It was not a talkative bunch. Everyone had a window seat. Some took advantage of it, gazing and pondering, others snapped open briefcases as soon as the plane was airborne and hunched over documents and laptop computers. Betsy saw the wide mouth of the Delaware below and even caught sight of the vee-shaped wake of the Lewes-Cape May ferry, giving her fond memories of the weekend when she had met Paul Moses.
Ed Hennessey was sitting across the aisle from her; he jammed his seat back into the face of one of the NSA people and fell asleep, wheezing and snoring loudly enough to be heard over the engine noise. By sitting up straight and craning her neck, Betsy was able to see a glimpse of Manhattan through his window.
She sensed someone was looking at her. It was Spector. He was sweating and chewing gum obsessively. He shook his head in amazement. He was permanently dumbfounded by his Idaho girl. Looking out the window at the pretty view!
They were already descending toward Kennebunkport. Cape Cod was on the right, the sandbars around Provincetown perfectly resolved. Hughes came on the intercom, telling them they were about to land, and jokingly apologizing for the quality of the cabin service. “I request that nobody leave until the buses have pulled into position and we’ve been given the go-ahead. It’s important, for national-security reasons, that you not be seen together.”
Something about this statement tore a large rent in the curtain of denial that had been hanging before Betsy’s eyes.
National-security reasons.
Saddam was in Kuwait. The United States was, for all practical purposes, in a state of war.
For the people in this airplane to be spotted in this place, in this combination, could, in some as-yet-unimagined way, cause people to die.
She turned back and looked at Spector. He was eyeing her now with a hint of a grin. The growing shock must have been obvious on Betsy’s face.
The plane taxied way, way back to the far end of a runway. Betsy didn’t even know what airport they had landed at; somewhere with lots of trees. Robin Hughes swung it around so that the door faced toward the trees, away from any buildings. Very shortly a couple of school buses and a blue government van arrived—ten times the seating capacity they needed. The buses, empty except for their drivers, maneuvered back and forth on the apron, forming an L-shaped barrier that would block the view of anyone spying on them back in the trees. The van pulled up very close to the Gulfstream. Doors were flung open, a signal was given, and everyone hustled up the aisle, down the steps, and into the van.
Except for Hennessey, who was still sound asleep, and Betsy, who stayed behind trying to wake him up. No one else on this plane, with the possible exception of Robin Hughes, had any stomach for the job of trying to wake up this leprous pariah. Devil take the person who was seen being nice to him; God help the person who incurred his resentment. The combined efforts of Betsy Vandeventer and Robin Hughes were needed to get him on his feet and down the steps without breaking his neck.
The buses peeled away and parked themselves somewhere. The van was a tinted-window special with two security men on board, not making any effort to hide their Heckler & Koch submachine guns. As they pulled out of the airport, another vehicle fell in behind them—a massive Suburban with government plates.
The sight of the weapons, and of what was obviously a government war wagon behind them, tore down most of what remained of Betsy’s curtain of denial. She began rubbing her palms against her skirt; they were sweating even though the air-conditioning in the van was turned up high. Her heart was pounding and she had a lump of apprehension in her throat.
The van took them several miles through rocky country with occasional, surprising views of the ocean. They turned into progressively narrower and windier roads, edging closer and closer to the sea, glimpsing large waterfront homes from time to time. They turned onto a drive and passed through a security checkpoint. A few hundred yards later they pulled up before a barnlike structure, a sort of utility and machine shed, surrounded on all sides by trees. It looked simple and bucolic except for the forest of antennae sprouting from its roof.
A large roll-up door opened. Standing in the center of the dark aperture was a man in an impeccable dark-charcoal pinstripe suit: James Gabor Millikan.
Spector leaned over to Betsy and whispered, “Watch this.”
Hennessey had boarded the van last and had the front passenger seat. He shoved his door open and climbed stiffly out of the vehicle, ignoring a Marine who held out one hand to help him down. He walked toward Millikan, and Millikan walked toward him. Everyone on the van had his face pressed to a window; those who were unfortunate enough to be on the wrong side stood up to peer over the others’ shoulders.