“I know. Don’t believe everything you hear on the news. Put me through to Hector Lopez, and if anyone asks, you never heard from me.”
“Yes, sir,” the operator replied.
The line went silent; then there was a ringing tone and the call connected.
“Jack?” Hector Lopez said.
I could hear the disbelief in his tone. He was the new head of Private Vegas, and was a decent, honest man. The rumors and scandal wouldn’t have been easy for him.
“No names,” I said. “This isn’t a secure line. I’ve been framed by Russian intelligence. Whatever you’ve heard is a lie.”
“I never thought otherwise,” Hector replied.
“What’s the situation where you are?” I asked.
“Feds are freezing our assets and operations,” Hector informed me. “Part of a counter-espionage operation. My read is someone’s putting the squeeze on you.”
“You read it right,” I told Hector, relieved I’d hired this perceptive former FBI agent out of the Vegas field office. “I need you to meet me upstate. Municipal airfield. Name of a late-night talk-show host.”
If Salko, Veles or any of their SVR associates were listening in, they’d probably guess where we were heading, but I wasn’t going to make it easy on them.
“Got it. What’s your E
TA?” Hector asked.
I performed a quick calculation. “Flight time of around twelve hours. We should touch down just before eleven.”
“I’ll be there,” Hector said.
“Come prepared,” I replied.
“Copy that,” he said, before hanging up.
“We’re going to be cutting it fine,” Dinara observed. “The system goes online at midday.”
“We’ll make it,” I replied, but in truth I wasn’t so sure.
CHAPTER 102
INSTEAD OF FLYING over the continental United States, which would have attracted attention, I tracked the Pacific coast over international waters. Dinara managed a few hours’ sleep, but I was too amped to rest and was running on adrenalin. I disabled the aircraft transponder, but there was nothing I could do about radar except keep clear of known installations and air corridors. I spent a long time studying everything I could find on Ann Kavanagh. Justine had been right; Kavanagh fit the Bright Star profile. A ward of the state, distinguished service in the military, a successful career, a wealthy recluse. She wasn’t often photographed, but the pictures that did exist showed a tall, athletic woman with blond hair, pale, unblemished skin, and wide, flat eyes. There was something ethereal about her, and she looked as though she might have had Scandinavian heritage.
We finally entered American airspace over the Mendocino National Forest, a large stretch of wilderness some 350 miles from Fallon, approximately forty minutes out. My gamble paid off, and we weren’t challenged until we were a hundred miles from Fallon and had started our final descent.
“Unidentified aircraft, this is Naval Air Station Fallon. Identify yourself and state your destination,” a stern voice said over the radio.
“This is November Six Three Zero Sierra Tango,” I replied, giving the tail number of a G650 based in San Francisco. “We’ve run into electrical problems. All our systems are failing intermittently. We’re heading for Fallon Municipal, and will put down there until we can get an engineer out.”
“Copy that,” the NAS Fallon controller said. “Do not deviate from your current course.”
“Understood,” I replied. “Will stay on heading one-three-two.”
Dinara entered the cockpit.
“Better strap yourself in,” I said.
She took the co-pilot’s chair and buckled up.
I switched to Fallon Municipal Airport tower frequency. “FLX Fallon, FLX Fallon, this is November Six Three Zero Sierra Tango flying from San Francisco to New York. We’ve encountered an electrical fault and need to land to make repairs.”