want to get more details about this supposed ‘accident’ when I get back to Seattle.”
“So you’re not going to be working on the Rex Hayden crash?”
Locke frowned at the mention of Hayden’s name. “What crash?”
“Forgot you were out of the loop out there. Hayden’s plane took a dirt bath outside Vegas. No survivors.”
“When?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Weird stuff. Plane turned back from a flight to Hawaii, overshot LA, and ran out of fuel over the Mojave. It’s been all over the news. You’d think the president’s plane went down. Then again, Hayden’s probably more famous than the president.”
It couldn’t be a fluke that Hayden was the name Sam Watson said to Dilara before he died.
“Gordian won the NTSB investigation contract,” Aiden said. “Judy Hodge got there yesterday with her team, but I figured Miles would want you on the case because it’s so high profile.”
It didn’t surprise Locke that Miles Benson, the president of Gordian and the smartest man Locke had ever met, had already been contacted to help with the investigation. Gordian had consulted with the National Transportation Safety Board on many of the highest-profile plane crashes of the past ten years — TWA flight 800, the American Airlines crash over Brooklyn a year after 9/11, and NY Yankees pitcher Curt Moline’s flight into a Manhattan high rise. Gordian was the most capable company to assist in the probe of crash involving a star as big as Rex Hayden.
The dead bodies were piling up fast. First Coleman, now Hayden. Both mentioned by Sam and both pushing daisies. Locke didn’t like the pattern because his name was in there, too. The evidence was fresher on Hayden’s death, so that was Locke’s first priority.
“Tell Judy we’re joining them at the crash site,” he said to Aiden. “We’ll make a stop in Vegas before we come back to Seattle.”
“If you pop into a casino, put a hundred on Ireland to beat Germany in what you call soccer.”
“Sorry, Aiden. You know I never gamble. Might use up all my luck.”
Locke hung up and stared at Dilara with curiosity. What a beautiful archaeologist and Noah’s Ark had to do with the deaths of an engineer and a world-famous movie star was a question he never expected to be asking himself. The answer had to be even stranger than the question.
“You, Dr. Kenner,” he said with a smile, “are a trouble magnet.” He winked at her.
She smiled back at both of them. “Then it seems like I’m in good company.”
“Speak for yourselves,” Grant said. “I consider myself more of a trouble
“I can vouch for that,” Locke said.
The muffled roar of helicopter blades penetrated the walls. Locke glanced out the window and saw the Super Puma heading for the landing pad. He waited breathlessly for a puff of smoke from the chopper’s turbine, but it glided in safely. He didn’t think they’d try blowing up another helicopter, but he’d feel better once they reached Newfoundland safely.
“Our ride is here,” he said. “Time for a change of scenery.”
As they walked to the helicopter pad, Locke made one last phone call to arrange for the jet to divert to Las Vegas and have a Jeep waiting for them at the airport. He wanted to see the Hayden crash site for himself.
FIFTEEN
The news about the failed assassination of Dilara Kenner and Tyler Locke didn’t reach Sebastian Garrett’s ears until the next evening. He had spent his Sunday flying back from LA to make an inspection of his facility on Orcas Island in the San Juan Islands off the coast of Washington state. The 57-square-mile island was home to 4500 people and a bustling tourist trade, which meant visitors to Garrett’s facility could come and go without attracting undue attention.
He ate dinner with Svetlana Petrova on the veranda of the facility’s mansion and enjoyed the cool October breeze, a luxury he would be able to enjoy for only one more week. She was dressed in a sheer top and miniskirt, showing off her assets to full advantage. She looked faintly like the businesswoman she had pretended to be when she lured Sam Watson into touching the poison that would end his life in a matter of seconds. Garrett only wished she had been part of the mission to follow Dilara Kenner out of LAX and kill her before she had caused all this trouble. Svetlana certainly wouldn’t have left the job unfinished.
The building where they were eating was one of five on the 400-acre property. Huge old-growth pine trees ringed the densely-wooded property.
Dan Cutter sat stiffly in a chair at the opposite end of the table. He didn’t eat, only sipping from a glass of water. Petrova listened to the conversation in silence. Garrett had met her when she had been trafficking black market pharmaceuticals into Moscow for the Russian Mafia. He saved her from that lifestyle and brought her to the US. Her parents had been nuclear scientists who were killed in the Chernobyl disaster, so she shared a kindred spirit with Garrett’s vision for a better world.
“Why did it take so long to notify me?” Garrett asked.
Cutter shifted in his seat, the discomfort apparent. “The operative in charge didn’t want to call with the bad news until it was confirmed that they had both survived.”
“His name?”
“Gavin Dean. He claims that our man on the platform was overpowered when he was installing the thermite on the lifeboats. Locke must have discovered the bombs we planted and put them on a lifeboat.”
“Good old Tyler. Resourceful as ever. Your operative should have sent more than one person on board.”
“He felt stealth was more important than numbers.”
“Did you warn him how intelligent Tyler is?”
“Yes, but he had operational authority. It was his call.”
“Then he is an idiot and careless. Those are two characteristics we don’t want to carry over into the New World.”
“I agree.”
“First, Barry Pinter loses a prime opportunity to kill Dilara Kenner when she left the airport, now this. Two major mistakes in three days. I’m not used to that kind of failure rate. Especially not this close to the end. Have there been any more leaks besides Sam Watson?”
“No. He appears to be the only one who was in on it.”
“Still, we can’t have the rest of our people getting it into their heads that they can back out now. Not all of them may have the nerve to follow through. Not without a little reinforcement.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Garrett had just the method. He stood abruptly and whispered to Petrova, who smiled her agreement at his plan and nodded. She gave him a long kiss, then stood and walked into the house.
“Come with me,” he said to Cutter. “And have Olsen meet us in the observation room.”
Garrett walked down the stairs from the veranda and out under the cloudy skies typical of the Pacific Northwest. The house was a massive Tudor-style mansion, used to host the new disciples of his religious organization. Next to it stood a hotel housing the estate’s 250 workers. The three other buildings were identical square structures 300 feet on each side and 50 feet tall. The unassuming buildings looked like airplane hangars, but the only aircraft on the property were three helicopters lined up on landing pads outside the hotel. A dock stretched into the small harbor on Massacre Bay, long and wide enough to handle any large equipment he wanted to bring in.
He strode toward one of the hangar-style buildings and walked through a door where he was met by a guard in a small antechamber. He sat at a desk behind two-inch thick bulletproof windows. Garrett placed his hand on the biometric scanner.
When it showed green, the guard nodded and waited for Garrett to utter the password, which was changed weekly. Nobody — not even Garrett — was allowed in without the proper password. There were two passwords, both randomly generated: a safe word and a warning word. If Garrett gave the warning password, the guard would
