Stuart Woods: Iron Orchid

“No.” Thank God, she thought.

“Did you pay cash for it?”

“Yes.”

“Did you obtain the cash legally?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any foreign bank accounts.”

She exhaled slowly. “No,” she breathed.

“Do you have any overdue debts?”

“No.”

“Do you carry any large credit card balances?”

“No.”

“Have you ever forged another person’s signature to obtain money?”

“No.”

“Do you owe any person money?”

“No.”

“Do you own a house?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a mortgage on the house?”

“No.”

“Have you lied about anything during this examination?”

“No,” she breathed.

“That concludes the test,” the man said. “You are a liar.”

KERRY SMITH LED BOB KINNEY over to the conference table in his new office and picked up something the size of his hand, enclosed in bubble wrap. “This is a piece of Teddy Fay’s airplane,” he said, unwrapping the object.

Kinney took it from him and turned it over in his hands, then handed it back, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his hands thoroughly. “You’re right, these are pretty small pieces,” he said.

“Right,” Kerry said. “That greasy, gritty black stuff you’re wiping off your hands is the residue of a combination of burnt aviation gasoline, saltwater and plastics explosives. It’s on nearly every piece of the airplane we’ve found.” He picked up a larger object, unwrapped it, and read an attached tag. “This is about a quarter of the right-side passenger door of the airplane.” He held it up, but Kinney did not touch it.

“It looks pretty much like the other piece you showed me, but larger.”

“Yes, and please note that the inside of this part of the door-we can distinguish it from the outside, because the outside has part of a stripe that ran the length of the airplane-is bare metal, with no trace of the upholstered lining of the door.”

“Yes, I see that. What are you getting at, Kerry?”

Smith walked around the conference table and picked up a very large chunk of the airplane that was leaning against the wall. He unwrapped it. “Do you recognize this?”

“It’s obviously the other door of the airplane,” Kinney said.

“The left-side pilot’s door,” Kerry replied. “Please note its condition. It’s bent, on a line from upper left to lower right, but the upholstery is intact, and the Plexiglas window is still in the frame. And it has no gasoline or explosive residue on it anywhere.”

Kinney tried to relax the knot in his stomach. “What are you telling me?”

“It would appear that this door was not attached to the airplane when the explosion occurred.”

“Well, if Fay was sitting in the pilot’s seat at the time, his body would have taken much of the force of the explosion, wouldn’t it?”

“Some, perhaps, but compare it to the fragment from the other door. Quite a contrast, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes. What do you posit?”

“I posit that Fay opened the door, removed it from its hinges, threw it out of the airplane, set the timer on a bomb, then jumped out.”

“Maybe there’s another explanation,” Kinney said.

“I don’t think so. Also, this door was found much closer to the shore than the other fragments of the airplane, indicating that it began its fall sooner.”

“I see,” Kinney said, feeling a little sick. “And you think Fay was wearing a parachute?”

“Imagine you’re about to die,” Kerry said. “Do you choose a six-thousand-foot drop into the cold sea as a means of dying or an instantaneous death from the explosion?”

“Apart from the airplane door, what evidence do you have that Fay might have jumped?”

“It’s the evidence we don’t have,” Kerry replied. “We don’t have any fragment of a corpse, and not only is there no explosive residue on the pilot’s door, there’s no Teddy residue, either. No blood and guts.”

“We both know that a highly fragmented body in the sea would be eaten by some assortment of creatures very quickly.”

“True.”

“Do you have anything else from shore that might point to Fay’s survival?”

“There is one thing,” Kerry said, “but it’s not much.”

“Tell me”

“As part of the shoreside search, we entered and searched a number of houses, most of them closed for the season.”

“And?”

“And we found a bicycle in the garage of one of them.”

“Huh?”

“I’m sorry, what I mean to say is, we found a woman’s bicycle, but we contacted the owner, and he told us there was also a man’s bicycle in the garage. It’s gone.”

“Any other evidence in the house?”

“One anomaly: the water in the hot water heater, which was turned off, was slightly warm, indicating to us that someone might have heated it in order to take a bath or shower. It would take several hours, at least, for it to cool to the same temperature as the inside of the house. The owner of the house is being transported from his home in Boston as we speak, so that he can tell us if anything besides the bicycle is missing or out of place.”

“I want to hear about that as soon as you speak to him.”

“Of course.”

“If you were Teddy Fay and you had escaped from that airplane with your life, what would you do?”

“I’d search for dry clothes and transportation,” Kerry said.

“And where would you go?”

“The nearest town was Kennebunkport? From there I’d go to Kennebunkport, then find a ride to Boston. It’s a transportation hub, and he could have taken a train, plane or bus anywhere, even overseas. Ireland might be a good guess. We know Fay had access to all sorts of apparently genuine information documents.”

“I suppose you’re already checking on passengers?”

“I’ve got a team on the phones right now, checking every mode of transportation.”

Helen knocked on the door and opened it. “Kerry, there’s a Mr. Taylor on the phone for you from Kennebunkport ”

“That’s the owner of the house,” Kerry said, picking up the phone on the conference table and pressing a button. “Hello? Yes, Mr. Taylor thanks for calling. Have you had an opportunity to look around the house?” He listened for perhaps two minutes. “Thank you, Mr. Taylor. Our agents will see that you’re transported back to Boston, and we’re grateful for your help. All right, put him on.” Kerry covered the phone with his hand. “The agent in charge there wants to speak to me again.” He turned his attention to the phone again. “Yes, I’m here.” He listened intently for ten seconds. “Thanks.” He hung up.

“Tell me,” Kinney said.

“Mr. Taylor is missing some clothing: a couple of shirts and some underwear, a gray suit and a Burberry raincoat, in addition to his bicycle.”

Kinney nodded.

“And the agent told me they dug up Mr. Taylor’s garden and found a parachute.”

Kinney exhaled loudly. “The son of a bitch is alive.”

“Yes,” Kerry replied.

“And I’ve just told both the president and the national media that he’s dead.”

“I tried to stop you on your way out, and I tried to call you, but your cell phone wasn’t on.”

“I’m never going to turn it off again,” Kinney said.

HOLLY STOOD UP and put on her sweatshirt. “I didn’t lie on the polygraph,” she said to the examiner.

The man opened a side door, revealing another small room, which held a steel table and some matching chairs. “Go in there and sit down,” he said.

Holly went into the room and sat down, and the man closed the door behind her. She found herself facing another mirror. Knowing that she was probably being watched, she sat still and tried to breathe normally. She sat that way for what seemed an hour but was closer to five minutes, then two men walked into the room and took chairs on the opposite side of the table. One of them, Bob, the younger of the two, carried a thick folder.