He smiled, waved at the pilot. “This is only a precaution. She’s all right, don’t worry. I liked your maneuver back there at the road, that was real impressive. You landed easy, held steady enough to give Jacobson his shot at the agents. Then you rose straight up, nice and smooth and fast. It was well done. Not your fault the big man got shot.”
Henley licked his lips, knowing he could be in bad trouble, helping these people escape the cops. He’d seen a man die a horrible death, but still he couldn’t help himself. He preened, and Liam saw it, added, “Tell me how you learned to do that.”
Henley shrugged, tried to look modest. “It wasn’t hard. Any trained pilot could have done it. I was told to be fast in and out, then fly back to the boss’s place.”
Where is that?
Liam said, “I guess you’ve worked for the boss for a long time?”
“I’m his pilot whenever he’s in the U.S.”
“And when he’s not, what do you do?”
Liam saw Henley’s eyes narrow. He’d taken a wrong step. He said quickly, “Well, of course you fly some bigwigs around.” Still, he looked uncertain. Liam laughed. “Do you ever get to fly to New York? That’s my kind of town, lots of gorgeous broads, any kind of action you want.”
Henley’s eyes flickered, his brow smoothed out, and he shrugged. “Yeah, you know how it is. They pay me well, tips under the table, so who cares if I can’t understand them?”
Understand them? “I can’t, either. Pisses me off.”
Henley looked back at him, shrugged again. “Who wants to learn Russian?”
The boss was Russian? “I’m with you on that.”
Elena groaned, jerked awake. He leaned forward, stroked her hair. “Shush now, girl, you’re okay, I had to close you down for a bit. Don’t move now or I’ll have to do it again.” He leaned closer, whispered in her ear, “Next time I might not pull back quick enough, kill you flat-out. So hold still and don’t feel bad I got you. Fact is, you couldn’t shoot me, now could you? Might kill me, and then what would the boss have to say to you? And that gave me my chance.”
She whispered, “Get this duct tape off me.”
“I don’t think so, lass. My mum didn’t raise a stupid git.”
“What are you saying to her? Are you threatening her?”
“No, Ralph, no threats. Elena’s getting her brains unscrambled, wanted to know what happened. She’s going to be nice and quiet for the rest of our flight.”
Still, Henley turned in his seat. “Ms. Orlov, are you all right?”
Elena Orlov? She was Russian, too? Here he’d thought she had some Mexican blood in her. But she didn’t have an accent, and Liam had a good ear for accents. He kissed her cheek. “Make Ralph happy, love, reassure him, and then shut up.”
She cleared her throat and yelled up at him, “Don’t worry, Ralph, I’m good.”
“Yes, she is, Ralph.” Liam leaned close to her face. “Play nice or I’ll throw you out of the helicopter and have Ralph fly me to wherever I choose to go. It’s your boss who loses out.”
She met his eyes. He saw she believed him.
He said into his headset microphone, “Hey, Ralph, they always speak Russian around you? But you’re their pilot.”
Henley was shaking his head as he slowly banked left. “They always ask for me, they don’t trust their own sisters.”
Liam nodded. “But the boss is going to stay awhile. He’s got our big deal going down.”
“Whatever you’re doing with him must be big-time, maybe big enough to get him back cozy again with Putin.”
“It goes up that high? How do you know? I thought they only spoke Russian in front of you?”
“Well, his houseboy said something to me before Abram came out and told him to mind his own.”
“Abram’s one tough cookie.”
“Yeah, the boss listens to him, lets him run both his houses, on the Potomac and in Washington.”
“Yeah, right,” Liam said, nodding. “What did the houseboy say before Abram shut him down?”
“Only that something big was cooking. And then last month, Petrov had me fly him to New York, to the United Nations. He was feeling really pleased with himself, even drank some champagne. He said something about being more important than any of those idiots at the embassy.”
The Russian embassy? Liam said, “It’s not like he’s one of them. He’s got his own agenda.”
“That’s the truth.” Henley cut the helicopter down through the clouds, and rural Virginia sprawled out below them, the pastures, trees, and towns south of the maze of highways. They flew northward over bedroom communities, until the jumble of highways spiraled out like spokes on a wheel, all the roads leading to Rome. He said, “You ever been to Petrov’s place on the Potomac?”
“No,” Liam said, “but I figured I’d see it sooner or later. That’s where we’re going?”
“Yes. It’s nice and private, right on the water, and it’s only a short flight from D.C. He wants something from you, right?”
“Oh yeah, he wants something,” Liam said.
“What?”
“Maybe he wants me to make him Putin’s best friend,” Liam said.
30
MCKEE, KENTUCKY
TUESDAY AFTERNOON
Cam and Jack climbed out of the Crown Vic in the small town of McKee, population eight hundred souls, and looked up at the biggest building in town, a redbrick three-story wonder boasting square concrete columns at its entry.
“Pretty impressive for a small town,” Cam said.
Duke waved his hand. “Well, it’s not only the seat of town government, the Jackson County Judicial Center, it’s also the Jackson County Sheriff’s Department. Anything you need to get done you get done here. Even the three bars in the next block can’t compete.” He paused, kicked a pebble out of his path. “I sure hated leaving Chief at the hospital. He was cursing a blue streak about having to call his wife. She’ll be flying up here, fussing over him, and he hates that. Cam, good thing you got out of there with only some stitches and a sling, thank the good Lord.”
“Better yet,” Cam said, “the sling makes it look more serious than it really is, and I don’t have to worry about calling a husband.”
Jack looked around, getting the feel of the town. McKee was charming, if on the funky side. The short, squat gray store right across from the redbrick monument that housed the jail and courtrooms had a big sign over its window: MR. BILL’S GUNS AND GROCERIES.
They left Duke to chat with the sheriff and were directed by a deputy to the single, small, windowless interview room. Clyde Chivers was already seated at the banged-up wooden table at least twice as old as he was, tapping his fingertips on a piece of paper in front of him. He was in his early twenties, skinny as a flagpole, a seedy mustache trying to take root on his upper lip. He looked scared and slightly sick. He met their eyes and tried to manage a look of outrage at this indignity.
Cam pulled out a chair, sat down, eyed him for a moment. “Hey, Clyde, I like the alliteration—Clyde Chivers—your daddy come up with that one? Or is that on your mama’s head?”
He blinked, opened his mouth, shut it, then managed, “Nope, it was my aunt Mabel, my mama’s sister. She writes poetry.” He shut his mouth, straightened his shoulders, and tried to dial up the outrage again. “You’re the people who tried to kill me. You wrecked my Tahoe. You should be the ones here in jail, not me.”
Jack lounged back in his chair, relaxed and as loose as a lizard on a sunny rock. “Nah, we didn’t want you dead, Clyde. Actually, we usually don’t want anyone dead. We only wanted to catch the three people you pretended to pick up.”
“I don’t know about any three people. I was driving to McKee, to see a bud of mine. Why am I here? What do you want? I didn’t do anything. You know I was alone, so you have no right—”
Cam sat forward, looked him straight on. “Shut up, Clyde. The sheriff found five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills under your front seat. You going to tell us who gave you the money to pull your little stunt on Clover Bottom Creek Road?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I didn’t do anything, nothin’, you hear me?”
Jack said, “Don’t waste our time and try to deny it. We’re in a hurry here.”
“You’ve got no right to hold me. So I have five hundred bucks, that ain’t no crime in my universe.”
“There you’re wrong,” Cam said. “These are very bad people, Clyde. And you helped them escape us.”