal with him directly? Why take innocent lives, injure innocent people?

  Because originally he wanted to make a statement, but now it had gone beyond that. He was enjoyi
ng this, getting off on it. It had produced the biggest high of his life, and he would do anything to maintain it.

  I glanced along the concourse. Kent Maynard was sitting patiently at the empty gate. I was certain his eyes hadn’t left me the entire time I’d studied my notes.

  I looked down at the pages again, staring at my scribblings till they blurred. The felt-tip lines and whorls bled out to an asymmetrical Rorschach blot and, like a psychiatric patient who has lost all other hope, I searched it for a vision of the bomber’s face.

  Nothing materialized.

  I sighed and looked up. Maynard nodded pleasantly.

  As if I didn’t have enough problems, now I was cursed with this nuisance!

  I got up and walked along the concourse to the phones. Called the Ramada in Key West. Maynard took up a position at the closest empty podium.

  “Everything okay there?” I asked Hy.

  “Still very silent on our young friend’s part, but nobody’s come looking for us, if that’s what you mean.”

  “My colleague here claims his firm has people scouring the hotels for you.” I related my conversation with Maynard and his actions since then. “He doesn’t know your name, but he probably has a description, so watch out.”

  “How’d they find out we were in the Keys?”

  “A money-hungry cabdriver, I think. But that doesn’t matter now. What am I going to do about Maynard?”

  “Well, do you suppose he’s got the manpower he claims?”

  “I really can’t guess at that.”

  “Can you lose him?”

  “I doubt it. He knows the territory here; I don’t.”

  “Okay, let me do some phoning. I’ll get back to you.”

  * * *

  “McCone? Is Maynard still watching you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay, we’ve got a plan. I’ve set things up with my buddy, the one whose house we stayed at; he’s a real helpful guy. Trouble is, you’re going to have to spend the night there in the airport.”

  “I’ve spent the night worse places. Besides”—I glanced at Maynard, smiling faintly—“misery loves company.”

  “And you’ll do your best to make sure he’s miserable. Okay, tomorrow morning there’s a Vanguard Air flight to Fort Myers at seven. I’ve already made you a reservation on it and a connecting flight to Tampa.”

  “What good’s that going to do? Maynard’ll buy a ticket at the podium and go along.”

  “That’s the idea. When you get to Fort Myers, here’s what you do…”

  * * *

  Vanguard Air was a grandiose choice of name at best. The ancient twenty-four-seat turboprop was the kind of aircraft that reduces passengers unaccustomed to small planes to babbling, quivering lumps of terror. The pilot looked to be around twelve years old; through the open cockpit door I could see him reading the operations manual. After a few minutes he announced our takeoff would be delayed because nobody could figure out why the baggage compartment door wouldn’t close.

  None of it bothered me. When you’ve flown upside down over the Sierra Nevada, you’ve seen it all from every angle— literally—and you know that the moment you set foot inside a plane you’ve turned your life over to random chance or fate or a higher power, whichever you happen to believe in. Apparently Kent Maynard didn’t share my stoicism; from the instant he belted himself into the seat across the aisle, his face was tinged an unbecoming shade of gray. Our rattling, stuttering takeoff bleached it to white.

  Serves him right for being so relentless, I thought as I pulled Habiba’s hat down and closed my eyes. As Hy and I had counted on, Maynard had purchased a ticket at the podium as soon as he saw me present mine to the gate attendant. When he entered the cabin he looked somewhat tentative: it wasn’t large enough for him to keep the prescribed distance; would I summon the pilot, as I’d threatened to summon airport security? I eased his concern by motioning cordially at the opposite seat.

  Now I kept my eyes closed, conscious of Maynard’s gaze. When I finally opened them, he was looking puzzled. Probably it had dawned upon him that I’d made it altogether too easy for him to stick with me. Soon he’d realize that I’d lured him into a situation where he would be unable to contact any of his people for forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes that Hy and Habiba needed to make their move.

  Fort Myers was another standard-issue airport, quiet at this time of morning when few flights were arriving. I spotted the women’s restroom, crossed to it, and followed a woman in a long flowered skirt, flimsy pink blouse, and absurd floppy hat inside. She took the hat off immediately, turned, and extended her hand. “Edie Rosen.”

  “Sharon McCone.”

  Edie Rosen was about my height and had shoulder-length black hair styled very much like mine. She kicked off her sandals and began stripping off the skirt and blouse. “We better hurry; your flight was late.”

  I traded my jacket, jeans, and Tee for them, then sat on the floor and began unlacing my athletic shoes. Edie jammed the floppy hat—also pink, with mauve roses—on my head. And started to laugh.

  “What?” I asked.

  She pointed toward the mirror. “It’s definitely not you.”

  The image that confronted me was a cross between Blanche DuBois and my neighborhood bag lady. “My God,” I said. “And I have to go out in public like this?”

  Edie sat down next to me and began putting on my shoes. “Yeah, you do look kinda pathetic, but you’d fool your own mother, and that’s what Lanny said you wanted.”

  “Lanny?”

  “The guy whose house you stayed at in the Keys.”

  “Oh. He wasn’t there and his name never came up.”

  “That’s Lanny—real careful about his name, and too damned casual about his place.” She stood up and dumped the contents of a plastic purse decorated with seashells on the counter, then handed it to me. I transferred my things to it and gave her my straw bag and airline ticket. She handed me another ticket envelope.

  “Okay,” she said, “stand up and walk for me.”

  I took a few turns around the restroom. Edie watched, then imitated me.

  “Not bad, huh?” She smiled confidently, pulling the straw hat low on her brow. “I’m an actress, or at least I’m trying to be. Lanny promised that after this next flick we’re making he’ll get me some legitimate work.”

  Legitimate work. So porno film-making was what went on at Lanny’s island. God, Hy had collected a motley assortment of buddies over the years!

  Watch it, McCone, I cautioned myself. That motley buddy and his friend Edie are getting you out of a tight spot.

  Edie handed me a shopping bag she’d been carrying. “There’re some jeans and stuff in here. I didn’t think you’d want to travel ail the way cross-country in that getup.” She checked her watch. “Time to go now. Lanny will’ve called and had your guy paged right after we came in here. If I know him, he’s managed to keep him on the phone the whole time, and from the booths you can’t see anything but the backs of people leaving the restrooms. You go first; your flight to Tampa’s already boarding. My Orlando flight’s about to board. With any luck at all, your guy’ll follow me.”

  I clasped her hand. “Edie, thanks.”

  “It’s nothing. I love to act.” She winked. “I’ll do almost anything to act.”

  I winked back and went out onto the concourse. As I moved toward the gate I slumped a little and altered my walk. The door to the field seemed miles away; I forced myself to keep my pace normal and not look back at the phones. When I finally held out my ticket to the attendant he said, “Love your hat.”

  I couldn’t wait to get on the plane and rip the ridiculous thing off my head.

  At the top of the steps I allowed myself to take a quick look back at the terminal. Through the window I saw Maynard buying a ticket at the podium for the Orlando flight.

  Twenty-three

  Tampa, Florida, 9:21 A.M.

  “Worked like a charm, McCone!”

 
; Hy gathered me in his arms and swung me around; one of Edie’s too-large sandals flew off my foot and fell to the tarmac. Hy’s skin felt damp and overly warm. When he set me down he looked me over. “What the hell’re you supposed to be?”

  “If you think this is bad, you should’ve seen the hat I ditched on the plane.” I reached with my toes for the sandal and slipped it on while studying him. His color was high and his dark eyes glowed with erratic fire. “You feverish again?”

  He put a hand on my shoulder and walked me away from where Habiba was watching the line people refueling the twin-engine Beechcraft his friend Lanny had rented for us in Key West. “I’m not going to lie to you,” he said. “The fever keeps spiking, then falling off again. I think they gave me the wrong kind of drugs in Santo Domingo.”

  “I think we should—”

  “No time. You’ve been checked out in this type of aircraft. If I can’t pilot, you can take over.”

  I looked at the Beechcraft. I’d logged some hours in one with a friend of Hy’s, but still…Wouldn’t we all be better off if he saw a doctor and we holed up for a while?

  He sensed what I was thinking. “I mean it when I say we’ve got no time to waste. Lanny made some calls, asked around about Maynard. He runs a good agency and they’re hooked in with Associated Investigators.”

  Associated was a nationwide network whose members provided one another services on a cooperative basis. “Damn. By now he knows about the switch, and it won’t take him long to figure out which cities I could’ve flown to. He could have someone here pretty quick.” I paused. “What’s the range for this plane?”

  “Around twelve hundred miles. That’s approximately five hours at near max airspeed. I figure we’ll take her to New Orleans, see if you and Habiba can’t pick up a commercial flight there.”