Murray smiled, not because he wanted to, but because his friend needed it. “What makes you think I do?”
Ryan’s tension eased a bit. “Well, I could go to a priest for guidance, but they ain’t cleared SI. You are, and the FBI’s the next best thing to the priesthood, isn’t it?” It was an inside joke between the two. Both were Boston College graduates.
“Where’s the operation being run out of?”
“Guess. It isn’t Langley, not really. It’s being run out of a place exactly six blocks up the street.”
“That means I can’t even go to the AG.”
“Yeah, he just might tell his boss, mightn’t he?”
“So I get in trouble with my bureaucracy,” Murray observed lightly.
“Is government service really worth the hassle?” Jack asked bleakly, his depression returning. “Hell, maybe we can retire together. Who can you trust?”
That answer came easily. “Bill Shaw.” Murray rose. “Let’s go see him.”
“Loop” is one of those computer words that has gained currency in society. It identifies things that happen and the people who make them happen, an action – or decision-cycle that exists independently of the things around it. Any government has a virtually infinite collection of such loops, each defined by its own special set of ground rules, understood by the players. Within the next few hours a new loop had been established. It included selected members of the FBI, but not the U.S. Attorney General, who had authority over the Bureau. It would also include members of the Secret Service, but not their boss, the Secretary of the Treasury. Investigations of this sort were mainly exercises in paper-chasing and analysis, and Murray – who was also tasked to head this one up – was surprised to see that one of his “subjects” was soon on the move. It didn’t help him at all to learn that he was driving to Andrews Air Force Base.
By that time, Ryan was back at his desk, looking slightly wan, everyone thought, but everyone had heard that he’d been sick the night before. Something he ate. He now knew what to do: nothing. Ritter was gone, and the Judge still wasn’t back. It wasn’t easy to do nothing. It was harder still to do things that didn’t matter a damn right now. He did feel better, however. Now the problem wasn’t his alone. He didn’t know that this was nothing to feel better about.
25. The ODYSSEY File
MURRAY HAD A senior agent drive to Andrews immediately, of course, and he got there just in time to watch the small jet taxi off to the end of runway One-Left. The agent used his ID to get himself into the office of the colonel who commanded the 89th Military Airlift Wing. That got the agent the flight plan for the aircraft that had just taken off. He used the colonel’s phone to call Murray, then admonished the colonel that he, the agent, had never been there, had never made an official inquiry; that this was part of a major criminal investigation and was code-word material. The codeword for the case was ODYSSEY.
Murray and Shaw were together within a minute of taking the call. Shaw had found that he could handle the duties of acting Director. He was sure that it was not a permanent job, and after the proper political figurehead was found, he’d revert to Executive Assistant Director (Investigations). Part of him thought that too bad. What was wrong with having a career cop running the Bureau? Of course, that was politics, not police work, and in over thirty years of police work he’d discovered that politics was not his cup of tea.
“We gotta get somebody there,” Shaw observed. “But how, for God’s sake?”
“Why not the Panama legal attaché?” Murray asked. “I know him. Solid guy.”
“He’s out doing something with DEA. Won’t be back in the office for a couple of days. His number-two’s not up to it. Too inexperienced to run this himself.”
“Morales is available in Bogotá – but somebody’d notice… We’re playing catch-up again, Bill, and that guy is flying down there at five hundred miles per hour… How about Mark Bright? Maybe he can steal a jet from the Air Guard.”
“Do it!”
“Special Agent Bright,” he said as he picked up the phone.
“Mark, this is Dan Murray. I need you to do something. Start taking notes, Mark.” Murray kept talking. Two minutes later Bright muttered a mild obscenity and pulled out his phone book. The first call went to Eglin Air Force Base, the second to the local Coast Guard, and the third to his home. He sure as hell wouldn’t be home for dinner. Bright grabbed a few items on his way out the door and had another agent drive him to the Coast Guard yard, where a helicopter was already waiting. It took off a minute after he got aboard and headed east to Eglin Air Force Base.
The Air Force had only three F-15E Strike-Eagles, all prototypes for a ground-attack version of the big, twin-engined fighter, and two of those were at Eglin for technical tests while Congress decided if the service would actually put the aircraft into serial production. Aside from some training birds located elsewhere, this was the only two-seat version of the Air Force’s prime air-superiority fighter. The major who’d be flying him was standing at the side of the aircraft when Bright stepped out of the helicopter. A couple of NCOs assisted the agent into his flight suit, parachute harness, and life vest. The helmet was sitting on the top of the rear ejection seat. In ten minutes the aircraft was ready to roll.
“What gives?” the pilot asked.
“I need to be at Panama, just as fast as you can arrange it.”
“Gee, you mean you’re going to make me fly fast?” the major responded, then laughed. “Then there’s no rush.”
“Say again?”
“The tanker took off three minutes ago. We’ll let him get up to thirty thousand before we lift off. He’ll top us off up there, and we go balls to the wall. Another tanker is taking off from Panama to meet us – so we’ll have enough fuel to land, sir. That way we can go supersonic most of the flight. You did say you were in a hurry?”
“Uh-huh.” Bright was struggling to adjust his helmet. It didn’t fit very well. It was also quite warm in the cockpit, and the air-conditioning system hadn’t taken hold yet. “What if the other tanker doesn’t show up?”
“The Eagle is a very good glider,” the major assured him. “We won’t have to swim too far.”
A radio message crackled in Bright’s ears. The major answered it, then spoke to his passenger. “Grab your balls, sir. It is now post time.” The Eagle taxied to the end of the runway, where it sat still for a moment while the pilot brought the engines to full, screaming, vibrating power, and then slipped his brakes. Ten seconds later Bright wondered if a catapult shot off a carrier could be more exciting than this. The F-15E held a forty-degree angle of climb and just kept accelerating, leaving Florida’s gulf coast far behind. They tanked a hundred miles offshore – Bright was too fascinated to be frightened, though the buffet was noticeable – and after separating, the Eagle climbed to forty thousand feet and the pilot punched burners. The aft cockpit was mainly concerned with delivering bombs and missiles on target, but did have a few instruments. One of them told the agent that they had just topped a thousand miles per hour.
“What’s the hurry?” the pilot asked.
“I want to get to Panama ahead of somebody.”
“Can you give me some details? Might help, you know.”
“One of those business jets – G-Three, I think. Left Andrews eighty-five minutes ago.”
The pilot laughed. “Is that all? Hell, you can check into a hotel ‘fore he gets down. We’re already ahead of him. We’re wasting fuel going this fast.”
“So waste it,” Bright said.
“Fine with me, sir. Mach-2 or sittin’ still, they pay me the same. Okay, figure we’ll get in ninety minutes ahead of your guy. How do you like the ride?”
“Where’s the drink cart?”
“Should be a bottle down by your right knee. A nice domestic vintage, good nose, but not the least pretentious.”
Bright got it and had a drink out of sheer curiosity.
“Salt and electrolytes, to keep you alert,” the pilot explained a few seconds later. “You’re FBI, right?”
“Correct.”
“What gives?”
“Can’t say. What’s that?” He heard a beeping sound in his headphones.
“SAM radar,” the major said.
“What?”
“That’s Cuba over there. There’s a SAM battery on that point that doesn’t like American military aircraft. I can’t imagine why. We’re out of range anyway. Don’t sweat it. It’s normal. We use them to calibrate our systems, too. Part of the game.”
Murray and Shaw were reading over the material Jack had dropped off. Their immediate problems were, first, to determine what was supposed to be going on; next, to determine what was actually going on; next, to determine if it was legal or not; next, if not, then to take appropriate action, once they could figure what appropriate action was. This wasn’t a mere can of worms. It was a can of poisonous snakes that Ryan had spilled over Murray’s desk.