recognize him, then pretend it wasn't him they were interested in.
Oh,
The two feds walked off, moving quick, ignoring him, but it was too late. He was sure. They had come here looking for him, specifically for him. They were early, checking the place out for spots to set up, and they hadn't expected him to be here yet.
How had they tracked him? If they came to this international gate, then they must know he was booked on a flight with this carrier. If they knew
Hughes. And Hughes had given him up.
Just like Platt had given up Peterson.
Shit. He had underestimated Hughes. He should have been more alert. The bastard.
He put the magazine down. He had to get the hell out of here. The two feds would be calling for backup, and the airport was going to be a stoppered bottle in a few minutes, if it wasn't already.
Maybe the feds didn't know he'd spotted them. That might buy him a couple of minutes. But he couldn't chance trying to leave by the front door. There could already be local cops heading that way.
He stood and walked toward the exit that led to the gates. It was the fastest way out of the building.
There was a keypad lock by the door, but nobody was looking right at him, so he figured he could put his shoulder against the door and pop it, but when he looked, damned if the door didn't open
He looked around. A couple of women were opening up a computer station at one of the nearby gates. He headed that way.
'Ma'am? I'm sorry to bother you, but I just saw somebody go into that door over there.' He pointed.
The airline clerks looked at him. One was tall and bottle-blond, the other was short and kind of plump, with red hair probably out of a bottle too. 'Sir?'
'That door that says no entrance, right over there? Well, it was partway open, and some kid, I dunno, about eight or nine? she just went in and closed the door behind her.'
'I'll check it, Marcie,' the redhead said.
'It's right over here,' Platt said, smiling.
Once she'd punched in the number and opened the door, Platt considered his options. Grab her and haul her ass inside, close the door, clonk her on the head, and haul ass? Or just remember the number, wait until she got done looking for the kid who didn't exist, then sneak in himself?
If he'd had more time, he'd have gone with the second choice. Less fuss. But even as they stood there, FBI and local cops could be tossing a net over the building. Seconds might count.
He stepped in behind the woman, wrapped his arm around her throat, and squeezed her carotids shut. She struggled and tried to scream, but that came out like a gargle. Thirty seconds later she was out cold, the blood shut off from her brain. If he held on and squeezed a little tighter, she'd croak, but he wasn't that desperate yet. It wouldn't do any good besides; they already knew who he was. No point in adding murder to whatever they had. Once she was out, he tore off her blouse, ripped it into strips, tied her hands and feet, stuffed a piece in her mouth and used her scarf to hold it in place, then picked her up and put her over his shoulder. He went down the ramp, laid her on the floor at the end, around the turn where nobody could see her, then opened the emergency exit and went down the ladder to the concrete. She was coming to as he left. She'd be okay.
Noisy as hell out here.
They were unloading a jet two gates over, and Platt hurried in that direction. A guy on one of those motorized conveyer trucks passed him. Platt waved him down.
'What's up?' the guy said, yelling because he was wearing headphones.
Platt smiled. Grabbed the guy, then gave him one in the gut and one upside the head, knocking the guy senseless. Platt grabbed his earphones and hopped on the conveyer truck. He put it in gear and took off.
Probably there'd be roadblocks leading to the airport pretty quick.
All right. He had an emergency passport and about twenty thousand dollars of Hughes's money — a thousand in cash, and the rest in a cash-card account — plus he had a hundred grand of his own fuck-you money stashed in another cash-card account under a name nobody knew.
What he needed was a ride, and he needed it from somewhere close.
Ahead was a section of the airport where the express package and cargo service planes were parked.
He grinned as the idea hit him.
'Good morning, sir,' the manager of the freight office said. 'How can I help you?' He was a kid of maybe twenty-four, twenty-five, wearing a white shirt and a blue tie.
Platt smiled. 'Well, sir, I have me a little problem. My name is Herbert George Wells, I've got this big ole shipment of farm machinery sitting on a loading dock in London, England, and no way to git it home.' He put a lot more grits in his accent than usual. Stupider he sounded, the better.
'That's what we're here for, sir.'
'Thing is, the original airline I hired? Well, they crapped out on me, blew an engine or something, and in order to get my tax break, I needed to have spent the money for the plane by December 31st of last year.'
The manager raised an eyebrow.
'See, it saves me about ten thousand dollars if I can show I paid the money about three weeks ago, you understand what I'm sayin' here?'
'I think so.'
'I'd like to hire one of your planes to fly over there and pick up my machinery — nothin' illegal here, sir, I got proper papers on everything — but if I don't use my first charter, I'm gonna lose ten thousand dollars. On the other hand, I really need those parts, it's costin' me bidness every day they're sittin' in England and not in Mobile — that's where I need to get it, you see, Mobile, Alabama.'
'It does appear to be a problem, sir.'
'Well, yes. And since there's nothing illegal about my stuff over there, let's just say, just, you know, for instance, if you had taken this order from me, oh, say, around Christmastime, how much of a problem would that be?'
The manager looked around. Then he looked at Platt. What he thought he saw was a big, musclebound mechanic with his butt in a crack. 'Well, sir, if I had taken the order and somehow forgotten to enter it into the computer, that would be my mistake. I could, ah,
Platt smiled, one man of the world to another. 'Well, sir, if you was to do that, I would be mighty grateful, mighty grateful. And Mr. Franklin and a baseball team of his twin brothers would also be mighty pleased.' Platt reached into his shirt pocket, looked around, then removed ten hundred-dollar bills, folded in the middle. He put the bills on the desk and slid them toward the kid.
The kid covered the bills with his hand, opened his desk drawer, raked the money off the desk, then shut the drawer. He smiled at Platt. 'All right then, Mr. Wells, what kind of equipment did you have in mind?'
Platt grinned. He had his ride, and any feds looking for him wouldn't find it — since it had been booked two weeks earlier and under another name.
Once he got to England, getting a flight to Africa would be easy.
Then he and Mr. Thomas Hughes would have some words. Yes, sir, they surely would…
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Michaels ate takeout Chinese food at his desk, using throw-away chopsticks to fish the stuff directly from the containers, not even bothering with the paper plate that came in the lunch bag. He'd ordered hot and spicy chicken with noodles, and sweet and sour tofu, but it all seemed kind of bland, and he ate for fuel, not taste. He had other
