Douglas Preston - The Obsidian Chamber

“There’s been a change in destination,” Proctor interrupted. “It’s no longer Omaha. It’s Gander, Newfoundland.”

“Newfoundland?” Bowman frowned. “Just a minute. Now we’re talking international, and—”

“It doesn’t matter. The flight distance is shorter. I’ll pay whatever’s necessary.” Proctor took another five grand out of his bag, waved it a moment, put it back. “Just do what you need to do. And let’s get the fuck out of here.”

This unexpected expletive, delivered in Proctor’s standard monotone, seemed to be the most effective persuader of all. Bowman exhaled, then nodded slowly. “Give me a minute to make the preparations,” he said in a strange tone that sounded half-pleased, half-deflated. “We’ll be wheels-up in ten minutes.”

The flight plan from Teterboro to Gander International covered eleven hundred miles on a nonstop path over Cape Ann, Massachusetts; Nova Scotia; and Newfoundland. Including time spent taxiing, taking off, and decelerating on the approach descent, estimated flying time was one hour and fifty-one minutes. It wasn’t until one hour and thirty minutes into the flight that Proctor managed to speak with the Gander Air Traffic Control.

Proctor had satisfied himself that Gander was, in fact, Diogenes’s destination. There had been no further deviations — in fact, his plane was now on final approach. Although Diogenes had gotten the initial jump, as a result of his brief deviation toward Omaha — and because the two jets were evenly matched in speed — he was now no more than half an hour ahead of Proctor. However, the Gulfstream’s pilots, Bowman and another man named Ray Krisp, were sticklers for protocol — as, Proctor knew, were most professional pilots — and they had steadfastly refused to let him use their radio, no matter how much he’d offered in cash.

Finally, as the plane began its descent trajectory, Bowman picked up the radio after the handoff to Gander tower. “Gander, this is November Three Niner Seven Bravo at four thousand, five hundred with information X-ray inbound for landing,” he said.

There was a crackle of static. “Niner Seven Bravo Squawk, four four five two, clear direct to runway three. Contact ground point nine.”

“Clear to land runway three, Niner Seven Bravo,” said Bowman, and moved to replace the mike. As he did, Proctor’s hand shot out, grabbed it, and — stepping back out of the reach of the strapped-in pilots — pressed the TRANSMIT button.

“Gander ATC,” he said. “An LJ45, repeat a Learjet 45, tail number LN303P, is just now landing on runway three. Hold that plane on the taxiway.”

There was a brief silence over the radio. “This is Gander Control,” came the voice. “Say again?”

“Hold Learjet, tail number LN303P,” said Proctor. “Do not allow the passengers to deplane. There is a hostage on board.”

Both Bowman and Krisp were in the process of unfastening their belts.

“Who is this speaking?” said the air traffic controller. “This is not a law enforcement frequency.”

“I repeat: there is a hostage on board that plane . Notify the authorities.”

“Any such request must be made through law enforcement channels. Do you copy, Three Niner Seven Bravo?”

Bowman was standing now, facing Proctor, his expression dark. Wordlessly, he put out his hand for the radio.

Proctor was about to speak into the radio again, but even as he did so he realized his attempt had failed. He’d run into a wall of Canadian bureaucracy — as he should have expected.

“Give me the radio,” Bowman said.

Even as the pilot spoke, the radio squawked again. “Three Niner Seven Bravo, do you copy?”

“All you’re going to do is get this aircraft seized,” Bowman said. “Not the one you’re pursuing. And get us all held for questioning.”

Proctor hesitated. His eyes shifted toward his bug-out bag, slung over one of the front passenger seats.

“What are you going to do — shoot us?” Bowman said. “That’s not going to get you anywhere but crashed. Now: give me the radio.”

Wordlessly, Proctor handed it to him.

Quickly, Bowman raised it to his lips. “This is Three Niner Seven Bravo. Ignore that last. A passenger made his way into the cockpit.”

The voice from Gander tower responded. “Roger that. Do you require assistance upon landing?”

Bowman looked at Proctor as he spoke. “Ah, that’s a negative. Passenger’s just a little tipsy. He’s been locked out and the cockpit secured.”

Bowman kept his eyes on Proctor as he put the radio back, took his seat once again. “That’s your forty thousand bucks talking, pal,” he said. “Otherwise, we’d turn you over to the cops for pulling a trick like that.”

Proctor returned the stare. At last, he turned away and headed back to his seat. He had done all he could, and that last effort had been a mistake. His judgment was off. He was neither a cop nor a federal officer. He could not force the authorities to act, especially the authorities of a foreign country; and it was, he realized, foolish to have tried. He would have to deal with Diogenes himself — back on terra firma.

And he was capable of doing so. He’d come this far. Gander was the easternmost major airport on the North American continent, teetering on the edge of the Atlantic. The question now was this: was Newfoundland the ultimate destination of Diogenes? Or a mere waypoint to somewhere else? In many ways, Proctor inclined toward the former. It was a perfect destination — in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a vast and empty landscape: an ideal place to go to ground. The Lear’s limited range would make a transatlantic flight a dangerous stretch, at the very edge of possibility.

Once on the ground, Proctor would do what he did best: track down his prey. It might take a little time. But there would be no place for Diogenes to run now; no opportunity to make fresh arrangements. Proctor would press the chase too hard for that. His quarry was burdened with an unwilling, dangerous hostage. No, the pursuit would not be long — it was just a question of exactly how it would play out.

Of course, he realized he had no real proof Diogenes and Constance were on the Learjet: just the eyewitness at the Teterboro flight school. But the lack of potential escape routes, the repositioned charter, the abrupt change of destination in midair — it all smacked of Diogenes. Proctor’s gut told him as much. Besides, it was the only lead he had.

These thoughts occupied him as the plane descended toward Gander’s runway three. Out of the window, he watched a bleak, gray-green sprawl of vegetation give way to a wide strip of asphalt. There was a screech as the wheels touched down, then a roar as the engines went into reverse. As they decelerated down the runway, Proctor leaned in closer to the window, looking at the planes moving along the taxiways or parked at gates, searching for the Lear. It was nowhere in sight.

But then he saw something. Directly across the intersecting lanes of asphalt from the runway of his own decelerating plane, he saw two distant figures emerge from a hangar and walk toward a parked jet: a Bombardier Challenger, by the look of it. A plane that could easily manage transoceanic distances — and one he could not effectively pursue in his current charter. The first figure was a young woman in an olive trench coat, dark-haired head lowered. Constance. Immediately behind her, with one hand on her shoulder and another placed against her back, was a man. The man turned, glancing left and right… and even at distance Proctor could unmistakably make out the tall, thin figure, neatly trimmed beard, and ginger hair of Diogenes.

Constance was walking strangely, unwillingly: frog-marched, Proctor realized. No doubt Diogenes had a gun concealed in the hand that was pressed against her back.