The farm was separated from airport property by a tall chain-link fence, and even from the road Clyde could see that a section of it had been cut down and flopped onto the ground, and a pair of fat tire tracks, rapidly filling up with snow, ran through the gap, leading from the barn directly to the apron of one of the shorter runways.
From there they could look directly across the airport and get a view of Perestroika. The blowing snow made it into a dark-gray silhouette in the midst of a universe of white. They could see that its nose had been tilted back to expose its cargo bay, making it look like a giant aluminum crocodile that had opened its mouth wide to swallow something: a big red capsule that sat on the apron, ready to be towed on board by a small tractor.
He kept on driving a quarter of a mile past the farm, in case any Iraqis were there acting as lookouts, and finally eased the unit down into a ditch. It could not be seen there, and even if it was noticed, it would simply appear to have slid off the road. As a sheriff’s deputy on duty, he could easily have come up with a plausible excuse to drive right onto the tarmac and start poking around, but it had occurred to him that the Iraqis must be in an extremely nervous frame of mind about now, and a sheriff’s car, or even a sheriff’s uniform, might get them dangerously excited.
The unit was well stocked with cold-weather gear; sheriffs were supposed to help people during blizzards, not get frostbite and end up needing help themselves. Clyde and Fazoul helped themselves to hats and mittens and even ski masks, which, in this part of the country at this time of year, were actually worn by people who were not bank robbers or terrorists. Clyde checked himself carefully to make sure he wasn’t wearing anything that would identify him as law enforcement.
They got out of the car and unloaded four cases of cigarettes from the trunk and backseat. These were awkward to carry, so Clyde unrolled a sleeping bag that was stashed in the trunk. They loaded the boxes into the sleeping bag and then began making their way down the ditch in the direction of the airport, climbing up onto the shoulder from time to time to survey the scene. They traded off dragging the sleeping bag behind them like Santa Claus’s giant sack of goodies. The snow was coming down heavier now, and it seemed as if the sun had set half an hour ago, even though it was really high noon.
Two cars were parked near the Antonov, illuminated from within by their dome lights. It was too cold for anyone to stand outside. Clyde immediately recognized one of the cars as part of the Iraqis’ fleet of tinted-window specials. The other was a big navy-blue Caprice sedan.
“That blue car is government-issue if I ever saw one,” Clyde said. “Probably the INS guy, or Commerce.”
Headlights flashed in the distance as a new vehicle appeared on the driveway that connected the airport’s main parking lot with the highway. The parking lot was empty and trackless except for some forlorn rental cars that would have to be chiseled loose from their sarcophagi of ice tomorrow morning. The front doors of the terminal building were locked, the building itself completely dark. The new arrival was a four-wheel-drive Blazer moving along crisply on its big, fat tires, chains making a distant ticking noise as they whacked against the insides of its fenders.
“Mark Lutsky,” Clyde said, “the airport manager. Bet he’s happy to be called in on Christmas.”
Lutsky swung around into his private parking space and clambered out of the Blazer, all bundled up and hunched against the driving snow. He scrambled to a side entrance, windmilling his arms to keep his balance on the ice, and keyed his way into the terminal building. Lights began to come on inside. A minute later doors popped open on the cars sitting on the apron, and men began to scramble and skate into the building, as did some figures from the Antonov. Even the Iraqis, and the continent-hopping crew of Perestroika, had to bow to the supreme power of the world: filling out forms, presenting documents, getting papers stamped.
Visibility kept dropping. Clyde and Fazoul made their way down the shoulder at a jog, no longer particularly worried about being seen. Clyde couldn’t take his eyes off the red container. It was a cylindrical tank with some plumbing and valves underneath it, the whole thing contained within a rectangular-space frame the exact size and shape of a normal shipping container, so that it could be moved and stacked like any other cargo.
Despite Hennessey’s observations about the desirability of getting the toxin out of the country, Clyde kind of hated to see it go. He couldn’t help but share Fazoul’s concerns about where it would end up if they let it leave Nishnabotna. So he was disappointed to see that the runways were still dark and mostly snow free, skeins and whorls of snow skimming across the pavement in the wind, but none of it sticking. A few low dunes of snow had begun to march across the long runway, but they looked insignificant compared to the bulk of the Antonov.