“I don’t want him back,” he stated flatly. “But first, I’ll contact an old friend in Ireland, and then I want you to go see him.”
Chapter 38
San Francisco International Airport
San Francisco, California
Your name, sir?”
“Jacques Benoit,” he said, handing the attractive ticket agent a French passport.
The woman accepted the document and quickly turned to the expiration date, confirming it valid.
“And your final destination, Monsieur Benoit?”
“Paris.” Or Dubai, Brussels, or perhaps even Montevideo. He smiled inwardly.
“Yes, sir,” she said, checking her computer listings. “First class, seat 2A. Just the one piece of luggage?”
“Yes, just one.”
“There you are, sir,” she said, handing him a light blue, first class boarding pass. “Air France Flight 83 will be boarding at Gate 36 in twenty minutes, Mr. Benoit. Departure is at six-twenty-five and you will arrive at De Gaulle tomorrow afternoon at two. Is there anything else we can do for you, sir?”
“No, thank you very much.”
“Have a good flight.”
Jean Wolff closed his leather briefcase and walked briskly from the Air France ticket counter at San Francisco International, heading for Concourse B. Passing through electronic security, he continued down the concourse, stopping to buy a copy of the
It had been slightly more than a two-hour drive from the newly designated meeting spot where he had left Jackson Shaw and two of Shaw’s senior staff. They’d abandoned the roadside rest stop two months earlier in favor of the parking lot at Denny’s at the northern-most Woodland exit from I-5. It was now a longer drive for Shaw, coming from the north, but, Wolff smiled to himself, that would no longer be necessary.
At Wolff’s request, three of the Shasta Brigade’s leadership had come for the meeting, hopeful that each would receive his fair share of proceeds. Wolff had exercised extreme caution, wondering, perhaps, whether they had in mind for him the same thing he’d planned for them. But once again, as Franklin had always said, money made the difference.
Commander Shaw, Captain Jeffs, and First Sergeant Krueger arrived at the appointed hour and parked their Jeep Cherokee two slots down from Wolff’s BMW. Wolff walked to their car.
“Glad you could make it,” he said through the open driver’s window of the Jeep.
“It’s not a good time to be public,” Shaw had responded tersely.
“You’re right. That’s why I asked you to come together. It’s time for us to lay low. I’ve brought the money we discussed,” he said, continuing to glance around the parking area. “I think the three of you should get out of the country. In six months to a year, I’ll be in touch again. Instructions are in the briefcases. This is just a setback, Shaw. We’ll be back in operation sooner than you know.”
“Is that right?” Shaw asked, a slight sneer in his expression. “It’s not your name on the wanted posters, Wolff. If my guess is right, you’ll be out of the country in the next twelve hours.”
“And so will you, if you’re smart. What makes you think I’m so protected from fallout?”
“Your kind always are. Just give us the money, and we’ll be out of here.”
Wolff returned Shaw’s stare, slowing smiling and nodding. “I’ve got three briefcases, each with a passport, false identity cards, and $100,000. Think you can live on that for a year or so, Shaw?”
“Back off, Wolff,” Shaw said. “It’s probably five percent of what you got.”
“First Sergeant,” Wolff said, looking past the driver into the backseat, “would you mind giving me a hand?”
“Get the money, Otto, and let’s get the hell out of here,” Shaw ordered.
Otto Krueger exited the vehicle, walked with Wolff several steps to the BMW, and retrieved the three briefcases.
“The black one is yours, First Sergeant,” Wolff said, opening the briefcase to show the money and papers, “gray for Shaw, and the brown is Jeffs’. The new IDs are inside. Do you know where you’re going?”
“We’ve made plans,” Krueger answered, nodding.
“Together?”
Otto Krueger glanced toward the Jeep and then back at Wolff. “Yeah, right. Like I’m going to hang with these losers.”
“See you next time, Otto. You’re a good man to have around in a tough situation. I’ll look forward to working with you again,” Wolff said, extending his hand to shake Otto’s.
“Don’t count on it, Wolff, or whoever you are. I trust you less than I trust them, and that ain’t much,” he said, turning and quickly covering the distance to the Jeep.
From the open window of the driver’s seat, Shaw voiced a few expletives and spun his wheels as he left the parking lot. Wolff’s last view of the Shasta Brigade leadership was of Commander Shaw starting down the access road to I-5 North.
Wolff entered his BMW and drove out of the lot toward the I-5 South on-ramp. He paused at the top of the ramp, looking north toward the tawny colored Jeep. Reaching into his glove box, he extracted the same small transistor control box he’d used while playing golf with Shaw some three months earlier. Wolff glanced again at the rapidly departing vehicle, extended the antennae, and triggered the signal.
The resulting fireball, some half-mile north on I-5, destroyed the Jeep Cherokee and a small Honda Civic that Shaw was in the process of overtaking. After viewing the carnage for a few seconds, Wolff threw the BMW into gear and entered the freeway, heading south toward the San Francisco International Airport.
“Air France is pleased to announce the boarding of Flight 83 for Paris De Gaulle. We will now begin boarding our first-class passengers, if you please.”
The sunset was magnificent as usual, but John Henry Franklin had come to accept the spectacular evening display as routine. Seated comfortably on the veranda of his home at Sea Ranch, he quietly rocked in his chair, contemplating his losses and the evaporation of his former international political alliances, none of whom had bothered to return his calls for over two weeks. The disappearance of Jean Wolff and the unauthorized withdrawal of over $30 million from the Cayman Island account that had been used to fund the patriot movement were the latest evidences of the collapse of Franklin’s empire. His control over events and people had diminished considerably. But not for long, he comforted himself. As Franklin saw it, money always brought out the best in people, and if nothing else, John Henry Franklin had plenty of money.
“Coffee,
“Yes, thank you,” Franklin replied.
Consuela stepped to the small food cart and poured a cup of coffee, adding the usual two spoons of sugar and a dab of cream, along with the touch of whiskey John Henry Franklin had always enjoyed on these evenings when he sat on the veranda and allowed time for reflection.
“From Carmen,
“Excuse me?” Franklin said.
“
