Murder in Foggy Bottom (27 page)

He picked up the phone and dialed the number of the flight service facility at Reagan National Airport that serviced private and corporate aircraft, and was happy to reach a manager with whom he was friendly. “Bruce, this is Max Pauling. Can I get my Cessna fueled and serviced on the double? I’m heading out there now, should arrive in twenty minutes.”

“Sure, Max. We’re slow. That front coming through is keeping the VFR crowd grounded. Where are you headed?”

“Charleston, West Virginia.”

“Rough weather forecast. Maybe you ought to—”

“Thanks, Bruce. Weather is getting rough all over. See you in twenty minutes.”

40

That Same Evening
Penn Hills, Pennsylvania

“You play as if that song had just been written.”

Roseann looked up into the smooth, familiar face of the Senate majority leader, Gary Jackson, senior senator from Pennsylvania.

“Thank you,” she said, playing the final chords of a surprisingly up-tempo theme from
Gone With the Wind.

“Are you from the area, one of my talented constituents?” Jackson asked.

“No, sir,” she said. “Washington, DC.”

“Really? Fairly far from home for a gig.”

Roseann laughed. “You sound like a musician instead of a senator.”

He grinned. “I was, played my way through college. Drums.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said. “If we had a set here, you could sit in.”

“Afraid my—what’s the term?—afraid my chops wouldn’t be up to it.”

“Neither is this piano,” she said. “I don’t think it’s been tuned since the Johnstown flood.”

“Well, you certainly overcome it.”

“Any requests, Senator?”

“ ‘Sweet Georgia Brown’?”

“Sure.”

The discordant piano aside, the first of two sets went smoothly. Senator Jackson approached her again during intermission as she stood alone in a corner sipping a Diet Coke through a straw.

“Are you returning to Washington tonight?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“That last flight?”

“Yes.”

“I’m on it, too. Care to ride to the airport with us? There’s just myself and an aide. Plenty of room in the car.”

“Thank you,” Roseann said. “I appreciate that.”

“Don’t forget Rufus has a vet appointment in the morning,” Annabel Reed-Smith said to Mac as he pulled up in front of the terminal at Reagan National Airport. She was catching a late-evening commuter flight to Philadelphia for a meeting the next morning with a pre-Columbian dealer.

“I won’t,” he said. “Give me a call when you get settled in the hotel.”

“I always do, although I never really settle into a hotel. I’m only settled when I’m with you.”

“Is that a comment on hotels? Or my daily ego builder?”

“Both.”

They kissed. She left the car and entered the terminal.

Mac smiled as he watched her. He loved everything about his wife, including her legs and her walk, purposeful, yet with a charming tall person’s awkwardness.

Sometimes you get lucky, he thought as he pulled away.

41

That Same Evening
Washington, DC

Max Pauling called the flight weather line the moment he rushed into the private and corporate flight operations center at Reagan National, and was told the weather between Washington and Charleston, West Virginia, was passable but deteriorating. He checked the charts covering the Charleston area, filed an IFR flight plan, and ran to his plane, where a ground service technician had fueled it and moved it to a tie-down closer to the ops center.

“Thanks,” Pauling said, casting a wary glance at the sky before climbing into the left-hand seat, shutting the door, and running through his preflight checklist. He was cleared to taxi to an active runway parallel to the one handling commercial takeoffs and landings, and took his place in line behind two corporate jets. Five minutes later, cleared, after waiting not very patiently, he advanced the throttle. The small, single-engine plane rolled slowly forward, then accelerated until reaching sufficient speed to break gravity’s tether and wobble into the sky, a brisk crosswind threatening to push the light aircraft off its path over the runway’s center line. He banked right, following the air traffic controller’s instruction, and climbed away from the airport and its traffic. He adjusted his heading, set his automatic direction finder to the Charleston radio frequency indicated on the chart strapped to the top of his right thigh, and engaged the autopilot.

The horizon ahead was clear, but low, black clouds preceding a front were moving in from the south, to his left. Now on course, and with the instruments guiding him to Charleston, he was able to sit back and reflect on what had sent him running to his plane.

Until coming to Jessica’s apartment and seeing her note, his thoughts had been exclusively on the events that had led up to his arrival, much of it emotional—Bill Lerner’s death, the narrow escape on the street in Moscow, finding himself on the secretary of state’s plane, and the ramifications of the information he’d learned about the missiles. But he’d always been good at compartmentalizing troublesome episodes in his life, pushing emotions to the side in favor of cognition. “Maybe if you’d let your heart in on a decision now and then,” his former wife, Doris, once said, “we could work things out.” He had tried for a brief period to do just that but was a failure. As far as he was concerned, emotions only clouded one’s ability to make reasoned, rational decisions, whether they involved family or what he did for a living.

Was stripping away emotions something he’d learned, he had wondered, or was it hardwired in him? There was even a period when he questioned whether his lack of affect represented a psychological problem of some sort, a failure, a device to shield himself from the pain often inflicted by emotions. He wasn’t comfortable grappling with that question, and when he and Doris decided to call it quits, he shucked not only the tension between them, but also any compelling reason to probe his psyche. He wasn’t sure which had provided the greater relief.

Now, boring through an increasingly nasty sky toward Charleston, his only thought was of Jessica and the note she’d left.

He’d taken the photocopy of the cabin’s deed with him in order to be able to find it once he rented a car, provided he could find a rental agency with available vehicles. He wore his vest again, with its multiple pockets, which he’d put on after showering and changing clothes at his apartment. If they’d planned to have dinner out, he would have worn a sport jacket. But Jessica had said they’d be eating at the apartment. He reached into a pocket and removed the Glock 17, checked its clip, and placed it on the right-hand seat. A sudden downdraft caused the Cessna to drop thirty feet, causing his lap belt to cut into his thighs. He checked his instruments, then returned his thoughts to the note and what it said:
Max—Taken by Skip to Gauley Bridge, W.V.—Cabin
deed in desk—Help!

Why would her former husband kidnap her? Pauling now knew that Traxler was the “Scope” who’d infiltrated the Jasper ranch for the FBI. Did absconding with Jessica have something to do with that? Or had Traxler done it for personal reasons, an outgrowth of their failed marriage? Ex-spouses or lovers could make for lethal company.

He pushed such questions from his mind as he turned to managing his intrusion into Charleston’s airspace with air traffic control. He hadn’t arrived any too soon. The weather had lowered to almost zero visibility. Rain pelted his windshield, and wind gusts buffeted the single-engine plane. He had to fight the controls as he flew a left-hand pattern in preparation for landing, first flying downwind parallel to the runway, banking sharply left ninety degrees, then making another ninety-degree left turn putting him on final approach. He maintained more power than normal to provide better handling as he passed high over the lights at the end of the runway and used half of it to put the plane down. Okay.

A ground controller directed him to the tie-down area for private aircraft, where he parked, killed the engine, shoved the Glock back into a vest pocket, and ran toward the terminal. He was soaked by the time he reached it.

“I need a rental car,” he snapped at a young man behind the desk.

“Okay, but first take care of the paperwork. That’s your 172 out there?”

“Yeah. Look, give me the papers!”

He filled out the form, slapped down a credit card to pay for the landing and tie-down fees, and followed signs at a trot in the direction of baggage handling, ground transportation, and rental car agencies. A uniformed woman with hair the color of nicotine read a magazine behind the Hertz counter.

“Hi,” Pauling said. “Got any SUVs?”

She looked up and then smiled. “No, only full-size or compact.”

“Full-size. And I need directions to Gauley Bridge.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s . . . southeast of here.”

She prepared the forms; Pauling provided his driver’s license and credit card and signed. She pulled a map from beneath the counter and studied it. “Here it is,” she said, drawing a small circle around Gauley Bridge. “Never heard of it,” she added uselessly.

“Yeah, thanks,” Pauling said, grabbing the keys she’d given him and running to where the rental cars were parked. It was a maroon Chevy Caprice, big and boat-like. Pauling got behind the wheel, started the engine, turned on the interior lights, and studied the Hertz map until confident he knew the directions to Gauley Bridge.

It was raining harder now and the wipers, even at full speed, had trouble keeping up with the water. He navigated the airport roads to the exit, saw a sign for Route 77 that would lead southeast, and took it. There was little traffic, most of it coming from the other direction, the lights temporarily blinding him each time they assailed the windshield. He checked his watch and calculated how long it would take Traxler and Jessica to reach the cabin from Washington, assuming they were driving. He figured they were at least an hour away, probably longer considering the lousy weather. That pleased him. He wanted to reach the cabin before they did, know the terrain and layout, be there when they arrived. He was confident that Traxler wouldn’t know that Jessica had left a note. That gave him the advantage of surprise.

He turned on the radio and tuned to an all-news station. After a series of commercials, and a report on a controversy over logging in West Virginia, the anchor broke in: “We go now to Washington, where FBI Director Russell Templeton is beginning a news conference.”

“As you know, the FBI today took decisive action against a terrorist group in Blaine, Washington, known as the Jasper Project. Months of intensive investigation, including the infiltration of the group by members of the Bureau, provided irrefutable evidence of the Jasper Project’s involvement in the missile downing of three civilian commuter planes almost a month ago.

“I stand here today to report another development in this tragic episode in our fight against those who would subvert our American way of life, and who have so little regard for human life. As part of our ongoing investigation of hate groups, we’ve worked closely with law enforcement agencies in other countries.

“Today, in the wake of the successful siege on the Jasper compound in Blaine, our agents, working in concert with Canadian investigators, have linked another group to the downing of those aircraft, one closely allied with the Jasper Project, the Freedom Alliance. This organization, headquartered in Plattsburgh, New York, on the Canadian border, has used the cover of that border for years, moving back and forth across it in order to avoid law enforcement on both sides. Acting as an extension of the Jasper Project, the Freedom Alliance played a vital role in smuggling the missiles used to bring down the civilian aircraft into this country.

“As we speak, the FBI, acting in close concert with our Canadian counterparts, have surrounded the Freedom Alliance’s facility in Plattsburgh and are prepared to take action similar to that taken today against the Jasper Project. Sorry, but my statement will have to stand. No questions.”

“Son of a bitch,” Pauling growled, snapping off the radio with enough force to pull the knob from it. “That’s how they’re going to cover up the screwup—take credit for uncovering the Plattsburgh connection.”

As he fumed, he missed the marked turnoff to Gauley Bridge, doubled back, took it, and drove slowly along a narrow macadam road until reaching a wooden covered bridge that gave the town its name. Pauling stopped a few feet from the bridge, flicked on the inside lights, and consulted the photocopy of the deed he’d taken from Jessica’s desk. The bridge was noted on the property map; the cabin was on the other side, 640 feet to the north. The Kanawha River ran behind it. He turned off the interior lights, crept across the bridge, emerged from beneath its wooden roof, and proceeded another fifty yards until reaching a break in the trees on his right. The large Caprice barely cleared brush on both sides as Pauling inched down a rutted path that had been washed out in spots, necessitating backing up and moving closer to bushes that scraped the sides of the car like fingernails on a blackboard. The outline of the cabin came into view in the headlights. Pauling stopped and studied the scene. A covered front porch ran the width of the building. It was one story, the door in the middle. Pauling then noticed that the road jogged to the right of the cabin and seemed to go behind it. He drove in that direction until passing the cabin on his left. Ahead of him was the river shown on the property map. He backed up, turned the wheel hard left, and maneuvered closer to the river, between two trees that would afford some cover for the car. He got out and approached the cabin, saw two wooden steps leading up to a back door. He went to it and tried the knob. Locked. A curtain over its glass portion obscured any view of the interior.

He went to the front of the cabin, his shoes coming out of the mud creating sucking sounds. He stepped onto the porch and opened a screen door, tried the handle of the solid inside door. It too was locked. Double-hung windows flanked the door. Pauling took out the Glock 17 and used the handle to smash one of the small panes of glass, reached through, turned the sash lock, and raised the bottom half of the window. He hunched over and stepped through the opening, his foot knocking over a small piece of furniture. Now inside, he strained to see in the room’s darkness. He always carried a small flashlight in his vest and tried a few pockets until coming up with it. The narrow beam showed a light switch on the wall just inside the door, but Pauling didn’t turn it on. Instead, he examined the space using the small light. It was one large room, with a Pullman kitchen at the far end. Next to it was the only door leading from the room. Pauling opened it and stepped into a cramped bathroom with a stall shower wedged into a corner.

He returned to the main room and looked through the window. No car lights—yet.

He used the time to see what else was in the room. A sleeper couch was on the front wall between the two windows. Battered green leather chairs occupied opposite corners. Above the couch, two fly rods rigged with reels and line hung from wooden pegs. In one corner, behind a chair, a gun cabinet contained four long guns, two rifles and two shotguns. Needs a woman’s touch, he thought absently.

He turned from the couch and played the light over the back wall. An eight-foot-long wooden chest sat next to a wood-burning stove. Pauling went to the chest and lifted the lid. Inside was an arsenal. Machine guns, grenades, what appeared to be a dozen handguns, two bulletproof vests, and hard and soft cases. He picked up an empty soft-sided case, approximately five feet long, made of canvas, with a heavy zipper. He dropped it into the chest, was about to close the lid when he saw a small pile of what appeared to be maps in a corner. He pulled them out and examined them. They were aeronautical flight charts for Boise, Idaho; San Jose, California; Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; and Westchester County airport in New York.

He held the charts in one hand as he closed the lid and went into the small kitchen area, stopping on the way to unlock the cabin’s rear door and to slide open one end of a curtain covering the glass a few inches. He kicked broken glass from the front window under a chair, spread out the worst of his muddy footprints with the sole of his shoe, and sat on a tall wooden stool in front of the sink. The wind-whipped raindrops hitting the windows sounded like the marching of toy wooden soldiers, and the wind whistled down the chimney. He pulled the pistol from his vest pocket, turned off the pen-light, and waited.