Andrew Peterson - First to Kill

At the motel, Nathan gave the cabbie a fifty and told him to keep the change. Everyone retrieved their bags and briefcases from the trunk. Hoping to make up for Henning’s lack of social skills at the airport, Nathan addressed the cabbie in Arabic.

“Thank you for the ride, my friend.”

Henning’s head turned quickly at hearing Nathan speak Arabic. Williamson, the copilot, didn’t react at all, which in itself was a reaction.

The driver’s eyes grew a little. “ You speak Arabic. ”

“I do. Please excuse my friend’s abruptness at the airport. We are all very tired.”

“It is okay. I understand.”

“Stay safe and go with God.”

The driver pumped his hand and smiled. “You too, my friend.”

After the cab pulled away, Henning stepped forward. “What did you just say to him?”

Nathan shrugged. “I thanked him for the ride and told him we’re all tired.”

“Well, aren’t you just full of surprises. What’s next, you going to pilot that Lear back to Sacramento?”

“As a matter of fact…” He looked at Jenkins.

“Sure, why not? It practically flies itself.”

“No way,” Henning protested. “That’s not happening, not on my watch. You may be able to shoot a tennis ball at a thousand yards, land a helicopter in a palm tree, perform emergency surgery, find buried treasure, and speak Arabic, but you are not flying that jet back to Sacramento. Not while I’m aboard.”

Jenkins cleared his throat. “Maybe we should get checked in.”

Ten minutes later they were settled into their respective rooms. The first thing Jenkins did was dial his first officer’s room. “Is that really what McBride said to the cabdriver?”

“Yeah, but he left something out,” Williamson said.

“What?”

“He apologized for Henning’s behavior. Apparently Henning hadn’t been real courteous with the driver.”

“Who is this guy?”

“Haven’t the slightest.”

“Think he’s one of us?”

“I’m betting he’s a spook. CIA or NSA.”

“How many languages do you speak?”

“Including English, five.”

“Think I should I let him into the cockpit?” Jenkins asked.

“If you asking me if he’s dangerous, I’d have to say no.”

“Think he bought our act?”

“Not for a second.”

“Well, until Lansing changes his mind, we stick to the plan and fly him wherever he wants to go.”

Nathan considered calling Harv but decided against it. It was almost three in the morning in Sacramento. He set his overnight bag on the small table next to the bed. In the bathroom, he washed his face, brushed his teeth, and plugged in his phone. He stripped down to his underwear, pulled the sheets off the bed, and made a makeshift bunk on the floor. He set the alarm clock for 0700, an hour away. Staring at the ceiling, he rehearsed the questions he planned for the Castle’s shrink, hoping this little jaunt would be worthwhile. His mind moved to the pilots. When he’d spoken Arabic to the cabbie, Nathan had been certain First Officer Williamson understood every word. He’d seen it in his eyes, an unmistakable twinkle of recognition. What were the odds that one of the pilots assigned to ferry him around spoke Arabic? It seemed Lansing’s trust had limitations.

Too tired to worry about it, Nathan rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. Another long tomorrow loomed. Actually, he realized, tomorrow’s already here.

Despite his exhaustion, Nathan awoke before the alarm sounded. He cracked the curtains and scanned the parking lot where a smattering of pickups, sedans, and SUVs waited beneath a red Kansas sky. At the opposite end of the room, he made a miniature pot of coffee.

After a quick shower and shave, Nathan called Henning’s room. “How’d you sleep?”

“Not too well, you?”

“About the same. Hungry?”

“I called the front desk. There are several coffee shops within walking distance.”

“What about our pilots?” Nathan asked.

“I didn’t want to wake them.”

“Five minutes,” Nathan said and hung up.

Over breakfast, Henning asked about Nathan’s background. Although Henning seemed to understand Nathan’s need for discretion, there was a touch of resentment. The stuff in Nathan’s head was doled out on a need to know basis, and Henning didn’t need to know. Simple as that.

On the walk back to the motel, Nathan’s cell rang. He looked at the screen. Harv.

“How was your flight?”

“First-class. It’s a nice ride.”

“No doubt. I took the liberty of arranging your meeting with the Castle’s shrink. I’ve been on the phone all morning trying to reach him, finally did. It took a bit of coaxing, but I think I convinced him of the urgency of the situation. He’s seen the television coverage of the bombing, and knows his former patient is responsible. His name is Dr. Harold Fitzgerald, and yes, that’s really his name. He’s agreed to meet with you at the officer’s mess at ten-hundred.”

“Great work, Harv. What’s your take on him? Will he talk to us?”

“I honestly don’t know, my gut says yes, but I could’ve read him wrong. Our call was pretty brief. I’m sure he’ll want your conversation off the record.”

“I’m really hoping to learn something, anything, that might give us a starting point for tracking Ernie Bridgestone. I still need to run his girlfriend in the NCIC database. Did our guys find anything from the visitation-log info?”

“Maybe. The address she used on the log sheet was a dead end. We called the phone number and got a changed-number recording, so it’s a fairly recent change. The new number is a five-five-nine area code in Fresno. When I had Mason pretend to be a telemarketer and call the number, he thought the woman who answered hadn’t been honest. Mason said she hesitated for a instant before saying he had a wrong number. It might have been a girlfriend or sister, or it might have been our mark herself.”

“It’s possible Bridgestone has already warned her she might get a call like that,” Nathan said.

“If he still has any contact with her all, he probably has warned her or more accurately threatened her. She might go underground. Maybe we should’ve waited on the call.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Telemarketers call all the time. Listen, we just finished breakfast, we’re walking back to the motel. I’ll call you after we’ve met with Fitzgerald.”

Nathan tucked his phone away and filled Henning in on what he’d learned about Ernie’s old girlfriend and fake telemarketer call.

“That might have been her,” Henning said.

“It’s possible. We won’t know until we talk to her.”

“And if she won’t talk to us?”

“She’ll talk.”

The entrance to Fort Leavenworth looked like a hundred other military-base entries. A small guard shack divided the road. MPs with sidearms approached the taxi and asked for everyone’s identification. Their taxi had been expected so the security procedure went smoothly. As instructed, the driver placed the bright-yellow temporary-vehicle pass on the dashboard. He was given a small map of the base showing the location of the dining facility.

Nathan thought the fort had a college campus feel to it, lots of green open spaces, mature trees, and historic buildings. At the dining facility’s curb, Henning asked-told, really-the driver to wait for them. Army service members filtered in and out of the DFAC. Most of them wore Army combat uniforms. A man in civilian clothes stepped out and approached them, Fitzgerald, no doubt. The man looked nothing like the stereotype of a shrink. No Freudian glasses, bald pate, or goatee. No white coat. He looked more like an aging California surfer than a prison psychiatrist. Dressed in tan slacks and an aloha shirt, he was in his mid-fifties, with sandy-colored hair, broad shoulders, and pleasant smile.