“I try to take care of my guests,” he said and retreated to the shower.
Once they were both dressed, they threw their bags in the Porsche SUV, and Locke backed out of the garage. Two new bodyguards, who had called in earlier to confirm that they were legitimate, waved to Locke and paced the Porsche from behind.
“Mind if I put on some music?” Locke asked.
He switched on the satellite radio, already tuned to a classic rock station. AC/DC’s Back in Black thumped from the speakers.
“Let me know if it’s too loud.”
“A little different from the Vivaldi.”
“You have to listen to rock when you drive a Porsche.”
The trip to Boeing Field took 20 minutes, and Locke waved off the bodyguards once they were through the airport gates and safely at Gordian’s ramp.
The Gulfstream was already fueled and ready to go for their three-hour hop down to Phoenix. Locke took their bags and strode toward the plane.
He threw their bags in the back. Then he went outside and did a thorough pre-flight check of every system. He didn’t think they’d try another bomb on the plane, but he wanted to check anyway.
Satisfied that the jet was in perfect operating condition, he reboarded. After he closed the cabin door, he headed for the cockpit.
“You want to sit with me?” he asked Dilara, who had already taken a seat in the passenger cabin.
He saw the surprised look he expected.
“You’re the pilot?” she asked.
“I’ve taken a couple of lessons.” Her look deepened into concern, and he laughed. “I have 300 hours in this model and over 2000 hours total. We’ll be fine.”
She shook her head and took a seat in the right-hand chair. “You’re a busy guy.”
“I get bored easily. Sitting around ain’t my thing. I’m a doer — working, playing with my cars, racing, flying. Anything that gets me out of the house.”
“Is there anything you can’t do?”
“I’ve got a lousy singing voice. Just ask Grant when we get down to the TEC. One time he took me to a karaoke bar, and since then he hasn’t been able to listen to My Way without laughing uncontrollably. Said I made Bob Dylan sound like Pavarotti.”
“And what does Grant think of you as a pilot?”
“Oh, he thinks I’m a way better pilot than Pavarotti,” Locke said with a grin.
He spooled up the engines, and within minutes they had lifted off and were winging their way to Phoenix.
Cutter and Simkins had been at the hangar for almost three hours now, and trucks had been steadily arriving with wreckage, but they still hadn’t seen the suitcase. Cutter maintained a discreet distance from Grant Westfield, and whenever he saw Westfield heading in his direction, he casually walked out of his way.
Simkins had been able to check the areas nearer to Westfield, but no luck yet. Still, Cutter had to assume the suitcase would eventually turn up. If the investigators opened it and saw the device inside, they would immediately know it was something that didn’t belong on the plane, and it would be taken to even tighter security. Cutter would never be able to retrieve it after that. He needed to get it back before that happened.
Another truck pulled in, and the bucket brigade repeated. Cutter watched from behind a frame piece that hadn’t been installed yet. Then he saw it. The green case he had put on the plane three days ago. It had survived, and it looked intact. Good. That would make it easier to remove.
His worry now was that bluffing his way out of the hangar with the suitcase wouldn’t work if removal of anything required Westfield’s approval. And there was no way Cutter could bluff past him. He’d recognize Cutter instantly and know something was wrong. Simkins could try it, but if anything seemed suspicious, the deputies would remember that he and Cutter had come in together and would search out Cutter.
He needed a diversion. Something inside the hangar that would distract everyone long enough for him to snatch the suitcase and leave.
Then he realized what he needed was right in front of him. As he was working through the logistics in his mind, he could hear a landing jet roar past on the runway outside.
The flight to the TEC had gone smoothly. Locke taxied over to hangar two and left the Gulfstream in the hands of Gordian’s maintenance crew.
The TEC looked like it was experiencing a typically busy day. In addition to the airplane reconstruction going on in hangar three, at the track pit area he could see several people hunched over a duplicate of the all-electric Tesla roadster that he had driven with Dilara the day before. A hundred yards from it was its exact opposite: the Liebherr dump truck. It looked like they were in the final preparations before putting it through its paces.
Locke called Grant’s cell phone and found out he was still organizing the enormous pile of wreckage being delivered to hangar three. Locke and Dilara walked over to the building to join him.
Locke flashed his ID card at the guards and vouched for Dilara. He was one of only a handful of people who could get someone in when that person didn’t have an ID.
When they got inside, he could see that they’d been making good progress. With the unprecedented manpower Gordian had mobilized, they had been able to gather at least 40 percent of the wreckage already.
He picked out Grant supervising the unloading of a semi. Grant waved them over and continued barking at the crew. Dozens of people pored over the wreckage, looking for anything unusual. Another truck was already waiting to be unloaded. Locke hoped the fast pace would yield some clues soon.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” he said to Grant.
“I’m going for that jigsaw puzzle feel that’s so contemporary,” Grant said.
“With a bit of a Lego vibe.”
“It’s the latest fad at all the accident reconstructions.”
“Frank Gehry would be proud. I take it that it’s going well?”
“Not bad considering I have the NTSB all over my butt for moving this stuff so quickly. But everything is tagged and photographed properly. It just meant paying overtime for 300 people to do it.”
“It’s worth it, given the stakes.” He told Grant about the connection with Project Whirlwind, and Dilara’s theory that it might represent a second ark.
“Then I’m glad I twisted some arms,” Grant said. “We’ve got four more trucks coming in, and then I’ll shift to sorting through this junk.”
“What can we do to help?” Dilara asked. She was obviously antsy and looking to contribute.
“If you don’t mind getting your hands dirty, you can get some gloves on and give us a hand getting these trucks unloaded.”
She and Locke got into line in the bucket brigade and handed debris out to workers who placed them into distinct piles.
They were in a rhythm and had the truck half-unloaded, when it abruptly lurched forward. It looked like someone had popped the clutch. Then it lurched again and took off in gear. Locke, who was standing behind the trailer, watched as the people standing in the back, including Dilara, were thrown to the floor.
“What the hell!” Grant yelled. “Stop!”
Whoever was in the cab couldn’t hear him, and the semi slowly gained speed, heading for the trailer of the idling truck in front of it. If it gathered enough speed, it would rip right through, destroying potential evidence.
Locke and Grant sprinted around to the driver’s side of the cab. Locke jumped up on the sideboard, just before the truck was going too fast to reach it. He tried the handle, but it was locked and the window rolled up. The cab was empty.
He looked through the window and saw why the truck was moving. Something was jammed into the accelerator.
The semi was fast approaching the trailer. Locke reached into his pocket and retrieved his Leatherman. He looked away and swung the heavy steel tool at the window.
It exploded inward. Locke unlocked the door and pulled it open. He kicked the object away from the
