Stuart Woods: Heat

“What’s going to happen tonight?” she asked.

“I’m going to a dinner meeting at Jack Gene’s house, and I’m going to record the proceedings; what I get there should be enough to put everybody present away for a long time.”

“Do you want us to wait here?”

“No. I want you to pack one bag for each of us, and put them into the trunk of your car, along with the toolbox and some blankets, and at two A.M. I want you to take the girls and drive out to the St. Clair airport.”

“Are we going to fly out of here?”

“Just listen. Be sure and have some story ready, in case you’re stopped by a patrol car. There’s a big hangar next to the flight office, and it has a combination lock; the combination is 1234. I want you to unlock the hanger and, just inside the door, along with several other airplanes, you’ll find a Cessna — that’s an airplane with high wings, the kind you can walk under — and the number on the side of it is N123TF. Got that?”

“N123TF,” she repeated, “and the combination for the lock is 1234. That’s all very simple.”

“The airplane will be unlocked; there’s a rear door to the luggage compartment on the left-hand side, and I want you to put all the luggage and the toolbox in there, then I want you to put the two girls in the back seat of the airplane with a couple of blankets. Then you drive your car into the woods, where it can’t be seen from the airport, go back to the hangar, close the doors from the inside, get into the airplane and wait for me.”

“Jesse, can you fly an airplane?”

“Sort of. Now listen; if I’m not there by three-fifteen, I want you to put everybody back into the car, drive back to the main road, turn east and then, as soon as you can, head south toward Salt Lake City. There, do what you were to do in Seattle the last time we planned this: get most of the money converted to traveler’s checks and a cashier’s check; make a reservation for Tokyo, this time through Los Angeles. Here are your passports and Carrie’s birth certificate; you can talk her through with that.

“After Tokyo, it’s the Peninsular Hotel in Hong Kong for a week, then to Sydney and the Harbour Hotel, ask for Bluey at the bar.”

“I remember all that.”

“I’ll join you if I can. If I can’t, take care of yourself and the girls; make them happy.”

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

“I’ll most likely make it to the airport, but if not, look for me in Hong Kong.”

While Jenny was upstairs packing, Jesse took off his shirt and dropped his pants. It wasn’t the first time he’d worn a wire. Using the special tape provided with the wire, he taped the recorder to the inside of his left thigh, high up, next to his testicles. In his experience, most men didn’t like groping other men’s crotches, even in a search. He plugged in the microphone wire, then ran it between his legs and up between his buttocks to his waist, anchoring the wire there with tape. He then ran it up his back, taping as far as he could reach, then again at his shoulder. He ran it down his left arm, applying patches of tape as he went, then he attached the microphone to the wire and taped it securely to the inside of his wrist, a couple of inches above his watchband. A switch on the tiny microphone would allow him to start the recorder; after that, it would record whenever it picked up someone’s voice.

He got dressed again, swung his left arm around and walked around the kitchen to be sure he had free movement. The microphone wire was very thin, and he didn’t want to put any strain on it. He went upstairs, got his dark brown sheepskin coat, a pair of hiking boots and some thick socks, then came back down to the kitchen. Jenny joined him there.

“You’re sure you understand everything?” he asked.

She nodded.

Jesse looked at his watch; quarter to seven; time to go. He took Jenny in his arms, hugged her, kissed her; he tried to keep it light; didn’t want it to seem like goodbye, although God knew it might very well be.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you,” she replied.

He got into his coat, tucked the sheepskin jacket and the boots under his arm and left the house.

Jesse arrived precisely on time and was shown into Coldwater’s study by one of Jack Gene’s young women.

“The pastor will be with you shortly,” she said. “Please make yourself at home.”

As soon as she was gone, Jesse went to the false bookcase at the end of the room and tugged at it. The facade gave way to reveal a door, securely locked, and it was made of steel. Jesse rapped on it sharply with a knuckle; at least a quarter-inch thick, and there was an echo from behind it. He closed the bookcase and quickly found a chair.

Coldwater entered the room, followed by Pat Casey and Kurt Ruger, and at that moment the doorbell rang. “Ah, here they are,” Coldwater said. “Good evening, Jesse.”

“Good evening, Pastor,” Jesse replied, rising. He nervously checked his necktie.

A moment later a group of men were shown into the room, led by Charley Bottoms, who winked at Jesse.

Don’t do that, Jesse said to himself. He counted eight men as he was introduced; some, like Bottoms, had been in the last visiting group, but two were new. Jesse recognized one of them as the Reverend John Packard, a Seattle minister who specialized in racial and anti-Semitic epithets; he had often been on the news.

The young woman who had admitted them entered the room, opened a concealed wet bar and began offering drinks. Jesse accepted a bourbon, but he drank little of it.

“Gentlemen,” Coldwater said to the room at large, “I hope you’ll forgive the inconvenience, but in the interests of security, it will be necessary for each of you to be, ah, looked at more closely. Not you, Reverend, of course.”

There was grumbling, but each man submitted to an expert search by Pat Casey and Kurt Ruger.

“Pastor,” the reverend said, “I hope you won’t take offense, but your crowd will have to be looked at, too.”

“No offense taken,” Coldwater replied. “Go right ahead.”

“Charley, will you do the honors?” the reverend said.

“Sure thing, Preacher,” Bottoms said. “You fellows mind unbuttoning your shirts?” He quickly patted down Casey and Ruger, then turned to Jesse. “You’re next, pal.”

Jesse’s back was to the fire, but he still held his breath while Bottoms ran his hands over his body. If Charley wasn’t on the feds’ team, he would find out about it now. Charley found the wire running up his back. He turned to Packard. “They’re clean, Reverend.”

Jesse started breathing again.

“What did you fellows fly down in?” Coldwater asked the Reverend Packard.

“I got a King Air,” the reverend replied. “I fly it myself; we made it in no time flat.”

“I fly a rather old Commanche, myself,” Coldwater said. “You like our little airport?”

“Real nice,” Packard replied.

Charley Bottoms took a large swig of whiskey and announced, “I came in a Chevrolet. You guys are doing awful good for yourselves.”

The Reverend Packard laughed heartily at this.

Jesse thought about the King Air out at the airport — a twin-engined turboprop. It flew a lot faster than the Cessna he was planning on leaving in, but he knew nothing about flying twins, and he wasn’t going to start learning tonight.

The conversation grew louder as the alcohol circulated, and then they were called into dinner. Jesse aimed at a seat near the middle of the table, on Coldwater’s right. There were twelve of them at the long table, and he wanted to be able to record as many of them as possible. From the middle of the table, he thought, the recorder might manage it.