ready to do that yet. He only had to keep the Chinese hopping long
enough for the deal to get done. Once the money was transferred and
the information was in hand, Morrison would have to disappear, go into
hiding permanently, though he didn't know that yet. With enough money,
you could vanish completely and live out your life in comfort and
security, provided you knew how. Ventura knew the drill and he would
advise Morrison, but that wasn't in his own future.
Morrison was probably rationalizing that the Chinese would figure he
wasn't going to be telling anybody he'd sold them American secrets, and
that once the deal was done, he was no threat. He was only partially
right. The Chinese would have the software, but in order to make it
work, they'd need the hardware, and that wasn't something you could
hide under a tarp. If the intelligence service of any major country
suddenly had citizens run amok, killing one another, it would be cause
for no small concern. If they could figure out the cause, finding the
smoking gun would be relatively easy, big as the gun would have to be,
and a couple of Stealth bombers could clean that clock nicely and be
home in time to see the results on CNN.
The helicopter landed on the pad, the rotor wash kicking up fierce
wind. Ventura slapped Morrison on the shoulder.
'Stay behind me.'
They alighted from the craft, and Ventura pulled his cocked-and-locked
pistol and held it down along the side of his leg. He moved quickly
toward an ancient DC-3 parked a hundred yards away. As they moved, the
elderly gooney bird cranked its port engine, a chuff of white exhaust
smoke erupting from the engine.
Ventura smiled. He had fondness for these old planes;
he had flown in them all over the world. The DC-3, sometimes called
the Dakota, had been around since the mid-thirties. They were noisy,
slow, and wouldn't go all that far without refueling, but they were as
dependable as sunshine in Hawaii. Ventura, whose piloting skills were
emergency-level-only, had always thought that if he ever got around to
buying a plane, this was the one he'd get.
No bells, no whistles, but it would get you and your cargo there. It
was still the best prop plane in the air, for his money.
The plane's door opened, the little ramp lowering, and Hack Spalding
stood there, grinning his gap-toothed grin.
He gave Ventura the finger, which meant things were okay onboard.
Ventura turned to motion Morrison up the short ramp while he watched
their backs. Nobody around.
Well, good. Score another one for the round-eyes ... Washington,
D.C.
The Mall was hot and muggy even this late in the afternoon, no real
surprise this time of year, but Toni didn't really care. It was good
to be outside moving, good to be back in the U.S.' and especially good
to be walking next to Alex. It was almost as if the last couple of
months had been a bad dream. As if she had just awakened from a
troubled sleep, the memory of it fresh but somehow unreal.
He wanted her to come back to her job, and the truth was, she wanted
