Strategic Moves Read online

  “What we will have for a landing strip will be two and a half miles of straight, newly paved, four-lane superhighway,” Todd said.

  “Full of construction equipment, no doubt,” Stone said.

  “All the equipment is being moved to the other side of the highway as we speak,” Todd said, “and the beginning and end of the stretch we’re looking for will be marked by cars with strobe lights. The crew has the exact coordinates and elevation of the landing end of the roadway. It is located in a fairly narrow valley, with mountains on each side, but we will have room for a long approach.”

  “Swell,” Stone said. “I’m trying to remember why I came on this trip.”

  “For the fun,” Holly said. “Aren’t you having fun?”

  “Not yet,” Stone replied.

  “We’re refueling at an American air base in Cádiz, east of Gibraltar,” Todd said. “From there, we’ll head out over the Atlantic, then turn, descend into Spain. We will be on the ground for a matter of minutes, including further fueling from two trucks, then we’ll be heading, nonstop, back to Stewart International.”

  “Where we’ll all clear immigration and customs?” Stone asked.

  “Nearly all of us,” Todd replied. “We’ll be at the extraction point just after midnight, local time.” Todd left the trailer.

  “I told you it would be an interesting trip,” Mike said.

  “I hope we’re all alive to tell about it,” Stone said.

  Holly spoke up. “Lance Cabot would be very unhappy if you told anyone about it,” she said.

  Stone had a meal, then stretched out for a nap. He was awakened in time to strap himself into a jump seat for the landing at Cádiz. They were on the ground for nearly an hour, then took off again, heading west and climbing.

  “When do we turn around?” he asked Todd.

  “As soon as we’re out of radar range of the coast,” Todd replied. “Not too long. We’ll follow a civilian flight from the Azores to La Coruña, on the northern coast of Spain. We’ll be flying closely enough behind it so that, together, the two airplanes will make only one primary target on coastal radar.”

  “Will the other airplane know about this?” Stone asked.

  “No. Civilian airplanes don’t have radar that can paint other aircraft, only their transponders, and ours will be off. Before the airplane reaches La Coruña, we’ll break off and head for our landing area.”

  “We have only a twenty-eight-hundred-mile range, is that right?”

  “Yes, and that’s plenty.”

  They cleared the coast of Portugal, and Stone saw the copilot reach up and turn off some switches. He looked out the window and no longer saw the wingtip strobe and nav lights.

  Stone put on his headset again.

  “Other aircraft sighted,” the copilot said, checking his radar, then he looked out the windscreen and pointed. “Two o’clock and three miles,” he said, “at our altitude.”

  The C-17 entered a steep bank to the right, and Stone tightened his seat belt.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Stone watched from his jump seat through the pilots’ windows as the big aircraft turned into position behind the airliner, then began to catch up. Gradually the airliner grew larger in the windscreen, until Stone thought they would ram it from behind.

  Stone unbuckled his seat belt and moved up behind the copilot. “How do you know when the other airplane will slow down?”

  “We don’t, exactly,” the man replied.

  “Swell,” Stone muttered.

  “Don’t worry; we’re trained for formation flying for in-air refueling. The second he begins to slow, we’ll pop our speedbrakes, and that will keep us apart.”

  “Good luck,” Stone said. He returned to his seat and strapped in tightly. He thought about fetching a parachute from the bin in the cargo bay, but he figured if they rammed the other aircraft, he wouldn’t have an opportunity to use it before he was hamburger.

  Stone was still sitting rigidly in his seat when suddenly he felt the aircraft slow down, with the attendant turbulence of extended speedbrakes. The airliner grew larger in the windscreen, but only for a moment, and he saw the speed indicator tape on the pilot’s instruments begin to wind down for the approach into La Coruña. The lights of a big city were ahead. They would join the Instrument Landing System momentarily, he knew.

  Then, as the airliner banked to join the approach, the C-17 banked in the opposite direction. Stone figured they were at around three thousand feet, and he knew there were high mountains, the Pyrenees, to the southeast. They flew in that direction for a few minutes, climbing a few thousand feet, then the airplane banked left again, then leveled its wings and began flying northeast and descending.

  Stone stared through the windshield, willing something to happen that would tell them they were on course for landing. They were descending rapidly now, and Stone could see the stars disappearing behind mountains on either side of them. They were in the valley. Then, miraculously, he saw a pair of strobe lights ahead of them on the ground—red on the left, green on the right.

  Todd spoke over the headset. “If either light goes out, the pilot will know we’re off-course and he’ll correct.”

  It didn’t sound like any landing system Stone had ever heard of. Then he noticed that on the flat glass instrument panel, a picture of the ground had appeared. The airplane was equipped with synthetic vision, a computer-generated map of the earth’s surface, showing major features. A road appeared on the screen, and a moment later the flashing strobes disappeared underneath them and the airplane touched down.

  “Yeah!” Todd yelled.

  Stone yanked off his headset, his ears ringing from the shout. Engines were reversed and brakes applied, and the aircraft came to a halt. Immediately, two fuel trucks appeared ahead of them, rushing toward the airplane. They were wearing red flashing beacons on top, like an airplane. The pilots shut down the engines and refueling began. It didn’t take long, but where was the extractee?

  As the fuel trucks pulled away Stone heard the whine of the tail platform lowering. He got up, walked back to one side of the trailer, and looked aft. A car was racing up the highway behind them, toward the airplane. With a screech of brakes, a black Mercedes drove up the tailgate and stopped behind the trailer, and the ramp began to close. Simultaneously, the engines began to start, one by one. Stone went back to his jump seat and strapped in.

  The copilot shoved the throttles forward, and the engines began to spool up for takeoff, but above the noise came a sound Stone had not expected to hear: the firing of automatic weapons.

  The pilots released the brakes and the airplane surged forward, and the sound of gunfire was left behind. But out the pilots’ windows Stone could see the flashing red beacons on the two fuel trucks, still ahead of them on the road, and the airplane was catching up fast.

  “The trucks have to get to an exit to get off the highway,” Stone said aloud to nobody in particular.

  “Pray they do,” Mike replied over the headset, “and soon.”

  The trucks were, no doubt, unaware of the airplane behind them, but then the copilot switched on the landing lights and they were illuminated. The aircraft had reached a point where Stone could read the license plates on the trucks when the pilot rotated, barely clearing the two highly flammable vehicles.

  “Now all we’ve got to worry about is the mountains,” Todd said.

  “Yeah?” Stone asked. “Why don’t we worry about what the people shooting at us might have hit?”

  “Okay, that, too,” Todd said.

  The airplane rose rapidly, and Stone could see the shadowy mountaintops being left behind. He began to breathe again.

  The copilot unbuckled and began to walk aft in the airplane. “Come on,” he said, “let’s look for damage.”

  Stone unbuckled and followed Todd and Mike aft. Holly was right behind.

  “It’s hard to see bullet holes with no sun outside,” Mike said.

  “Maybe,” Stone replied, po
inting, “but you can see them in the Mercedes.” There were two holes in the left front fender.

  Todd jerked open the rear door of the car. “Everybody okay in there?” He apparently heard what he wanted to hear. The driver got out of the car, and Todd helped a man out of the rear seat.

  He was a little over six feet tall, about 180, Stone reckoned, with thick, longish salt-and-pepper hair, a straight nose, and a firm jaw-line. He looked very fit, but he was moving in a shuffle, since his hands and feet were shackled to a thick leather belt around his waist.

  Todd led him to the trailer, and Stone followed, curious about the man. He was allowed to use the toilet, then he came out and shuffled toward one of the big reclining chairs.

  “Okay,” the man said, stopping, “I’m aboard. Can we shed all this hardware now?”

  Todd shrugged, came over and removed the shackles.

  “Good evening, Mr. Gelbhardt,” Stone said.

  The man looked at him with a small smile. “Call me Pablo,” he said. “It has been a long time since anyone called me anything else.”

  “Have you had a pleasant journey?” Mike asked.

  “There are no involuntary pleasant journeys,” Estancia replied. “I thought my bladder would burst.” He took a seat.

  “Tell me, Pablo,” Stone said, “was the shooting directed at us or at you?”

  Estancia smiled broadly, revealing excellent dental work. “A good question,” he replied.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Pablo Estancia was dressed in tan slacks, a yellow silk shirt, and a nicely tailored dark blue blazer with brass buttons. He seemed perfectly at ease as he surveyed his new companions.

  “Now, let’s see,” he said. “The young gentleman is so CIA that he might as well have the letters tattooed on his forehead.”

  Todd seemed to blush.

  “You, sir,” he said to Mike Freeman, “are too old to be CIA and on this particular mission. I think you are a retired intelligence officer, but considering your accent, not from the United States.” He turned to Holly. “This very attractive woman is mature, yet still involved in Agency activities, probably in a supervisory position.”

  They all laughed, then Estancia turned toward Stone and appraised him carefully. “You, sir, are a little too polished-looking, even in those clothes, to be CIA, or even FBI.”

  Stone laughed. “So who am I?”

  “You are a lawyer,” Estancia said, “but an unconventional one.”

  “Not a bad guess for a cold reading,” Stone said.

  Estancia chuckled. “This airplane is not military, but CIA,” he said. “No one aboard is in uniform. Where, may I ask, are we heading?”

  “To the United States,” Holly replied.

  “And where will we land?”

  “Not too far from the coast.”

  “And then I will be transported to a safe house for interrogation?”

  Holly shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “Well,” Estancia said, “allow me to make you a promise: I will answer your questions truthfully, in return for immunity from prosecution for myself and my household.”

  “Your household?” Todd asked.

  “My wife, children, their children, my mistress, and my domestic staff, numbering twelve.”

  “We can talk about that,” Holly replied, “once we are settled at our eventual destination.”

  “This is a very impressive airplane,” Estancia said. “May I look around?”

  Todd looked at Holly. “Why not?”

  Mike led Estancia out of the trailer and into the cargo bay.

  “Astonishing!” Estancia enthused. “I could ship anything in this aircraft, and as much of it as anyone could buy!” He looked into the cockpit. “Amazing avionics,” he said. “Complete situational awareness at all times. Tell me, did you pick me up at an airport, or on a road?”

  “On a road,” Todd replied.

  “I thought so.” Estancia stepped forward and peered at the very large multifunctional display in the center of the instrument panel, and at the moving map displayed there. “And I see we are headed for—what is the name of that airport? It used to be an air force base.”

  “Stewart International,” Todd said.

  “Ah, yes, at Newburgh, north of New York City.”

  “Correct,” Todd replied.

  “Well, thank you so much for the tour,” Estancia said. “May I return to that very comfortable chair in the caravan?”

  “Sure,” Todd replied.

  They all trooped back into the trailer. “A nice television,” Estancia said. “Do you have movies? I love movies.”

  “Yes,” Mike replied. “What would you like to see?”

  “Do you have Singin’ in the Rain?” he asked. “That is my favorite movie. I love Gene Kelly, and Debbie Reynolds is very cute.”

  “I think we can manage that,” Mike said. He found the DVD and inserted it into the machine. He also turned on the smaller screen to show the moving map.

  “Very nice,” Estancia said. “I enjoy watching our progress. I am very impressed with all the trouble you have gone to, just to get me to the United States. You should have just invited me, and I would have taken my own airplane.”

  “What do you fly?” Stone asked.

  “A Gulfstream Five,” the man replied. “Very fast, excellent range, very comfortable. Do you have an airplane?”

  “Yes, I have a small jet, a Citation Mustang.”

  “Isn’t it fun to fly yourself?” Estancia said. “I have my private, my instrument rating, my multi-engine rating, and three jet type ratings. I enjoy being in the left seat.”

  The movie started, and Estancia watched it, rapt. Eventually, everyone but Stone moved out of the trailer for one reason or another, leaving him alone with the extractee.

  “May I ask your name?” Estancia asked.

  “I’m Stone Barrington.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “Where do you practice law?” Estancia asked.

  “In New York City.”

  “Do you do criminal trial work?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I think I may be in need of a lawyer quite soon,” Estancia said, obviously aware of his understatement. “Do you have a card?”

  Stone dug a card from his wallet and handed it to the man.

  Estancia gazed at it, seeming to memorize the information, then he stuck it into a jacket pocket and settled down to watch the movie.

  Later that night Mike, Todd, and Holly returned to the trailer and got into their bunks.

  “We’ll be arriving around four or five a.m., local time,” Holly said to Stone as she pulled up a blanket.

  Estancia glanced at his watch, then returned to the movie. He turned down the volume so as not to disturb the others.

  Stone woke around four a.m., Eastern time. He had never changed his watch. The others were still in their bunks, but Estancia wasn’t there. He must be back in the cockpit, Stone thought to himself. He glanced at the moving map and saw that they were off the tip of Long Island and were descending through eighteen thousand feet. He splashed some water on his face and left the trailer, taking his jump seat in the cockpit for landing. They were now descending through ten thousand feet over Long Island Sound, approaching the coast. He could see the lights of the towns out the window, and to the south, the glow of New York City.

  The others filed in and took their seats.

  “Where’s Estancia?” Todd asked.

  They all looked around and realized their prisoner was not in the cockpit.

  “He must be in the john,” Mike said.

  Then a roar began to fill the cockpit, growing louder, and the aircraft seemed to be striking turbulence. Papers in the cockpit were flying around.

  “The rear platform is lowering!” the pilot yelled over the noise, and Stone couldn’t hear what he said next over the roar of air.

  Everybody got out of the seats, in spite of the turbulence, and moved into the cargo bay, looking fo
r Estancia. Todd looked in the trailer and came back. “He’s not in the john.”

  “Good God!” Holly yelled, pointing.

  Stone stepped to the other side of the cargo bay and saw the interior lights of the Mercedes on and Estancia at the wheel. He ran toward the car, followed by the others.

  Before any of them could reach the car, it reversed, sped down the ramp, and disappeared into the dark night.

  Everybody was stunned into silence. Mike recovered first. He walked aft in the airplane, found the switchbox, and closed the rear ramp.

  Relative silence returned to the interior of the airplane.

  “He committed suicide?” Todd asked.

  “No,” Stone said. “He was wearing a parachute.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Fred Holland, a successful cosmetic surgeon, lay sound asleep in his Rye, New York, home when he was shocked awake by something like an explosion. He lay there for a couple of minutes, afraid to get out of bed, wondering if another explosion was on the way.

  Finally, mustering his courage, he went to the bedroom window, which overlooked the gardens leading down to Long Island Sound, and peered through a small opening. It was dark outside, but the security lighting was on for some reason. It must have been a clap of thunder, he thought, since the walk around the swimming pool was wet with rain. He closed the curtains and went back to bed.

  A couple of miles west of where Dr. Holland was trying to go back to sleep, Pablo Estancia looked down at the rapidly approaching ground for a place to land. It was his thirty-first parachute jump, a hobby of his youth.

  Ahead and slightly to his left he saw a school, the grounds lit with streetlights. Estancia pulled on the left side of the harness to correct course and aimed for the darkened soccer field.

  He touched down, buckled his knees and rolled as he had been taught, then he was on his feet, gathering in the billowing chute. He could not believe his luck. He carried the chute to the sidelines of the field, then walked past the bleachers and found a large oil drum, used as a wastebasket. He set down the chute and took some old programs out of the drum, then stuffed the chute into it and put the trash back on top. Then he started walking.