The Exile Page 16

  Barron gave his callback number, clicked off, and then hit a speed dial number to another cell phone. He heard it ring through and then a familiar voice.

  “Dan Ford.”

  “It’s John. I’m on the way to LAX, the Lufthansa terminal. There’s a missing student from a German tour group named Josef Speer, and a Josef Speer checked in for the Frankfurt flight. I think it might be Raymond.”

  “I had a hunch you had a hunch. I’m halfway to the airport now.”

  Barron half smiled. That was Dan; he could have guessed he would be. “I’ve got Lufthansa security looking for him. It might be a wild goose chase, it might not. Whatever it is let’s keep it between us, just you and me until we know for sure.”

  “Hey, I love exclusives.”

  Barron ignored the joke. “When you get there, tell security you’re with me, have them bring you to wherever I am. Tell them I said it was okay. I’ll tell them myself when I get there. And Dan—” He paused. “You already know you’re doing this at your own risk.”

  “So are you.”

  “I just want to remind you who we’re dealing with. If it is Raymond, stay out of the way and just watch. I’m giving you the chance for a story, I don’t want you dead.”

  “I don’t want me dead either, John, or you. Be careful, huh? Be damned careful.”

  “Yeah. See you there.” Barron clicked off. He hadn’t wanted to involve Ford like that, but he had, because his call to Lufthansa security had included a proviso he didn’t like but that had been necessary—that they bring in the Airport Police to back them up in case something happened. He’d done it because he’d had to, for the safety of the public if it was Raymond. But in doing it he knew it would only be minutes before Red learned what was going on, and when he did, he and the others would be on their way to LAX as if they’d been fired from a cannon. It was why Barron had included Ford. He wanted a major media witness right there in the middle of things to see what was going on.

  Of course, that was assuming everything else worked, and that revolved around Barron’s biggest gamble, time. McClatchy and the others were still somewhere in the city, and with the rain and traffic, even with red light and siren, it would take them time to get there. Enough time, he hoped and prayed, so that it would be all over—either student Speer would have been cleared and sent on his way, or Barron would have Raymond in handcuffs surrounded by Lufthansa security, airport cops, and probably federal police from the Transportation Security Administration, maybe even the FBI and, with luck, Dan Ford of the Los Angeles Times. In other words, the situation would be far too public with too many people from too many agencies for Red and the 5-2 to carry out “the go.”

  8:29 P.M.

  “John.”

  Red’s voice suddenly cracked from the radio on the seat beside him. Barron started. It had been barely four minutes since he’d spoken to the Lufthansa people.

  “John. You there?”

  Barron hesitated, then reached for the radio and clicked on.

  “I’m here, Red.”

  “Where is here? What are you doing? What’s going on?”

  Red’s voice was calm yet concerned, like a father talking to his son. It was the same voice he had used in his office when he had shown him the pictures of the men the squad had killed over the years and then not so gently reminded him of his own responsibility as a member of it, and the penalty he would pay if he went against it. Just the tone of it was enough to tell Barron that if Red heard anything in his voice that suggested he was doing this on his own to protect Raymond from the squad, Raymond would not be the only one who would end up dead.

  “I’m stuck in traffic on La Tijera near LAX,” he said as evenly as he could. “The missing Josef Speer bought a ticket on Lufthansa flight four-five-three to Frankfurt about seven o’clock. It might be the kid, but it also might be Raymond. The flight leaves at nine-forty-five.”

  “Why didn’t you contact me right away?” The calmness that had been in Red’s voice was suddenly gone. In its place was harsh demand. “Why did you call the airline first?”

  “It’s only a guess, Red, that’s why. It probably is just the kid, Speer. I alerted security to be on the safe side. They’re just going to locate him and stay back until I get there and make the ID.”

  “We’re on our way now. Wait for us. Don’t approach him. Don’t do anything until we get there. Copy me, John.”

  Suddenly the car just ahead of Barron inched forward, giving him a clear shot out of the logjam.

  “I got a traffic break, Red, I’m moving out.”

  Barron dropped the radio on the seat beside him, his foot slammed the accelerator, and the Mustang shot up the inside shoulder.

  50

  LAX, TOM BRADLEY INTERNATIONAL TERMINAL 6,

  A STARBUCKS COFFEE KIOSK. 8:44 P.M.

  One hour and one minute to takeoff.

  Raymond stared at a clock behind the counter, then paid the cashier and took a cup of coffee and a croissant to a small table. Sitting down, he glanced at the few customers at tables around him, then took a sip of coffee and picked up the croissant. He ate not because he was hungry but because he’d had little nourishment since he’d been arrested and needed to eat. He also needed to keep a careful eye on the clock because timing was crucial. He could not pass through the metal detectors carrying the Berettas. They would have to be disposed of, but only at the last moment, after boarding had been announced and was under way. Then he would get rid of them, walk through the detectors and directly to the gate, and then board the plane.

  8:53 P.M.

  Raymond finished his coffee and dutifully got up to put the paper cup and the tissue from his croissant into a trash container, wondering, as he did, what the police had done about the safe deposit keys in his bag and if there was any way they could determine the location of the box they would open. At the same time, he wondered if they had tried to determine the meaning of the dates and places he had written in his address book. Or what the initials I.M. meant.

  8:54 P.M.

  Raymond left the kiosk and stepped out into the central corridor, looking down it toward the Lufthansa security checkpoint. Maybe a dozen people waited to pass through. No delays. Nothing unusual. He watched for a moment longer, then glanced back at the clock inside the Starbucks kiosk.

  8:55 P.M.

  9:05 P.M.

  Barron peered through the downpour trying to see the roadway in the glare of oncoming headlights. Then he was at a major intersection. The traffic lights went from green to yellow. He accelerated, making it across just as yellow changed to red. In the same instant static crackled from his radio and he heard Red speak to dispatch:

  “This is McClatchy. Request Airport Police delay boarding Lufthansa flight four-five-three.”

  9:08 P.M.

  The rain eased just a little and Barron saw the Ninety-sixth Street sign. Downshifting, he heard the deep rumble of the Mustang’s exhaust, then accelerated and turned for the airport.

  “John.” Red’s voice came over his radio. “Where are you?”

  “Coming up on the airport loop.”

  “We’re just minutes behind you. I repeat what I said before. Don’t go after him on your own. Wait for us. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir.” Barron clicked off. Dammit, they had come in faster than he thought. All he could do was try to stay ahead of them and hope Dan Ford was not far behind. Then he was at the loop and moving fast into the terminal area.

  He passed a taxi and an airport shuttle bus on the inside, then cut in under the upper deck and out of the rain, passing what seemed like a block-long limousine.

  9:10 P.M.

  He saw Terminal 2, Terminal 3, then the Tom Bradley International Terminal. Then he was there pulling up at the curb in a no-parking area. He jumped out, running.

  “Hey, you! No parking!” A big, bald parking control cop was coming off the curb, yelling at him.

  “Police officer! Emergency! Barron, Five-Two!” Barron w
as right up to him, tossing him the keys as he passed. “Take care of it for me, huh?”

  In a blink he was across the sidewalk and into the building.

  51

  9:13 P.M.

  Once more Raymond studied the flow of people passing through the metal detectors at the security checkpoint. Then he heard what he had been waiting for.

  “Lufthansa flight four-five-three is ready for boarding at gate one twenty-two. Lufthansa flight four-five-three is ready for boarding at gate one twenty-two.”

  The aircraft was boarding; it was time.

  9:14 P.M.

  He crossed the corridor and entered the same men’s restroom where he’d cut his hair and shaved his head. He was just turning the corner toward the urinal area when he suddenly stopped. A bright yellow sign was perched on the floor just inside the doorway. RESTROOM BEING CLEANED.

  In the distance he heard another call for flight 453. Quickly he stepped forward and peered around the corner into the room. A lone maintenance man was entering a stall near the back with a mop. Directly in front of him, just past the yellow sign, was a large orange plastic bucket filled with detergent and murky water. Raymond glanced behind him and then toward the stall area. The maintenance man was still inside, his feet visible, the mop working back and forth across the floor.

  Raymond looked behind him once more, then edged around the sign and slid the Beretta automatics from his belt. A quick glance toward the mop man working in the stall and he eased them into the bucket, watching for the briefest moment as they slipped out of sight. A heartbeat later, he turned and left.

  9:16 P.M.

  Barron took the stairs two at a time. Two dark-suited Lufthansa security people, a man and a woman, raced up behind him. Despite McClatchy’s request, and despite having clear copies of the LAPD photos of Raymond, neither Lufthansa security nor plainclothes Airport Police had been able to locate him among the large number of passengers. Nor had they been any more aggressive, for fear of alerting him. The best they could do was look for a man his size and age wearing blue jeans, a jean jacket, and a baseball cap—and maybe purple hair.

  “Find the agent who sold Speer his ticket,” Barron said as they reached the top of the stairs and started down the corridor toward the security checkpoint. “Have him or her meet us at the gate area.”

  9:18 P.M.

  Raymond stood in line at the security checkpoint. As he reached the conveyor, he took off his shoes, the same as the other passengers were doing, then set the shoes and his black carry-on bag onto the conveyor belt and stepped through the metal detector.

  9:19 P.M.

  Raymond scooped his shoes and bag from the conveyor, then pulled on his shoes and walked off toward the departure gate. None of the security people had so much as blinked.

  9:20 P.M.

  Halliday cut quickly across the airport loop’s traffic lanes and pulled up hard at the Bradley Terminal, parking nose-in between a taxi and a white Chevy SUV, the unmarked detective car’s red and yellow lights still flashing in the rear window. A moment later he was inside the terminal, clipping his gold detective shield to his jacket pocket and lifting his radio.

  “John, it’s Jimmy, I just came in,” he said as he crossed the main lobby, heading toward the escalator leading to the departure gates on the floor above.

  9:21 P.M.

  Emergency lights flashing, one, two, the McClatchy/Polchak car and the Valparaiso/Lee car pulled in next to Halliday’s in the space just vacated by the white SUV. In a wave the four detectives were out, slamming car doors and clipping on badges as they headed inside.

  9:22 P.M.

  “We’re here, Jimmy,” Red’s voice came over Halliday’s radio.

  “Upper deck, gate one twenty-two.” Halliday was half walking, half running, as he talked to Red. With him were two uniformed LAPD Airport Police officers and a Lufthansa security agent. “So far we’ve got a big negative on locating Speer.”

  9:23 P.M.

  Raymond stood in line behind twenty or more passengers waiting to board flight 453, the area around him brimming with a hundred or more others here for the same reason.

  “Almost,” he thought. “Almost.”

  Then he heard someone in front of him mutter about nothing happening, and he looked up to see the Lufthansa people at the jetway entrance talking among themselves. Suddenly they were letting no one pass. For some reason they’d held up the line. Behind him someone complained. As if in answer the public address system crackled.

  “Your attention, please. Boarding for Lufthansa flight four-five-three to Frankfurt will be delayed.”

  A collective groan swept through the crowd, and Raymond felt a sudden uneasiness punch through him. He looked around and saw two tall, armed Airport Police standing not twenty feet away watching the crowd.

  Christ, could this delay be because of him? Again he thought of the police and their cold, almost uncanny efficiency. How could they know? Was it possible they had determined Speer’s identity and traced him here? No, that was crazy. Impossible. It had to be something else.

  He glanced back down the corridor to see if there were more police. Instead he saw the young Lufthansa agent who had sold him his ticket pushing through travelers coming toward him. With her were two men in dark suits.

  Jesus God—

  He turned away, trying to think what to do next. Then he saw him and his heart shot to his throat. John Barron was moving intently through the crowd; a man and a woman in the same dark suits as the others were with him. All three were looking for someone.

  Then he saw the others coming, too, their faces stamped in his memory for all time—the men from the parking garage. And if he had any doubts at all, there was no mistaking their leader, the one they referred to as Red, or Lee, the massive African-American who had visited him in jail to ask about the Ruger.

  All around him people were groaning, complaining about the delay, wondering what was going on. He kept tight in their midst, looking for a way out.

  9:29 P.M.

  “Any sign of him?” Red was pushing up to Barron. Lee was with him. So was the young Lufthansa ticket agent and the two airline security men with her.

  “No, not yet. And we still don’t know if it is Raymond. Could be the German kid after all. He could have just decided to go home.”

  Red’s eyes found Barron’s. “Right,” he said quietly. It was a moment, that was all, but Barron knew Red wasn’t happy he’d done this on his own.

  Abruptly Red looked past him, his eyes moving over the crowd, and Barron knew he didn’t believe it was the German kid any more than he did. Raymond was here, somewhere.

  Red looked to the young Lufthansa ticket agent. “He spoke German?”

  “Yes, fluently.” She was looking at the crowd, the way Red had, the way they all were. “He was very good-looking, with purple-colored hair.”

  Red turned to Lee. “Cordon off the walkway behind us. We’re going to take a hike through the crowd. Nobody gets out until we’re through.” Abruptly Red looked to Barron. “From here on in you’re my partner. You understand?”

  “Your partner?” Barron was thunderstruck. The squad didn’t have partners; everyone was interchangeable with everyone else. Now suddenly he and Red were a team.

  “Yes. And this time stay with me, don’t be going off on your—”

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  The roar of gunshots took away whatever McClatchy was going to say next.

  “Get down!” Barron pushed the Lufthansa ticket agent to the floor as the detectives wheeled, guns drawn.

  For a microsecond time stood still and nothing moved. Then Raymond broke, darting through the crowd and crossing the boarding area, heading for the jetway at a dead run.

  52

  “Dodgers cap! He’s in the jetway!” So much for staying at Red’s side. Barron was yelling as he ran through the confusion. The entire area was in a panic. People were running, shouting, shoving, and screaming, all trying to get out of there. Over
everything hung the acrid smell of gunpowder.

  Barron twisted past a priest racing the other way. At the same time, he caught sight of Lufthansa security people near the jetway. “Close off the aircraft from the inside!”

  Red was coming behind him, fighting his way through the melee. Guns drawn, Polchak and Valparaiso, and Lee and Halliday, were doing the same, all closing on the jetway.

  Behind them the priest was kneeling beside the two Airport Police officers who had been standing nearest Raymond—policemen he’d taken down with lightning speed and complete surprise, the same as he had the deputies in the elevator at Criminal Courts, deftly snatching the gun from the holster of the first and shooting him point-blank in the head as he reacted, then firing two quick shots into the face of the other as he attempted to counter. Then, gun still in hand, he dodged through the startled crowd and raced for the jetway leading to the plane. In that instant he and Barron locked eyes.

  Barron pulled up sharply at the jetway’s entrance. Beretta up, held in two hands military style, he peered carefully into the dimly lit tunnel. It was empty. Immediately he felt a presence behind him. He whirled hard. Red stood there. He was solemn, cold, unemotional.