Stuart Woods: Capital Crimes

“All right,” Kinney said, “we’ve got to take this guy here, because if we don’t, we might never find him again.”

“Maybe some state trooper will take him on his drive up here,” an agent said.

“I don’t think he’s dumb enough to drive an RV from Washington to Maine,” Kinney replied. “He has to have heard the news reports that we’ve alerted the state police along I-95. Anybody want to take responsibility for that leak?”

Silence prevailed.

“I didn’t think so.” Kinney pointed at the map. “You’ve all had an opportunity to look at this while you were waiting for me. The house is here, on North Islesboro, directly on the water. There’s no cove, no anchorage, just a rocky beach. The airstrip is here, south of the house. We will not be using that, so get it out of your minds. This island is a sparsely populated place, especially in winter, where there are fewer than a hundred people in residence. If anybody sees anything, it’ll be all over the island in a flash. The only person who knows of our interest in Mr. Lawrence Keane is the postmaster, and it’s been stressed to him that he is a federal employee and is sworn to secrecy.

“Tonight, we’re going to put a team ashore about half a mile north of the cottage, where the beach is near the road. The team will go in civvies, and backpacks, warmly dressed, and try to be indistinguishable from hikers. We will not send any vehicle over on the ferry, since note might be taken of it. We will not use a Coast Guard cutter to get our people ashore for the same reason. We’ve chartered a lobster boat for that purpose, and the team will go ashore in a rubber boat and stow it in the woods.

“Something I want to stress to those of you on tonight’s team. This is a recce, not a capture mission. We don’t even know if he’s there. That’s one of the reasons for the recce. Please keep in mind that Theodore Fay is probably the most technically accomplished fugitive you will ever encounter. You must expect a super-duper alarm system, and I don’t want you to try to defeat it. I don’t even want you to approach the house until you’ve electronically swept the area around it. We don’t want to set off alarms.

“The sole reason for this mission is to establish whether Fay is in residence. Look and listen, find out what you need to effect a swift and decisive entrance, don’t trip any alarms. Any questions?”

“Suppose Fay is in residence and we have an opportunity to take him?”

“You will not do so, until I have cleared it, personally, by cell phone. We will not use radios, because Fay could very well have a scanner. You’ll be given a list of cell phone numbers for your commanders. Try to sound like a normal person when you call. Avoid jargon or any reference to the names Fay or Keane. Code name for Fay will be ”Buddy‘; I will be “Jack’; Agent Smith will be ”Barney‘; your swat team leader will be “Charlie.”“

“How do we leave the island?” somebody asked. “If we effect a capture or a kill, a chopper will land at the Islesboro strip, for a quick evacuation, and vehicles will take the ferry over with evidence-gathering equipment. Once you’re in the house, take extreme care not to disturb any part of it. Do what you have to do and get out clean.”

“If he’s not there, how long do we wait?”

“As long as I think is advisable. If Fay isn’t there, the recce team becomes a surveillance team. You’ll find a place to camp and wait him out, with two men watching the house at all times.”

“Something I’ve never understood,” somebody said. “Where did Fay get the money to buy all this stuff-the RV, the Mercedes, the house on Islesboro?”

“A combination of sources: He held patents on a number of small inventions that paid regular royalties, he saved his money, and he has a pension. He moved just over a million dollars in cash out of the country when he faked his death. Any other questions?”

Silence.

“All right, the lobster boat leaves at eleven p.m. It’s a good hour and a half out to and around Islesboro and to the area of the cottage. First, we’ll make a pass or two up and down the shore to see if there are any signs of life at the cottage, then we’ll put the team ashore. In the meantime, get some dinner and some rest.”

JUST AFTER midnight, Kinney stood in the big cockpit of the lobster boat and slowly swept the eastern coastline of North Islesboro with night binoculars. He found the cottage, and his pulse quickened: There were lights on. Then, as he watched, the lights went off, one at a time.

“He’s there, and he’s going to bed,” Smith said to Kinney.

“He may have the lights on a timer; let the team know.”

Smith went below and spoke for a moment to the half-dozen men huddled in the cramped forepeak, then came back on deck. “They’re briefed,” he said.

“We’ll put them ashore as soon as we’re around that point,” Kinney said, indicating a finger of land illuminated by starlight. “God, I hope this is an end to it.”

“So do I,” Smith said. “One way or another.”

TED’S ALARM WENT OFF AT 3 A.M., and he sleepily put both feet on the floor and looked at his watch, which wasn’t there. He’d misplaced it, somehow, and that annoyed him.

He showered, shaved, and, as an afterthought, flipped up the clipper head on his electric shaver and shaved his head, giving himself one more disguise and making it easier to use the wigs.

He had some breakfast, and by 3:45 a.m. he was on his way south; he avoided interstates, sticking to surface roads. He switched on the built-in, hands-free cell phone and dialed 1-800-WXBRIEE “You have reached Richmond, Virginia, Flight Services. To speak with a briefer, press one.”

Ted pressed one.

“Good morning, may I help you?”

“Good morning. This is November one, two, three, tango, foxtrot. Will you please brief me for an IFR Flight from Manassas, Virginia, to Manchester, New Hampshire, departing in one hour? I’d like winds for twelve thousand feet.”

“Well, it’s pretty simple today. We’ve got a large high-pressure area dominating your route, ceiling and visibility unlimited all the way. Manassas weather is clear below twelve thousand, winds light and variable, no notams. Forecast at Manchester is for clear below twelve thousand, winds zero ninety at eight knots. Winds at twelve thousand along your route, two four zero at thirty knots, pretty much all the way. One notam, unmarked crane one mile west of the airport at two hundred AGL. That’s about it.”

“I’ll file.”

“Go ahead.”

“IFR, November one, two, three, tango, foxtrot. I’m a Charlie one eight two Romeo, stroke Golf. Departing hotel, echo, foxtrot at five a.m. local ten hundred zulu, at twelve thousand feet. My route of flight will be direct. Time en route, two hours, twenty minutes. I’ll have four hours of fuel. My name is Kenneth Wills, based at Manassas. My phone number is 202-555-6189. The airplane is white over green. There’ll be one soul aboard.”

The controller repeated the plan. “You know you’re never going to get direct along that route, don’t you?”

“Yeah, whatever I give them, the computer will give me something else.”

“Right. Have a good flight.”

“Bye.”

Ted was at Manassas Airport by five o’clock, and he entered, as usual, through the back gate, using his card. He drove not to his usual hangar, but to a T-hangar in the row next to the runway. He parked the RV, opened the hangar door, disconnected the battery charger, and, using a tow bar, moved the Cessna 182RG out of the hangar. He drove the RV into the hangar, then moved a lot of gear from the RV to the airplane and closed the hangar door. The monthly rental for the hangar was paid by an automatic bank draft, so it would be years before anybody found the RV. He might even be able to come back for it, eventually.