Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

He had returned to the States in the late eighties and opened a small flying school outside New York, but a costly divorce a year later and mounting debts had taken the company to the brink of bankruptcy. He had been forced to sell one of his planes earlier in the year to pay off some of his creditors and then the previous month had laid off his secretary and two of his three mechanics because he couldn’t afford to pay their wages anymore. He knew it would only be a matter of time before the company was wound up. Not that it bothered him. He’d had enough of teaching anyway. It was time to move on again. He knew he could get a job in any number of countries. He’d already put out feelers and now all he had to do was wait until the right offer came along …

He was sitting in his office, his feet on the desk, when the yellow cab pulled up outside the door. The driver removed a suitcase from the trunk and dumped it on the ground. Miller cursed angrily. He wasn’t running a charter service. He was about to swing his legs off the desk and go outside when Tillman got out of the cab. Miller recognized him straight away. He raked his fingers through his greasy hair. What the hell was going on?

He had first met Tillman in the early eighties. He had been serving a three-year sentence in a Nicaraguan jail for running arms to the Contras; Tillman had been a highly respected foreign correspondent with the New York Times . Even though they had little in common, apart from a mutual hatred of international communism, their paths had crossed several times over the next few years. Then Tillman had returned to the States and Miller hadn’t heard of him again until a recent NBC special about Jack Scoby’s historic victory in New York State. Tillman was there. The brains behind the campaign. The puppeteer. But now it seemed that the strings had suddenly been cut from underneath him …

Tillman paid the driver then waited until the taxi had left before entering the small office. “You remember me, don’t you?”

Miller nodded slowly. “Sure. The smart-assed journalist turned political manipulator. You did a good job on Scoby. You even got me to vote for him. And I’ve never voted before in my life. Pity it turned out to have been a wasted vote though.”

“Then you know what happened?”

“It’s all they’ve been reporting on the radio this morning.” Miller clasped his hands behind his head. “I’d have thought you’d have been big news right now. There must be journalists out there who’d sell their children to get an exclusive with you. So what the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m calling in the favor you owe me,” Tillman replied sharply.

“And which favor would that be?”

“Don’t screw me about, Miller. You know damn well what I’m talking about. I got you out of Honduras after your plane had been shot down by the guerrillas. If they’d have got hold of you, you wouldn’t be here today.”

“Oh, that favor? I guess I do owe you something for bailing out my ass. What do you want?”

“I want you to fly me to Central America. It doesn’t matter where at the moment. Just get me out of the States.”

A look of disbelief crossed Miller’s face. “Fly you out to Central America? Just like that?”

Tillman cleared a space on the desk for the holdall then opened it and removed two packs of ten thousand dollars and tossed them into Miller’s lap. “That’s for the hire of the plane, all fuel expenses and for your time. I think you’d agree that twenty grand is a more than reasonable amount.”

Miller picked up one of the packs and fanned the money with his thumb. “I’m intrigued. Scoby’s assassinated and suddenly you have to flee the country in a hurry. What the hell’s going on, Tillman?”

Tillman tossed another ten thousand dollars on the table. “Thirty grand. No questions asked.”

“How much blood money have you got in there?”

“I said no questions asked,” Tillman snapped.

“You must have quite a bit there if you can afford to throw around thirty Gs. Let’s say fifty Gs and you pay for the fuel as well. Deal?”

“Deal,” Tillman replied tersely.

“How can you make a deal with money that doesn’t belong to you?” Varese said, appearing in the doorway. He had a silenced Heckler & Koch automatic in his hand.

“Who the hell are you?” Miller snapped, swinging his legs off the desk.

Varese eyed Miller disdainfully then raised the automatic and shot him. Tillman stumbled backward against the wall, the holdall clasped to his chest as if it would somehow shield him from the next bullet.

“Fifty grand to take you to Central America?” Varese said, glancing down at Miller’s body. “I’d say he was dealing you from the bottom of the deck on that one.”

“We can make a deal, Varese,” Tillman said in desperation, stuffing the thirty thousand dollars back into the holdall. “You can say you never found me. That way you’d get to keep all the money for yourself. Half a million. It’s a lot of money. I won’t talk. You know that. I’m in this just as deep as you are. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a prison cell. Take the money. Take it all. Just let me go.”

“I know you wouldn’t sing to the authorities but what if the Colombians got hold of you? They’d certainly torture you and you’d end up telling them all about Mr. Navarro. And then they’d be sure to retaliate against the family. The Colombians are particularly bad losers. And then we’d have to retaliate so as not to lose face. It could all turn very nasty. And all because I let you go.”

“They could torture me, I wouldn’t talk,” Tillman replied, using his cuff to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

“The Colombians are masters of torture. I know I’d talk rather than have to endure that kind of agony. And so would you. You’d tell them everything they wanted to know. And more. Just to make them stop.” Varese levelled the automatic at Tillman’s head. “This way there can’t be any misunderstandings. And you’ll be spared an agonizing death at the hands of the Colombians.”

Tillman lashed out with the holdall, catching Varese full in the face. The bullet smashed harmlessly into the wall behind the desk. Tillman darted past Varese and out through the open doorway. Cursing angrily, Varese moved to the door. Tillman was making for the hangar a couple of hundred yards away from the office. Varese raised the automatic, steadied his aim, then fired. The bullet took Tillman in the leg. He stumbled and fell heavily to the ground. He looked around in horror as Varese walked toward him. He tried to get up but a sharp pain speared through his leg. He gritted his teeth in agony and finally managed to get up onto his one good leg. But after a couple of unsteady steps he overbalanced and fell to the ground again. He clawed at the ground, dragging himself toward the hangar. When Varese caught up with him he raised the automatic and shot him through the back of the head. He used his foot to roll Tillman over onto his back. Satisfied Tillman was dead, he picked up the holdall and walked back to the taxi which had been parked out of sight at the back of the hangar. He told the driver to take him to West Side Electronics. He wanted to break the news personally to Navarro. Their troubles were over …

Kolchinsky punched a code into the bellpush then opened the door and entered the room. Sarah wasn’t behind her desk. And the sliding door leading into the Director’s office was open. Although she had access to the spare miniature transmitter which was kept in the wall safe behind her desk, she knew she was only to use it in an emergency if either he or Whitlock wasn’t in the office. Those were the rules. So why was she in there? Was it an emergency? Another crisis? He hurried into the room and froze when he saw Malcolm Philpott seated behind the desk.