Clever. But not quite clever enough. Because Diogenes had not thought, or known, to block his tail number from such civil aircraft tracking as FlightAware. And as a result, Proctor now knew precisely where he was headed.
But such knowledge was of limited use. Because with every passing minute, Diogenes was streaking away from him, toward Nebraska, at hundreds of miles per hour.
4
ACCORDING TO THE AirNav website he had checked earlier, DebonAir Aviation Services was the only aircraft charter service currently operating directly on the Teterboro grounds. Driving along the row of FBO buildings, Proctor finally spotted the charter’s sign; he parked in a space near the frosted-glass exterior door and then, killing the engine and grabbing his bag and laptop, he quickly exited the Rolls.
The interior of the charter service was like others he had seen, comfortable yet eminently functional: most charter operators were either ex-commercial pilots or ex-military. There were three desks, only one of which was occupied. Framed aviation posters hung on the walls. An open door at the back of the office led to what was evidently a filing room.
Proctor sized up the man behind the desk. He was about fifty, with short iron-gray hair and a muscular build. A nameplate on his desk read BOWMAN. He was looking back at Proctor, evidently assessing a prospective customer.
Proctor considered the situation. What he was about to request was unusual, and would normally take time—more time than he had—to arrange. He quickly but methodically weighed his options, following each decision tree to its logical conclusion. Then he took an empty seat before the desk, placing the computer on the floor and keeping the bug-out bag protectively cradled on his lap. “I need an immediate charter,” he said.
The man blinked back at him. “Immediate,” he repeated.
Proctor nodded.
“What’s the rush?” the man asked. His expression, abruptly growing suspicious, asked the silent question: Illegal?
“Nothing like that,” Proctor said. He had already determined that a degree of honesty was most likely to procure a successful outcome—honesty, followed up with other inducements. “It’s a pursuit operation.”
At this phrasing, the man perked up. He glanced afresh at Proctor—one military man to another. “Rangers?” he asked.
Proctor gestured vaguely with one hand. “Special forces.” He glanced at a framed case on the wall behind Bowman. “Airborne?”
Bowman nodded. The look of suspicion had eased. “Why not go to the police?”
“It’s a kidnapping intervention. Any involvement with the police might mean the death of the hostage. The kidnapper is both intelligent and extremely violent. Beyond that, it’s a sensitive personal matter—and time is critical. I know the plane’s tail number and destination. I’ve got to reach that destination before the objective vanishes.”
Bowman nodded again, more slowly. “The destination?”
“Eppley Airfield, Omaha.”
“Omaha,” the man repeated. “You’re looking at a lot of aviation fuel, friend. How long would the layover be?”
“No layover. It’s a one-way trip.”
“I’d still need to charge you for the empty return.”
“Understood.”
“Number of passengers?”
“You’re looking at him.”
A pause. “You realize that a last-minute charter like this—given the extra red tape and overhead—would come with a significant surcharge.”
“No problem.”
The man seemed to consider this a moment. Then he turned to a computer on his desk, began tapping keys. Proctor used the opportunity to open his own laptop and check the status of Diogenes’s plane. The icon of LN303P was still arrowing westward. It was at twelve thousand feet, approaching its cruising speed.
“You’re in luck,” Bowman said. “We’ve got a plane available, a Pilatus PC-12. We’ve got a licensed pilot at the airport, too; he’s over getting lunch now.” The man dragged forward a calculator. “With fuel, ramp fees, landing fees, segment fees, per-diem, one-way fee, and a fifteen percent, ah, usage surcharge, that will be one thousand, two hundred per—”
“That won’t work,” Proctor interrupted.
The man eyed him. “Why not?”
“The PC-12 is a single turboprop. I need a jet.”
“A jet.”
“I’m pursuing a Learjet 45. I’ll need something as fast or faster.”
The suspicious look returned for a moment. Then Bowman glanced back at his computer. “We do have one plane available. A Gulfstream IV. But it won’t be able to leave anytime soon.”
“Why not?”
“I told you we had a pilot on hand. I didn’t say anything about two pilots. You can’t fly a jet like that alone.” More tapping of keys. “I’ve got somebody on standby; I can get him here first thing in the morning. That is, if the additional cost of the Gulfstream won’t be a problem—”
“Unacceptable.”
The man went silent abruptly, staring at Proctor.
“I need to leave immediately,” Proctor went on, in an even voice.
“And I told you that I can’t have a copilot available until the morning.”
Once again, Proctor considered his options. Violence was usually his first choice. However, under the circumstances it did not seem well advised: there were too many variables at play, too much security in and around the area; besides, he needed voluntary cooperation if he was going to succeed. “What would the normal fee for a round-trip to Omaha be on the Gulfstream IV?”
Once again, the man plied his calculator. “Three thousand, eight hundred per hour.”
“So I’m guessing that—with a one-way flight time of about three hours—we’re looking in the neighborhood of twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“Sounds about right—” the man began, but shut up again when Proctor reached into his bag, pulled out several stacks of hundred-dollar bills, and placed them on the desk. “There’s thirty thousand. Let’s go.”
The man stared at the neat piles of cash. “I just told you, I can’t get a—”
“You’re a licensed pilot, aren’t you?” Proctor asked. With his chin, he indicated another framed item on the wall.
“Yes, but—”
Wordlessly, Proctor reached into the bag and took out another five thousand dollars, which he added to the pile. He was careful to leave the bag open, displaying many more stacks of hundred-dollar bills—almost half a million dollars, in total—along with a pair of Glock 22s.
The man looked from the money on the desk, to the bag, and then back to the desk. At last he picked up his phone, dialed. “Ray? We’ve got an emergency charter. Yes, right now. Omaha. No, it’s an empty-leg. I’ll be flying the left-hand seat. Get on back here. Now.” He listened to chatter on the other end of the line for a minute. “Well, tell her to wait until tomorrow, damn it.”
During this exchange, Proctor had once again taken the opportunity to monitor Diogenes’s flight via FlightAware. To his surprise and dismay, he saw that—just moments ago—the plane had veered off its original course and was now on a heading of zero four zero. A glance at the flight information window on the right side of the screen showed a new destination: no longer KOMA, bur rather CYQX. Looking this up, Proctor determined that it was the code for Gander International Airport in Newfoundland.
So Diogenes had not been content merely to hire a repositioned charter for his escape from Teterboro. He had also, it seemed, made a midair FAA request for a new flight plan, diverting his plane from Omaha to Gander. Just to make sure he wasn’t followed.
While Proctor was examining his laptop, Bowman had made a brief series of calls. “Okay,” the man said, scooping up the piles of cash. “My pilot’s on the way over, and we’re fueling the plane now. I’ll get a flight plan filed on DUATS and we can leave immediately—”
“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.”
5
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.
A rush of adrenaline burned through his body and he turned from the window, but his plane was still decelerating—it would be minutes before he could manage even an emergency exit.
He turned back to the window. Now the two figures were climbing the steps into the passenger compartment of the Bombardier. At the very last moment before Constance disappeared into the darkness of the cabin, Proctor saw her begin to struggle; saw Diogenes—quick as lightning—reach into his coat, pull out a canvas bag, and slip it over her head…and then the door closed behind them and
the abruptly violent tableau was obscured.
By the time his plane had taxied to a stop, the Bombardier was airborne.
6
DURING THE FLIGHT from Teterboro, Proctor had used part of the time to research the airport and town of Gander. In the 1940s, Gander International had been a critical refueling point for flights headed to the British Isles and beyond. Now, however, modern jets with far greater range had rendered this role obsolete. At present, Gander was used more frequently for emergency landings: transatlantic aircraft suffering from medical or mechanical problems. On 9/11, with U.S. airspace closed following the destruction of the Twin Towers, Gander had briefly played an important role in Operation Yellow Ribbon, receiving over three dozen re-routed flights in one day. Other than that, however, the airport was a relatively somnolent place, with military operations and cargo flights to Iceland the order of the day. The nearby town was flat, cold, and depressing: windswept and treeless, with a gray sky spitting snow.
As Proctor pondered what to do next, he hazarded a guess regarding something else about Gander. Because of its remote location and relative proximity to international destinations, it just might be a place where a certain kind of pilot could wash up: air force discharge, ex-airline, transient—a flyboy who, for a price, might be willing to consider unusual or even questionable service.
He was presently seated at a table in the Crosswinds bar, one of a series of ramshackle structures that perched, limpet-like, just beyond the terminals, runways, and FBO buildings of Gander. The place was empty save for him and the bartender. He glanced at his watch: almost four thirty PM. Diogenes had taken off just over thirty minutes before. He tried to ignore this fact as he took another sip of his Heineken and waited. He had spent the last half hour roaming the airport and its periphery, making discreet inquiries about just such a pilot, and he had finally been directed to this bar.