nonexistent, so unless the Swedes were able to salvage either the drive or the card, they’d never know who the tangos in the embassy had been talking to.
Or maybe not, Clark thought.
“Christ, Ding, that’s a hell of an oversight.”
“Put it in my pocket and didn’t think about it until we got back and unpacked. Sorry. So what d’you wanna do?” Ding asked, smiling evilly. “Hand it over to Alden?”
“Let me give it some thought.”
It was well into the afternoon before Jack found what he wanted. While by law aviation insurance carriers were required to make claims available to the public, there were no regulations regarding ease of access. Consequently, most carriers made sure digital claim searches were painstakingly convoluted.
“XLIS—XL Insurance Switzerland,” Jack told Rounds. “Does a lot of aviation stuff over there. Three weeks ago a claim was filed on a Dassault Falcon 9000. It’s a small executive jet. Built by the same people who do the Mirage fighter. The claimant is a woman named Margarite Hlasek, co-owner of Hlasek Air with her husband, Lars—who also happens to be a pilot. It’s based out of Zurich. Here’s the kicker: I cross-referenced our intercepts, mixed and matched some keywords, and got a hit: Two days ago the FBI contacted its legal attachés in Stockholm and Zurich. Somebody’s looking for info on Hlasek Air.”
“Why Stockholm?”
“Just a guess, but they’d want to look into Hlasek’s home base, and maybe the last airport the Falcon visited.”
“What else do we know about Hlasek?”
“They’re dicey. I found four separate complaints forwarded to either the Swedish Civil Aviation Administration or the Swedish Civil Aviation Authority—”
“What’s the difference?”
“One handles state-owned airports and air traffic control; the other deals with commercial aviation and safety. Four complaints in the last two years—three about irregularities in customs forms and one about a misfiled flight plan.”
“Fly the friendly terrorist skies,” Rounds murmured.
“Could be. If so, that kind of service doesn’t come cheap.”
“Let’s go talk to Gerry.”
Hendley was in with Granger. The boss waved them in. “Jack may have something,” Rounds said, and Jack laid it out.
“Long shot,” Granger observed.
“Missing plane, ATF involvement, the FBI putting out feelers on the ground in Sweden, and a shady charter company,” Rounds countered. “We’ve seen this before, okay? Hlasek Air’s moving people who either don’t want to fly commercial or they can’t fly commercial. This probably won’t lead us to who we’re looking for, but maybe it’s a thread we can pull. Or a trigger on some miscellaneous mutts.”
Hendley considered this, then looked to Granger, who shrugged and nodded. Hendley said, “Jack?”
“Doesn’t hurt to get out and shake some trees once in a while, boss.”
“True enough. What’re the Caruso boys up to?”
33
HAVING TO deal with an intermediary wasn’t common, but it wasn’t so uncommon that it gave Melinda cause for concern. Usually it meant the customer was married and/or a luminary in a prominent position, which in turn usually translated into more money, which was the case here. The intermediary—a Mediterranean type named Paolo with burn scars on his hands—had given her half of the $3,000 fee up front, along with the address of the corner on which she should be waiting for pickup—again, not her usual modus operandi, but money was money, and this money was far beyond her usual fee.
The most likely danger she faced was that the john was into something kinky she didn’t want to do. Then the problem became how to misdirect him without losing the date. Most men were easy that way, but once in a while you’d come across one with his sights stubbornly set on something perverse. In those cases—it had happened twice to her—discretion, she’d found, was the better part of business. Say thanks but no thanks, and get the hell out of there.
Statistically, there weren’t that many serial killers around, but about half of them killed hookers—all the way back to Jack the Ripper in London’s Whitechapel district. Ladies of the evening, in the elegant phrase of nineteenth-century England, took their johns to secluded places for a “knee trembler,” where a murder was easier than it was in the middle of a busy street, and so she and some of her colleagues had evolved a simple system of mutual security, sharing with one another the details of their dates.
In this case the car was a Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows. It pulled up to the curb, and Melinda heard the rear door unlock. The windows did not roll down. After a moment’s indecision, she climbed