“Not sure. The bodyguard said one of the Emir’s captains was in Russia up until a couple weeks ago.”
Hendley said, “You’re the man on the ground, John. What do you wanna do?”
“We’re handicapped, Gerry. Anybody we call isn’t going to just send in the cavalry. There’ll be a hundred questions before anybody moves: Who are we, where’d we get the info, what’s our proof. ... You know how it’ll go.”
“Yeah.”
“We’re about two minutes away from an airstrip. We’re gonna see if we can borrow a helo. Depending on what we get, we could be over Yucca in thirty minutes. If we get there first, we’ll hold the fort until you can get somebody to listen.”
“And if you get there second?”
“Not even gonna think about it. I’ll call you when we’re airborne.”
Ninety miles north of Las Vegas, on Death Valley’s Highway 95, the Emir slowed his car and crossed over the median onto the shoulder. The dirt tract was barely perceptible through a berm of cactus scrub, but he picked his way down into a shallow spot and soon found himself in a pair of tire ruts. Through his windshield, a half-mile away, the Skeleton Hills rose from the barren terrain like mountains of the moon.
The tract kept descending, then swung north and began running parallel to a shallow canyon. A quarter-mile away, he saw a car parked. As he drew nearer, he saw it was a Subaru. Musa was standing beside the driver’s door. The Emir slowed beside him, and he climbed in. They embraced. “Good to see you, brother,” Musa said.
“And you, old friend. Are they here?”
“Yes, just up ahead.”
“And the device?”
“Already loaded aboard.”
The Emir followed Musa’s directions another half-mile down the tract to where it curved around a low hill. Frank Weaver’s flatbed was parked, nose facing the road. The GA-4 cask glinted in the sun. Three men were standing around near the driver’s door.
The Emir and Musa got out and walked over. “My team from Russia,” Musa said. “Numair, Fawwaz, and Idris.”
The Emir nodded to each man in turn. “You’ve all done well. Allah will smile on you all.” The Emir checked his watch. “We leave in fifteen minutes.”
The fit was tight, but they all managed to squeeze into the truck cab. Fawwaz, who bore the closest resemblance to Frank Weaver, drove. Five minutes later, they were back on the highway and heading north.
A sign on the shoulder said, HIGHWAY 373—6 MILES.
Chavez pulled into the parking lot of Paragon Air. Through the fence they could see two helicopters—both Eurocopter EC-130s—sitting on the tarmac. Chavez pulled up to the office, and Clark climbed out with Jack. “Ding, circle around to the maintenance gate. We’ll let you in.”
Clark and Jack walked into the office. A mid-sixties woman with a red beehive hairdo was sitting behind the counter. To the right through a half-glass door was the maintenance area.
“Morning,” Clark said.
“Morning yourself. How can I help you?”
“Wondering if you’ve got a pilot around I could talk to.”
“Maybe something I can help you with. Are you interested in a tour?”
“No, actually, I’ve got a technical question about the EC-130’s rotational bearing manifold. My son here is studying avionics, and it’d be a big help if he could see one up close.”
“Just a second, I’ll see if Marty’s got a minute.”
She picked up the phone, spoke for minute, then said, “He’ll be right up.”
Clark and Jack wandered closer to the door. A man in gray coveralls walked up and opened the door. Clark stuck out his hand. “Hey Marty! Steve Barnes. This is my son, Jimmy. ...” As Clark spoke, he stepped through the door, backing Marty along. “Gotta question about the EC-130.”
Only two other people were visible in the hangar, both at the far end, near a Cessna.
“Sure,” Marty replied. “But we should probably step back inside. ...”
Clark lifted his shirttail and showed Marty the butt of his Glock.
“... Oh, shit, hey ...”
“Relax,” Clark said. “We just want to borrow a helicopter.”
“Huh?”
“And we want you to fly it.”
“Is this a joke?”
“Nope. You’re gonna help us or I’m going to shoot you in the leg and take your helicopter anyway. Go along, take us where we need to go, and you’ll be back here in an hour. Say yes.”
“Yes.”
“Which bird is prepped?”
“Well, none—”
“Don’t lie to me, Marty. It’s a weekend. Prime time for tours and lessons.”
“Okay. That one.” Marty pointed.
“Go tell your receptionist you’re going for a quick spin. Get hinky and I’ll shoot you