Stuart Woods - Below the Belt

“That’s good advice.”

“My house in Islesboro is already framed. They’re moving fast.”

“When you go back, use my place until you get yours in shape.”

“Thank you, I’ll take you up on that. Now, if we can just get the Parkers out of the country, we’ll be in good shape.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Erik Macher arrived in Cape May, New Jersey, late in the evening and spent the night in a motel. At dawn the following morning he got a call on his cell phone.

“Yes?”

“They’re stirring in the house.”

Macher had had the Parker residence under surveillance since noon the previous day, shortly after his search had proved fruitful. “I’ll be over there in a few minutes. Call me if anybody goes out.”

“Yes, sir.”

Macher cleaned up and got dressed, then drove to the quiet neighborhood where the Parker family lived in a small Victorian house. He pulled up behind the surveillance van half a block away and got inside. “What’s going on?” he asked the two men.

“Nothing yet. The boy came outside and got the newspaper, then went back inside.

“Was he dressed?”

“Yes.”

“Then they’re moving,” Macher said. “Why else would a man who’s retired get his family up this early?” He looked at his watch: five-fifty. Then, as he watched, a black SUV with tinted windows approached the house and turned into the driveway. A garage door opened, the vehicle drove inside, and the door closed.

“That’s pretty weird,” one of his agents said. “Is something being delivered, do you think?”

Ten minutes later the lights went off in the house, the garage door opened again, the SUV backed out, and the door closed. The vehicle drove away.

“I’ll get my car,” Macher said. “You keep that SUV in sight.” He ran back to his car, the van made a U-turn, and Macher followed. His cell phone rang. “Yes?”

“We’ve got the vehicle.”

“We’ll change places from time to time.”

The SUV turned north, and the two cars followed. Macher was getting hungry. They drove north for more than an hour, and the SUV made a few turns, ending up on Highway 17 North. Shortly, it turned off the four-lane road and headed east. A mile later, it turned into the entrance of Teterboro Airport. The van and Macher followed. They were both stopped at a security guard’s booth.

“Destination?” the guard asked Macher.

“We’re following the SUV ahead.”

“Let me see some ID, please.”

Macher showed him a driver’s license. Up ahead he saw the SUV turn right.

“Go ahead.”

Macher made the same turn the SUV had, just in time to see the vehicle drive through a security gate. From his knowledge of Teterboro, that was unusual; cars weren’t allowed on the ramp. He parked his car and ran inside and through Jet Aviation in time to see the SUV drive past on the ramp. He stood at the rear windows and watched as the vehicle drove behind a hangar. He walked out to the ramp, where a shuttle bus was waiting, its door open. A driver sat inside.

“Excuse me,” Macher said, “do you know whose hangar that is?” He pointed. “The biggest one.”

“Yeah, that belongs to Strategic Services.”

What the hell? Macher thought. He stood on the ramp and watched. Shortly, the main door opened, and a tug arrived and pulled a Gulfstream jet out onto the ramp. Macher jotted down the tail number, got out his cell phone, and called his office.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m at Teterboro. A Gulfstream is on the ramp, starting its engines.” He gave the man the tail number. “Check the system and see what destination that airplane has filed a flight plan for. I’ll hold.”

A couple of minutes later the man came back on the line. “The aircraft has filed for Brussels, nonstop.”

“Track it.” Macher hung up and walked quickly toward the hangar. As he approached he could see the black SUV inside with the doors open. The Parkers had to be on that airplane. What the hell? He glanced at his wristwatch: 7:55. He went to his contacts and dialed a number.

“Yes?”

“It’s Erik, sir. I’m at Teterboro Airport.”

“What are you doing at Teterboro?”

“We were surveilling the Parker residence in Cape May when a large black SUV drove into their garage, apparently loaded them up, then departed. We followed the SUV to Jet Aviation at Teterboro, where it drove into a hangar owned by Strategic Services. The family apparently got aboard a large Gulfstream jet, which was towed out of the hangar and is taxiing as we speak. The jet has filed a flight plan for Brussels.”

“Brussels? Why would they go to Brussels?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Are you sure the family is aboard?”

“I haven’t had eyes on them, but all signs point to their presence. What are your instructions?”

“Do you have contacts in Brussels?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have the airplane met and the family identified as being on board, then followed to their destination.”

“Yes, sir.” Macher began looking up a Brussels number.

Hank Parker looked around the big airplane. He, his wife and son sat in a group of four seats, all buckled in.

“This is fantastic, Dad!” Tommy said.

“It sure is.”

“Where are we going again?”

“To England. I’ll show you on the map as soon as the seat belt sign goes off.”

The airplane taxied onto a runway, and the engine noise increased. Hank was pressed into his seat from the acceleration, and a moment later they lifted off, and he heard the landing gear come up. Half an hour later the airplane was above the clouds and leveling off. The seat belt sign went off.

Hank got out a map he’d taken from an atlas and unfolded it. “You see this town right here? It’s called Bewley, but it’s spelled the French way. We’re headed for a big estate just south of the town, and it has its own landing strip.”

Mike Freeman, who had introduced himself when they boarded, walked over to their seats. “We’re at fifty-one thousand feet now, headed for England, with a hundred-and-fifty-knot tailwind. Would you folks like some breakfast?”

“We ate at home,” Hank said, “but Marty and I could use some coffee.”

“I’ll send it over.” He walked forward, toward the cockpit.

A moment later a flight attendant appeared with coffee on a tray.

When she had gone, Marty said, “I feel better now — there’s no way they could find us where we’re going.”

“You’re right,” Hank said, but in his heart, he wasn’t sure about that.

Stone watched the tracking app on his computer until the Gulfstream was at cruising altitude, then went back to work. Joan came in with a FedEx envelope.

“This came for you from Cape May, New Jersey,” she said, setting it on his desk. “You open it.”

“Getting nervous?” Stone asked.

“You betcha.”

Stone unzipped the envelope and removed an unlabeled DVD with a Post-it stuck to it. Thought this might come in useful. Hank.

Stone slipped the disc into his computer and started it. An African-American woman sat on a chair in front of a white background, probably a sheet. She was fortyish, handsome, beautifully coifed. “My name is Martha Shivers,” she said. She gave the date and time. “I’m forty-one years old. When I was in my twenties I worked for Knott Industries in Washington, D.C. I started as a receptionist but was promoted over the seven years of my employment there, ending up as one of two executives to the chief executive officer, Mr. Nelson Knott. During the time I worked for him, Mr. Knott seemed to find me attractive, but he was married, so I resisted his overtures. Finally, one night when I was working very late on a special project, Mr. Knott and I were alone in his office and he pressed himself upon me. I protested and struggled, but he pushed me down onto a sofa and raped me. Shortly after that he went to the studio to do his daily broadcast, and he told me not to leave, that he would come back and do it again. He said this as though I had consented to sex, which I had not.