Jeffery Deaver - A Maiden's Grave

Captain Dan Tremain leaned forward, pushing aside a branch, silent as snow.

From this angle he could just see the corner of the window in which the young woman was being held. Tremain was one of the best sniper shots in the HRU and often regretted that his command position didn't give him the chance to strap up a Remington and, with the aid of his spotter, acquire and neutralize a target eight hundred, a thousand yards away.

But tonight was a door-entry operation. Snipers would be useless and so he turned his thoughts from the vague target in the window to the job at hand.

Tremain's watch showed seven. "Deadline," he said. "Outrider One. Report."

"Charge loaded in generator."

"Await green-light command."

"Roger."

"Outrider Two, report."

"The subjects are all in the main room, hostages are unattended, except for the woman in the window."

"Roger," Tremain said. "Teams A and B, status?"

"Team A to home base. Loaded and locked."

"Team B, loaded and locked."

Tremain chocked his foot against a rock and eased to one knee. Eyes on Handy. He looked like a sprinter waiting for the gun – which was exactly what he would become in a matter of minutes.

"Done," Tobe called.

He added, "Theoretically, at least."

Potter wiped his palm. He transferred the phone to his other hand, then called Handy back and said the helicopter clearance was arranged. He gave him the number of the FAA office.

"What'sa name?" Handy growled. "Who should I talk to?" Potter said, "Don Creswell." It was the name of his cousin-in-law Linden's husband. LeBow scrawled it on the nearly filled "Deceptions" board.

"We'll see, Art. I'll call you back. The girl stays right beside me and my big G till I'm satisfied."

Click .

Potter spun around and looked at Tobe's screen. He said, "It'll have to be you, Henry. He knows my voice."

LeBow grimaced. "I could have used time to prepare, Arthur."

"So could we all."

A moment later Tobe said, "Uplink from slaughterhouse… Not coming here… digits… one, nine-one-three, five-five-five, one-two-one-two. Topeka directory assistance."

They heard Handy's voice ask for the number of the FAA regional office. The operator gave it to him. Potter exhaled in relief. Budd said, "You were right. He didn't trust you."

"Uplink terminated," Tobe whispered unnecessarily. "Uplink from slaughterhouse to Topeka, downlink transfer from trunk line to…" He pointed to the phone on the desk, and it began to ring. "Curtain up."

LeBow took a deep breath and nodded.

"Wait," Budd said urgently. "He'll be expecting a secretary or receptionist."

"Damn," Potter spat out. "Of course. Angie?"

She was the closest to the phone.

Third ring. Fourth.

She nodded brusquely, snatched up the receiver. "Federal Aviation Administration," she said breezily. "May I help you?"

"I wanta talk to Don Creswell."

"One moment please. Who's calling?"

A laugh. "Lou Handy."

She clapped her hand to the mouthpiece and whispered, "What's hold?"

Tobe took the phone from her and tapped it with a fingernail, then handed it to LeBow. Potter winked at her.

Again LeBow inhaled and said, "Creswell here."

"Hey, Don. You don't know me."

A brief pause. "This is that fellow the FBI called me about? Louis Handy?"

"Yeah, this's that fellow . Tell me, is this bullshit he's feeding me? It is, isn't it?"

Pudgy, benign Henry LeBow snapped, "Well, sir, I'll tell you, it's more bullshit for me. 'Cause frankly it's making my life pure hell. I got sixty planes an hour coming into our airspace and this's going to mean rerouting close to three-quarters of them. And that's just the commercial flights. I told the agent no way at first but he's a grade-A pain in the ass, and a FBI pain in the ass to boot. He told me he'd fuck up my life royal if I don't do exactly what you want. So, yeah, it's bullshit but, yeah, I'm going to give him what he asked for."

"What the fuck is that, exactly?"

"Didn't he tell you? An M-4 priority airspace clearance straight into western Ontario."

Good job, Henry, Potter thought, his eyes on Melanie's silhouette.

"A what?"

"It's the highest priority there is. It's reserved for Air Force One and visiting heads of state. We call it 'papal clearance' because it's what the Pope gets. Now listen, you might want to write this down. What you have to do is make sure the helicopter pilot shuts off the transponder. He'll point it out to you and you can shut it off or smash it or whatever, and we won't be able to track you on radar."

"No radar?"

"That's part of the M-4. We do that so radar-seeking missiles can't lock onto a dignitary's jet."

"The transponder. I think I heard about them. How long do we have?"

LeBow looked at Potter, who held up eight fingers.

"We can keep the airspace open for eight hours. After that there's too much commercial traffic and we'd have to rewrite the airspace requirements."

"Okay. Do it."

"It's being done. It'll be effective in, let me see…"

Potter held up two fingers.

"About two hours."

"Fuck that. One hour tops, or I kill this pretty little thing next to me."

"Oh, my God. Are you seri -? Well, sure. One hour. But I need a full hour. Only please, mister, don't hurt anybody."

Handy's cold chuckle came through the speaker. "Hey, Don, lemme ask you a question."

"Sure."

"You in Topeka right now?"

Silence in the room.

Potter's head turned away from the window, stared at LeBow.

"Sure am."

Potter snapped his fingers and pointed to LeBow's computer. The intelligence officer's eyes went wide and he nodded. He punched silent buttons. The message came on: "Loading Encyclopedia." The words blinked repeatedly.

"Topeka, huh?" Handy said. "Nice place?"

Loading… loading …

Come on, Potter thought desperately. Come on !

"I like it."

The screen went blank; at last a colorful logo appeared. LeBow typed madly.

"How long you been there?"

How calm Handy sounds, Potter reflected. Holding a gun to a girl's eye and he's still working all the angles, cool as can be.

"About a year," LeBow ad-libbed. "You work for Uncle Sam, they move you around a lot." He typed rapidly. His fingers stopped. An error message appeared. "Invalid Search Request."

The more urgent the task …

He started again. Finally a map and text appeared and in the corner of the screen a color photo of a skyline.

"Imagine they do. Like that FBI agent who called you. Andy Palmer. He must move a bunch too."

LeBow took a breath to answer but Potter scrawled on a sheet of paper, "Don't respond to name."

"Hell, I'd guess so."

"That is his name, right? Andy?"

"I think so. I don't remember. He just told me the code that let me know it was a real call."

"You got codes? That you use like spies?"

"You know, sir, I really oughta get on this project for you."

"What's that river there?"

"In Topeka, you mean?"

"Yeah."

LeBow leaned forward and read the blurb about the city. 'The Kaw, you mean. The Kansas River. The one cuts the town in half?"

"Yeah. That's it. Used to go fishing there. Had a uncle lived in that old neighborhood. It was all la-di-da, fancy old houses. Cobblestoned roads, you know."

Henry LeBow was sitting so far forward he was in danger of tumbling off his chair. He read frantically. "Oh, Potwin Place. He's a lucky man, your uncle. Nice houses. But the streets aren't cobblestoned, they're brick." The agent's bald head glistened with silver beads of sweat.

"What's your favorite restaurant there?"

A pause.

"Denny's. I have six children."

"You son of a bitch," Handy growled.