John Grisham - The Racketeer

Nathan is breathing heavily and slowly. I shake him, but he’s unconscious. From the right pocket of his too-tight denim cutoffs, I remove his key ring. In addition to the one for his pickup, the collection includes six others of varying shapes and designs. I’m sure a couple fit the doors and dead bolts of his house. Perhaps a couple lock and unlock Bombay’s. In the left pocket, I find a neat fold of cash-about $500-and a pack of gum. From the left rear pocket I remove his wallet, a cheap vinyl Velcro tri-fold that’s sort of bulky. As I inventory it, I realize why. Our party boy had loaded up with eight Trojan condoms, stored at the ready on his left buttock. There are also ten crisp $100 bills, a valid Virginia driver’s license, two membership cards to Bombay’s, a business card for his parole officer, and one for a beer distributor. Nathan has no credit cards, probably because of his recent five-year stint in prison and his lack of a real job. I leave the cash in place, don’t touch the Trojans, and remove everything else. I substitute the fake driver’s license for the valid one and give Nathaniel Coley his wallet back. Then I gently place the fake passport in his right rear pocket. He doesn’t move or twitch, doesn’t feel a thing.

I go to the restroom and close and lock the door. I open the cargo hold, unzip my carry-on, and remove two nylon pouches with the words “First Aid” stamped in bold letters. I stuff these into the bottom of Nathan’s gym bag, then re-zip everything. I walk to the cockpit, pull back the black curtain, and lean forward to catch Devin’s attention. He quickly removes his headset and I say, “Look, this guy drank nonstop until he passed out. I can’t seem to wake him up and there’s not much of a pulse. We might need some medical attention as soon as we land.” Will hears this even with his headset, and for a split second he and Devin stare at each other. If they were not descending, one of the two would probably step into the cabin and take a look at Nathan.

“Okay,” Devin finally says, and I return to the cabin, where Nathan lies in near rigor mortis, but with a pulse. Five minutes later, I return to the cockpit and report that he is indeed breathing but I can’t rouse him. “Idiot drank a fifth of tequila in less than two hours,” I say, and they both shake their heads.

We land in Montego Bay and taxi past a row of commercial airliners at the gates of the main concourse. To the south, I see three other jets parked at the private terminal. There are emergency vehicles with red lights flashing, all waiting for Nathan. I’ll need the chaos to aid in my disappearance. I’m far from sober, but the adrenaline has kicked in and I’m thinking clearly.

When the engines are turned off, Devin jumps up and opens the door. I have my briefcase and carry-on in my chair, ready for the opportunity, but I’m also hovering over Nathan. “Wait for Immigration,” Devin says.

“Sure,” I reply.

Two grim-faced Jamaican Immigration officers appear in the cabin and glare at me. “Passport please,” one says, and I give him my passport. He looks it over and says, “Please leave the aircraft.” I hustle down the stairs, where another officer tells me to wait. Two medics board the plane and I presume they’re tending to Nathan. An ambulance backs up to the stairs, and a police car arrives with lights but no sirens. I take a step back, then another. There is a dispute about how to remove the patient from the airplane, and everyone-medics, Immigration officers, police-seems to have an opinion. They finally decide against using a stretcher, so Nathan is basically dragged out and handed down the stairs. He’s limp and lifeless, and if he weighed more than 140 pounds, the entire rescue would have been botched. As he’s loaded into the ambulance, his gym bag appears in the door and an Immigration officer quizzes Devin about it. Devin makes sure the authorities know that the Adidas bag belongs to the unconscious one, and it is finally placed in the ambulance with him.

“I need to go now,” I say to the nearest officer, and he points to a door of the private terminal. I enter just as Nathan is being hauled away. My passport is stamped and my carry-on and briefcase are scanned. A Customs official tells me to wait in the front lobby, and as I do I see Devin and Will in a tense discussion with the Jamaican authorities. They probably have some tough questions for me, and I’d rather avoid them. A taxi swings through the gate and stops under the terrace outside the front door. A rear window comes down and I see my dear Vanessa, waving frantically for me to get in. When no one is near, I leave the terminal, jump into the cab, and we speed away.

She has a room in a cheap hotel five minutes away. From the third-floor balcony, we can see the airport and the jets come and go. Lying in bed, we can hear them. We are exhausted and running on fumes, but sleep is out of the question.

Victor Westlake was attempting to sleep late on Saturday morning, but after the second call he got out of bed, made the coffee, and was contemplating a possible nap on the sofa when the third call jolted him and swept away any lingering drowsiness. It was from an assistant named Fox, who was currently keeping the Bannister/Baldwin file and waiting for something to monitor. There had not been a peep in over two weeks.

“It came from Customs,” Fox was saying. “Baldwin left Roanoke yesterday afternoon on a private jet and flew to Jamaica.”

“A private jet?” Westlake repeated, thinking about the $150,000 in reward money and wondering how long it might last if Baldwin was burning through it.

“Yes sir, a Challenger 604, chartered from a company in Raleigh.”

Westlake thought for a moment. “I wonder what he’s doing in Roanoke. Odd.”

“Yes sir.”

“Didn’t he go to Jamaica a few weeks back? His first trip out of the country?”

“Yes sir. He flew out of Miami to Montego Bay, spent a few days there, then went to Antigua.”

“I suppose he likes the islands,” Westlake said as he reached for fresh coffee. “Is he alone?”

“No sir. He’s traveling with a man named Nathaniel Coley, at least that’s what’s on his passport. However, it appears as though Coley is traveling with a fake passport.”

Westlake sat the untouched coffee back onto the counter and began to pace around the kitchen. “This guy got by Customs with a fake passport?”

“Yes sir. But keep in mind it was a private aircraft and the passport was not actually examined by Customs. All they had was the copy sent in by the charter service, and they checked it against the No Fly List. It’s pretty routine.”

“Remind me to fix that routine.”

“Yes sir.”

“So the question, Fox, is what’s Baldwin up to, right? Why is he chartering a private jet and why is he traveling with a man who’s using a fake passport? Can you answer these questions for me, and soon?”

“If those are my orders, yes sir. But I’m sure I don’t have to remind you how prickly the Jamaicans are.”

“No, you don’t.” In the war on drugs, not all battles were fought between cops and traffickers. The Jamaicans, like many police agencies in the Caribbean, had long resented the bullying from U.S. officials.

“I’ll get to work,” Fox said. “But it’s Saturday, here and there.”

“Be in my office early Monday morning, with something, okay?”

“Yes sir.”

Nathan Cooley awoke in a small, windowless room, dark except for the red glow of a digital monitor on a table near him. He was lying on what appeared to be a hospital bed-narrow with railings. He looked up and saw a bag of fluids, then followed the tube all the way down to the back of his left hand, where it disappeared under the white gauze. Okay, I’m in a hospital.