slow 978 feet per second. Joker had smiled at the number of bullets the clip held. He knew that another SIG-Sauer model, the P226, actually held even more bullets — sixteen — but even thirteen was too many. If he ever got himself into a situation where that number of bullets were necessary, he’d be dead. The ‘spray and pray’ method beloved of the paintball amateur warriors didn’t work in real life. It was drilled into the SAS recruits from their first day in the Killing House — two shots per target, both to the chest. If you had time then maybe a third in the head to make one hundred per cent sure, but in a hostage situation with handguns it was two — bang-bang and then onto the next target. And if you were up against more than two targets you’d made a big mistake because no matter how many bullets you had in the clip you were outgunned. Only an amateur firing almost at random would need thirteen rounds. And when it came to killing, Joker was not an amateur.
He dried himself and put on a pair of blue Levi jeans and a black polo shirt and wrapped the gun in his pea jacket. He carried it out to his car and shoved it behind the driver’s seat, then went to reception and paid his motel bill, using his Visa card. The roads were clear and Joker drove quickly to the address in Laurel where Patrick Farrell lived. The house was a two-storey detached Colonial standing in several acres of lawn with a Stars and Stripes flapping from a pristine white flagpole. The number of the house was on the mailbox which stood at the end of the gravelled drive. Joker slowed but didn’t stop. Standing in front of a basketball hoop was the Lincoln Continental which Joker had seen outside Farrell Aviation. Satisfied that the man he had seen closing up the office was Patrick Farrell, he drove back to the airfield.
Matthew Bailey was already waiting outside the Farrell Aviation building when Patrick Farrell arrived. Bailey looked at his watch and sneered. Fifteen minutes late. He climbed out of his car and stood by the main entrance to the building.
Farrell waved. “Hi, Matthew; sorry, my alarm didn’t go off.”
Bailey sneered again. More likely the old sod had been pulled back into the bed for a quick one by whichever rump-rustler he was hanging around with these days. Farrell had never been especially choosy about the company he kept, in bed or out of it, but he was a first-class pilot and essential to Mary Hennessy’s plan, so Bailey just smiled and waited for him to open the double-glass doors.
“You want a coffee first?” Farrell asked.
Bailey declined, saying that he wanted to take the plane up right away. Farrell got the message and opened a metal cabinet behind the reception desk. Inside were more than a dozen sets of keys hanging on hooks, each with a metal tag denoting the call sign of the plane. He took out a set of keys, closed the cabinet and picked up a sectional chart from a table.
“Headsets?” asked Bailey.
“In the plane,” said Farrell. The two men walked together towards the line of small planes which faced the grass strip. “You had no problem getting the licence?” Farrell asked.
“Nah, the school you recommended were ace. They arranged the written for me, gave me about half a dozen lessons and then fixed me up with an FAA examiner. Piece of cake.” Bailey had been taught to fly by pilots from the Libyan Army, and could pilot a variety of single- and multiengined planes. During a six-month stay, courtesy of Colonel Gaddafi, the Libyans had given him a full grounding in instrument flight, and taught him how to fly the French-made Alouette 111 helicopter. Flying in the States on a Libyan licence was obviously out of the question, so Farrell had faked up a logbook showing some fifty hours of flying lessons and Bailey had gone out to New Mexico to get a new FAA licence under an assumed name. The licence was only good for single-engine fixed-wing aircraft, but that was all Bailey intended to fly.
“You’ve flown a Centurion before?” Farrell asked.
“Sure,” said Bailey. “What year is it?”
“It’s an ’86, one of the last that Cessna built. But it’s not a straightforward 210, it’s an Atlantic Aero 55 °Centurion upgrade, done by a company down in North Carolina. They upgraded the power plant and the propeller, now she’s got a top speed of 180 knots, range of 850 miles, takeoff ground roll of twelve-fifty feet. Here she is.”
The plane was white with green stripes down the side and the company’s green propeller and hawk logo on the two doors. Farrell pulled out the cowling covers and untied the ropes which kept the wings and tail tethered to the ground while Bailey walked around, checking the flaps, tail assembly and landing gear. He stood and watched as Farrell took fuel samples from the drain valves to check that there was no condensation or contaminants in the tanks. It was a beautiful day for flying, blue skies as far as he could see with the merest hint of clouds at twenty thousand feet or so. The wind-sock pointed to the south-west but it was hanging almost vertically.
Farrell threw his last fuel sample on the ground, checked the oil level and nodded to Bailey. “Okay. Let’s go,” he said. The two men climbed into the cockpit and strapped themselves in. “Controls handle pretty much the same as the 210,” said Farrell. “Stall speed with the flaps down is 56 knots, with flaps up it’s 65 knots. After take-off bring the flaps up at 80 knots, best rate of climb is 97 knots which should give you about thirteen-hundred feet per minute.” He unfolded the sectional chart in his lap and pointed to the airstrip. “We’re within the Baltimore- Washington International Terminal Control Area once we get above twenty-five hundred feet and on up to ten thousand feet. If you keep below twenty-five hundred you’ve no problem, but if you go through that ceiling you have to have the transponder on and be in radio contact with Baltimore Approach. We’re going to stay below two thousand until we’re out over Chesapeake Bay, but when we go up I’ll call them anyway, just so they know who we are. The airspace is real busy around here because you’ve got BWI, Andrews Air Force Base and Washington Dulles International, and their air space overlaps. Which way are you going to be heading on the day?”
Bailey smiled. “Best you don’t know, Pat, old son,” he said.
“Sure, whatever,” said Farrell. “Just keep an eye on the sectional and keep below the TCA and you won’t have any problems.”
Bailey nodded. The two men put on their headsets and tested them. Farrell asked him to pick up the plastic laminated checklist and together they ran through it before starting the engine. Bailey ran his eyes across the four by three array of flight gauges and the stack of avionics and radios. The plane was impressively equipped with a Bendix/King KMA 24 audio panel and beacon, dual KX 155 nav-coms and KR 87 ADF and a Cessna 400-series DME. There was also a Phoenix F4 loran receiver which would pinpoint the plane’s position, a WX-10 Stormscope to spot thunderstorm cells and an autopilot.
“You wanna take her up?” Farrell asked, his voice sounding tinny through the headset.
“Sure,” said Bailey.
“Okay, just bear in mind you’ll need every inch of the runway to get airborne. Treat it as a short-field take-off and you won’t go far wrong.”
Bailey ran through the Centurion’s checklist: cowl flaps open, wing flaps set to ten per cent, elevator and rudder trimmed for take-off, autopilot disconnected and controls free. He increased the throttle to 1700 rpm, feeling the plane judder as the engine growled, then checked the gauges, the magneto and the propeller, before taxiing to the end of the grass runway. He kept his feet on the brakes until the engine was running at full power, then released them, allowing the plane to lurch forward. It accelerated smoothly and Bailey soon had the plane in the air, his hands light on the controls. He retracted the gear as they passed over the edge of the field and he levelled off at two thousand feet. “Sweet,” he said. He trimmed the plane for level flight, reset his heading indicator, and then headed east, towards the Chesapeake Bay, while Farrell called up Baltimore Approach.
Joker stopped at a filling station and filled the tank of his rental car. He paid for his fuel and bought a couple of packs of chocolate cookies and a six-pack of Coke. They didn’t sell liquor but he had a half-bottle of Famous Grouse in his glove compartment, so he wasn’t too distressed.
He hid the car in the same spot he’d used the previous afternoon and made his way to the chestnut tree, carrying his whisky and provisions. The gun he left under the passenger seat, wrapped in a newspaper. The grass was damp from the early morning dew so he dropped his pea jacket down and sat on top of it. He checked out the Farrell Aviation building with his binoculars. There were two cars parked outside, but neither was Farrell’s Lincoln Continental. He settled down with his back to the tree and opened the whisky bottle, toasted the building, and drank deeply.
There was a clock radio by the bed and Cole Howard set it for 8 a.m. so that he could telephone his wife first thing in the morning. Bob Sanger had arranged for cars to pick up the FBI agents at eight-thirty prompt. When the alarm went off Howard rolled over, switched it off and groped for the phone. He misdialled the first time and woke up an old man who by the sound of it didn’t have his teeth in. Howard redialled and Lisa answered on the fourth or fifth ring.
