The Racketeer Page 0,109
taken from Nathan's, over the cigar boxes. She puts the Glock under a corner of the blanket, next to her, and analyzes the parking lot. It's virtually empty on a Sunday morning. Finally, she takes a deep breath, gets out, locks the truck, and hurries inside. In less than ten minutes, Vanessa buys ten kids' backpacks, all with a Desert Storm camouflage motif. She pays in cash and does not respond when the cashier quips, "Must have a lot of kids heading back to school."
She shoves her purchases into the cab of the truck and heads back to the interstate. An hour later, she finds a truck stop near Staunton, Virginia, and parks next to the rigs. When she's certain that no one is watching, she begins to quickly stuff the cigar boxes into the backpacks, two of which are not used.
She fills up the tank, eats lunch from a fast-food drive-through, and kills time roaming up and down Interstate 81, as far north as Maryland and as far south as Roanoke. The hours drag by. She cannot park and leave the jackpot. It has to be guarded at all times, so she flows with the traffic while she waits on darkness.
I'm pacing in a crowded and humid wing of the San Juan airport, waiting on a Delta flight to Atlanta. My ticket was purchased in the name of Malcolm Bannister, and his old passport worked just fine. It will expire in four months. The last time it was used, Dionne and I escaped on a cheap cruise to the Bahamas. Another lifetime.
I call Vanessa twice and we speak in code. Got the goods. Packages are fine. She's moving around, following the plan. If a spook somewhere is listening, then he's scratching his head.
At 3:30 we finally board, and then sit for an hour in the sweltering cabin as a howling storm pounds the airport and the pilots go mute. At least two babies are squalling behind me. As tempers rise, I close my eyes and try to nap, but I have deprived myself of sleep for so long I have forgotten how to doze off. Instead, I think of Nathan Cooley and his hopeless situation, though I have little sympathy. I think of Vanessa and smile at her toughness under pressure. We are so close to the finish line, but there are still so many ways to fail. We have the gold, but can we keep it?
I wake up as we lurch forward and begin rumbling down the runway. Two hours later we land in Atlanta. At Passport Control, I manage to avoid the counters manned by black Customs agents and instead pick a beefy young white boy who seems to be bored and indifferent. He takes my passport, glances at a nine-year-old photo of Malcolm Bannister, quickly compares it to the revised face of Max Reed Baldwin, and sees nothing unusual. We all look the same.
I am assuming Customs has by now notified the FBI that I left the country two days earlier, on a private jet bound for Jamaica. What I don't know is whether the FBI is still monitoring any possible movements by Malcolm Bannister. I'm betting they are not, and I want the FBI to think I'm still somewhere in the islands having a grand time. At any rate, I'm moving quickly. Since Malcolm no longer has a valid driver's license, Max rents a car at the Avis desk, and forty-five minutes after landing in Atlanta, I'm leaving the city in a hurry. Near Roswell, Georgia, I stop at a Walmart and pay cash for two more prepaid cell phones. As I leave the store, I drop two old ones into a trash can.
After dark, Vanessa parks the truck for good. She's been driving it for almost twelve hours and can't wait to get rid of it. For a moment she sits behind the wheel, in a space next to her Honda Accord, and watches a commuter airliner taxi to the Roanoke terminal. It's a little after 9:00 on a Sunday night, and there appears to be no traffic. The parking lot is almost empty. She takes another deep breath and gets out. Working quickly while watching everything around her, she transfers the backpacks from Nathan's front seat into the trunk of her car. Eight backpacks, each seemingly heavier than the one before it, but she does not mind at all.
She locks the truck, keeps the keys, and leaves the parking lot. If things go