“Let me give this to you real quick. The Federal agents who came here five years ago and took your erased tape almost undoubtedly restored that tape—”
“Then why—?”
“Listen. They know what was on that tape. They don’t want anyone else to know—”
“Why—?”
“I don’t know why. It doesn’t matter why. What matters is . . . there are two separate groups investigating this accident. The first group, Nash, Griffith, and others, are trying to suppress and destroy all evidence that points to a missile attack. The second group, me and some others, are trying to do the opposite. That’s all you need to know for now, except that the first group could be on their way here, and if they get here, they’ll destroy that tape, and . . . we need to get out of here, now, with those tapes. So you need to get dressed, quickly, and come with me.”
She stood staring at me, then out the bay window, as though there could be people out there. I really wanted her to move, but I let her digest. Finally, she said to me, “I’ll call the police.”
“No. These people are Federal agents, just as I am, and they are the official and authorized investigators. But they’re part of a conspiracy.” Even as I said this, I knew there was no reason for her to believe me, and in fact, she looked at me doubtfully.
I said to her, “What happened five years ago? Didn’t you tell me that you learned that an erased tape can be restored? Did you ever hear from those people again? Were you or Bud ever called into a government office? Did you ever see anyone except Nash, Griffith, and the third man?” I said, “You’re a bright woman. Figure this out.”
She stood looking down at her feet, then looked at me and said, “Everything you say makes sense, but . . .”
“Jill, if all I wanted was the tape, I could take it now and leave. If I wanted to hurt you, I could have done it long ago. You need to trust me, and come with me.”
We stared at each other, and finally she nodded. “All right.”
“Thank you. Get dressed. No shower. And don’t answer the phone.” I added, “Pack an overnight bag and take as much cash as you have in the house.”
“Where—?”
“Let’s talk about that later.” I asked her, “Do you keep a gun in the house?”
“No. Don’t you—?”
“You need to get moving.”
She turned and left the kitchen. As I went back to the family room, I heard her footsteps on the stairs.
I took the remote control and sat on the coffee table, watching Jill Winslow and Bud Mitchell making love on the beach. The time on the videotape was 8:27.
The phone on the end table rang, and I listened to five rings, then apparently the answering machine picked up. The Caller ID said “Private.”
I walked quickly to the front of the house and looked out the living room window, but as of this moment, there were no cars in the driveway or in the parking space except mine. I couldn’t see much of the street from here.
I went back to the family room just as the streak of light began rising off the distant horizon, trailing a plume of smoke. I watched it at normal speed, and there was no mistaking what it was. I thought that the two hundred eyewitnesses who’d seen that streak of light would recognize this videotape image a lot better than they had recognized the CIA animation.
I watched as the first flash of light appeared, followed by the huge fireball. I glanced at Jill, sitting with her legs straddled around Bud, who was now sitting up and looking over his shoulder. I counted to forty, and heard a boom from the speakers—a loud, muffled explosion, which trailed off, followed by silence.
The phone rang again, and again the Caller ID said “Private” and again the answering machine picked up after five rings.
It was 9:15 A.M., not too early for friends or family to be calling on a Sunday morning, but still maybe a little on the early side for two calls in close succession.
Jill and Bud were running across the beach now, and I watched her as she got closer to the camera, and I noticed this time that she was looking at him as he outran her. What was this idiot thinking? Was he going to leave her on the beach if she didn’t move fast enough or if she didn’t get dressed fast enough or get into the vehicle when he was ready to go? The man was not cool and not brave.
I mean, friends and lovers sink or swim together. I didn’t even know Jill Winslow, and I was sitting here, waiting for her, while out there Ted Nash and his companions could be knocking on the door in the next five seconds. They were armed, and I was not. And I had no doubt that if they saw or understood what was going on here, they’d be desperate enough—not to mention pissed off out of their minds—to destroy the evidence as well as the two witnesses to the evidence. But here I sat, even now that I had the crucial piece of the tape copied, and I remained sitting. There can be life after mortal danger, as I discovered early as a cop, but you needed to make sure that your soul survived along with your body. If it didn’t, then the kind of life you were going to live wasn’t worth living.
I heard a car door slam, then another, and it took me two heart skips to realize it was coming from the television. On the screen, there was blackness now, and it was going to be about five minutes before Jill’s voice said, “Bud, I think a plane exploded.” I heard her footsteps out in the foyer, and I stopped the VCR, then knelt beside the video camera, found the Power button and turned it off. I surprised myself by figuring out how to eject the mini-cassette, which I put in my pocket.
Jill came into the family room carrying an overnight bag and wearing black slacks and a white blouse. She said, “I’m ready.”
“Okay. Let’s put everything back as it was.” I handed her the video camera, which she carried to the closet while I ejected A Man and a Woman from the VCR and shut off the power. I scanned the array of lights and buttons until I was certain that no one could tell that anyone had been using the equipment. I stood and Jill was beside me, handing me the jacket for A Man and a Woman, which I slipped over the videotape and put in the side pocket of my blazer. I hit the button on the end table and the drapes opened.
I asked her, “Could you tell who just called?”
She replied, “It came up private, and there were no messages.”
“Okay . . . here’s the plan. My car is hot—it’s being tracked. We need to use your car.”
“It’s in the garage. But I need to leave a note for Mark.”
“No. No notes. You can call him later.”
She forced a smile and said, “For ten years I’ve been wanting to leave him a note on the kitchen table, and now that I’m really leaving, you tell me I can’t leave him a Dear Mark note?”
I said, “E-mail him. Let’s go.”
I carried her overnight bag and followed her out into a corridor near the kitchen, where she opened a door that led into the three-car garage. Two cars remained: the Lexus SUV and a BMW Z3 convertible with the top down. She asked me, “Which one would you like to use?”
I remembered from Dom Fanelli that the BMW was in her name, which might become important if we were pulled over by the police on a missing persons report from Mr. Winslow. I said, “BMW.”
I put her overnight bag in the back compartment of the BMW, and she asked, “Would you like to drive?”
“Actually, I need to get rid of my car. Where can I leave it around here?”
She asked me, “Where are we going?”
“Manhattan.”
“All right. Just follow me. About five miles south on Cedar Swamp. You’ll see a sign for SUNY College of Old Westbury on the right. You can leave your car there.”
“Good. Start the car, but don’t use your remote to open the door.” I went to the garage door and looked through the windows. I couldn’t see any vehicles out there, and I pushed the button for the garage door. As it opened, I stepped outside, and she backed out and used her remote to close the door. I handed her the mini-cassette from the video camera and said, “Hold on to this. If we get separated, you need to get
yourself and this tape to someplace safe. Friends, relatives, a hotel. Do not go home. Call your lawyer, then call the police. Understand?”
She nodded, and I looked at her, but she didn’t seem frightened or confused, which made me calm down a little. I said, “Put your top up, and close your windows.”
She put the top up as I got into the Ford Taurus and started the engine.
I followed her down the long driveway and onto Quail Hollow Lane.
So far, so good. But this situation could turn on a dime, and I went through several scenarios and contingency plans in case the shit hit the fan.
It wasn’t like Ted Nash to cut me much slack, or to take Sunday off. But maybe I hit his head harder than I thought, and he was lying down in a dark room with a bottle of aspirin, trying to figure things out. Not likely, but whatever he was doing at this moment, he didn’t seem to be doing it here.
In retrospect, if I’d known that I was going to find Jill Winslow and a copy of the videotape, I would have had no hesitation about killing him there on the beach to avoid this situation. Pre-emptive strikes are okay when you know for sure what you’re pre-empting.
If I ran into Nash and friends now, I didn’t think I’d have the opportunity to correct my mistake, but I was fairly sure he’d take the opportunity to correct his.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Within a few minutes, we were back on Cedar Swamp Road, and I kept glancing at my rearview mirror, but it didn’t appear that anyone was following.
I was starting to believe I had pulled this off: Jill Winslow, the videotape, the name of Bud Mitchell, and with any luck, a clear run to Manhattan.
I unhooked the police radio from my belt, turned it on, and listened for a while, but there was almost no chatter, and what I heard had nothing to do with me. I turned off the radio, making a mental note to return it to Sergeant Roberts first chance I got, which could be a while.
Up ahead, I saw a sign for the College of Old Westbury where Jill made a right turn. I followed her down a tree-lined road into the campus of the small college, which was nearly deserted on a Sunday. She pulled into a parking lot, and I put my Ford Taurus into an empty space. I took my overnight bag and threw it into the rear compartment of her car. I said, “I’ll drive.”
She got out and came around to the passenger seat as I got behind the wheel.
The BMW was a five-speed manual, which I hadn’t driven in a while. I got it into first gear with just a little grinding, which made Mrs. Winslow wince.
We got back on Cedar Swamp Road, heading south. The BMW drove like a dream, and better yet, it could outrun anything that Nash and friends had picked up from the government car pool.
Within five minutes, I saw the sign for the Long Island Expressway, and Jill said, “You want to turn here for the city.”
“Hold on.”
I got within twenty feet of the entrance ramp, then hit the brakes and cut hard right onto the ramp, tires screeching and the anti-lock brakes pulsating. I checked out my rearview mirror, then downshifted and hit the gas. Within ten seconds, I was on the Expressway, and I shifted into fifth gear, swerved over two lanes, then put the pedal to the metal. This thing really flew.
I settled into the outside lane at eighty miles per hour, and checked my mirrors again. If anyone had been following, they were now about a half mile back.
Traffic was spotty, and I was able to weave around the Sunday drivers going too slow in the outside lanes.
Jill hadn’t spoken in a while, then she asked me, “Are we being chased?”
“No. I’m just enjoying the drive.”
“I’m not.”
I slowed down and got into the middle lane. We drove in silence, then she asked me, “What’s your first name?”
“John.”
“May I call you John?”
“Of course.” I asked, “May I call you Jill?”
“You already have.”
“Right.”
I turned on my cell phone and waited for five minutes, but there was no beep, and I shut it off. I asked Jill, “How are you doing?”
“Fine. How are you doing?”
“Pretty good. Do you understand what’s going on?”
“Somewhat. I assume you know what’s going on.”
“Pretty much.” I glanced at her and said, “You should understand that you’re on the right side of this now—the side of truth and justice, and of the victims of TWA 800, their families, and the American people.”
“Then who’s after us?”
“Maybe no one. Or maybe a few bad eggs.”
“Then why can’t we call the police?”
“Well, maybe more than a few bad eggs, and I’m not sure yet who’s bad and who’s good.”
“What are we going to do while you’re trying to figure it out?”
“Do you have a hotel in the city that you usually stay at?”
“The Waldorf or the Union League Club.”
“Then let’s avoid those. Let’s pick someplace around Midtown.”
She thought a moment, then replied, “The Plaza.”
“Call them now and make a reservation. You need two adjoining rooms.”
“Are you staying with me?”
“Yes. Please use your credit card to hold the rooms, and I’ll see that you’re reimbursed.”
She got on her cell phone, called the Plaza Hotel, and reserved a two-bedroom suite.
I said to her, “I’d like you to turn off your cell phone.”
“Why?”
I explained, “You can be located by cell phone tower triangulation.”
She didn’t ask for any further explanation and shut off her cell phone.
We crossed the Nassau County line into the borough of Queens. We should be at the Plaza Hotel within half an hour.
Jill asked me, “How long will I have to stay at the hotel?”
“About two days.”
“Then what?”
“Then you change hotels. Or I find you a safe house. I need maybe forty-eight hours to line up the army of angels. After that, you’ll be safe.”
“Do I need to call my attorney?”
“If you’d like. But if you could wait a few days, that would be better.”
She nodded.
We continued on the Expressway through Queens, and she asked me, “When will you see Bud?”
“I, or someone else, will see him within the next forty-eight hours.” I added, “Please don’t call him.”
“I have no intention of calling him.” She poked my arm and said, “Why don’t you arrest him? I want to visit him in jail.”
I stifled a laugh, but then she laughed, and I laughed, too. I said, “I think we need his cooperation.”
“Do I need to see him again?”
“Maybe. But we try to keep witnesses separated.”
“Good.” She asked me, “Where do you live?”
“In Manhattan.”
“I lived in Manhattan after college, and before I got married.” She paused. “I married too young. How about you?”
“I’m on my second marriage. You’re going to meet my wife. She’s an FBI agent, currently overseas. Due home tomorrow, if all goes well.”
“What’s her name?”
“Kate. Kate Mayfield.”
“She kept her maiden name?”
“Not all to herself. She offered to let me share it.”
Jill smiled, then asked, “Is that how you met? On the job?”
“Yes.”
“Do you lead interesting lives?”
“At the moment, yes.”
“Is there a lot of danger?”
“There’s a distinct danger of dying from boredom.”
“I think you’re being modest, and understated. Are you bored now?”
“No.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“About a month and a half,” I said.
“And you were in Yemen?”
“I was.”
“Wha
t’s boring about that?”
“Go to Yemen and find out.”
“Where was she?”
“Tanzania. Africa.”
“I know where Tanzania is. What was she doing there?”
“You can ask her when you meet her.”
I had the impression that Mrs. Winslow didn’t meet that many interesting people at the club or at lunches or dinners. I had the impression, too, that she thought she’d missed the boat somewhere after college, and she saw this major catastrophe in her life as more of an opportunity than a problem. That was the right attitude, and I hoped it turned out well for her.
The Midtown Tunnel was about a mile ahead. I glanced at Jill Winslow, sitting next to me. She seemed pretty cool and composed, a product maybe of her breeding, or maybe she didn’t fully appreciate the immediate danger we were in. Or maybe she did, but she thought that danger was preferable to boredom. I agreed with that when I was bored, but when I was in danger, boredom looked good. I said to her, “I think you’ll like Kate. She and I will take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can. But you’ll need some help for a while.”
We approached the tollbooths of the Midtown Tunnel, and I reached up and removed Jill’s E-ZPass, which would record her license plate number, location, and time, none of which I wanted recorded. I paid cash at the booth and entered the long tunnel under the East River.
Jill asked me, “What should I do about Mark?”
“Call him later from your cell phone.”
“And say what?”
“Say you’re well and that you need some time by yourself. I’ll brief you later.”
“Good. I’ve never been briefed.”
I smiled.
She said, “Eventually, I want to tell him everything.”
“You should . . . before he finds out. You understand that this is all going to become public.”
She stayed silent awhile, and we watched the grimy white tiles zip by. She said to me, “There were so many nights . . . when we were sitting in the family room, him on the phone, or reading a paper, or telling me what I had to do the next day, when I wanted to pop that tape in . . .” She laughed and asked me, “Do you think he would have noticed?”
“I’m sure he would have.”