Authors: Jack Cavanaugh
T
he studio door flew open. As before, a staccato burst of lights hit with force. His arm around a red-haired pregnant woman, Hunz lowered his head and plunged into the sea of reporters.
“This isn’t going to deceive anyone,” Sydney said.
“Keep your head down and keep moving,” Hunz shouted over the din.
She did. She was hunched over a well-placed pillow and outfitted with dark glasses and a green scarf, compliments of the studio prop department. A red wig flared with every camera flash.
Hunz straight-armed everyone in his way like a running back headed for the end zone with a faux Cheryl tucked securely under his arm as the ball.
A black limousine split the crowd, its horn blaring, warning foolhardy reporters that they’d better think twice about challenging a couple of tons of metal to a head-on competition. The back door opened just as Hunz and Sydney reached it.
Hunz assisted his charge into the limo, but instead of following her, he turned to face the stormy tide. Looking like Moses parting the Red Sea, Hunz raised both hands over his head. He identified himself.
With someone to record and shoot, the rabble quieted.
“My name is Hunz Vonner, newscaster with EuroNet operating out of Berlin, Germany. Some of you undoubtedly recognize me.”
He couldn’t help himself. Good newscasters have healthy egos, and Hunz Vonner’s was making a public appearance.
“As a guest in your country,” he shouted, “it has been my privilege to observe your media at work, and compare it to the way we do things in Europe. Where I come from, there is an unwritten code of professional courtesy. Accordingly, as a professional courtesy, I request that you honor the exclusive agreement station KSMJ has made with Ms. Cheryl McCormick. I appeal to your sense of honor and dignity as journalists and trust that your example tonight will forge a new era of cooperation between our respective countries. Thank you.”
His speech was a drop of sanity in an ocean of chaos. Hunz ducked into the limo, and it sped off to a chorus of shouts and catcalls.
Beside him, Sydney took off her glasses.
“What was that all about?” she said:
“You didn’t like my speech?”
“Professional courtesy in the media? Really?”
Hunz howled. “Are you kidding? They’re jackals!”
“You lied.”
“And I suppose you never lied to get a story,” Hunz said.
Sydney stared at him.
“No, I guess you never have, have you?” he said. “Doesn’t matter. But I didn’t lie tonight. I said there is such a thing as professional courtesy where I come from, and there is. Just not among journalists.”
“What did you hope to accomplish?” Sydney asked.
“Look out the back window.”
She turned. A serpentine line of vehicles sped after them from the studio parking lot.
“You taunted them into following us,” she said.
Hunz laughed. “Asking for professional courtesy from a pack of reporters is like throwing meat into a shark tank. But that’s not why I did it.”
“Why then?”
Hunz stomped both feet on the floor gleefully, pleased with himself.
Sydney laughed at his exuberance. This was the second time today Sydney saw a hidden side of Hunz Vonner, the first being when he hit it off with Stacy at the hotel.
“There was always the chance some of them would not take the bait,” he said, “that they would suspect some kind of sleight of hand. I know I would. That’s why I instructed Josh and Cheryl to slip out right behind us, during the moment of deception, and not wait for the coast to clear.”
“And your little speech . ,” Sydney said, catching on.
“Extended the moment of deception. It also put me in position to watch them make their getaway. I had to make sure they got away safely.”
“And did they?”
Hunz sat back with a grin. “As they say in the movies, worked like a charm.”
W
hen Sydney and Hunz arrived at Los Angeles International Airport, Josh and Cheryl and Stacy were waiting for them:
Having followed Hunz’s instructions, Josh had steered the Volvo down a side road to hangars that serviced private corporate jets. The guard at the parking lot security booth told Josh he was expecting them. After a cursory check of the Volvo, he directed them to the appropriate hangar and waved them through.
“You should have seen their faces.” Hunz was still laughing as he climbed out of the back of the limo. “Priceless!”
Sydney emerged right behind him. What followed was a breathless duet reenacting the last twenty minutes.
“They followed us all the way to the Excelsior Hotel,” she said.
“Some of them were there waiting for us,” Hunz said.
“After all, it’s no secret
Wonder Wheel
uses the Excelsior Hotel.”
“She was marvelous,” Hunz said of Sydney. “Inspired.”
“It seemed the natural thing to do,” Sydney said.
Josh grinned widely. “What? What did you do?”
“Well, when we got to the hotel,” Sydney said, “we drove into the drop-off area in front of the lobby doors. Hunz opened the moonroof on the limo.”
“And Sydney stood up so everyone could see her. Naturally, they thought she was Cheryl. They piled out of their vehicles and surrounded the limo, shouting questions, thrusting microphones at her, cameras rolling, strobes flashing.”
Standing next to Josh and holding Stacy, Cheryl listened intently and smiled as the story unfolded.
“It was fun,” Sydney said, glad to see Cheryl smiling again. “I felt like a celebrity wearing those dark glasses.”
“Sydney waved to them, one of those regal, Princess Diana waves,” Hunz said. “Strobe lights were flashing everywhere. Then she removed her glasses and there were fewer flashes. With a flourish, she pulled off the wig, and the flashes stopped altogether.”
“They were stunned,” Sydney said.
“But then,” Hunz cried, “the piece de resistance. A stroke of genius!”
“I pulled the pillow from beneath my blouse .. ”
“ . and she tossed it to them . ”
“.. like a bridal bouquet.”
“Then we drove off, leaving them standing there. Stunned. Stunned! Hands down, best time I’ve had in America,” Hunz cried.
I
can’t believe you arranged all of this,” Sydney said, “and in such a short time.”
The Dassault Falcon cruised at thirty-six-thousand feet. A Plexiglas panel doorway separated the section of the plane in which Sydney sat from the boardroom where Cheryl had put Stacy down. The little girl was sleeping on a small sofa, her head beneath a large fern. Cheryl sat on the floor next to her, stroking her bangs. Josh reclined in a conference chair nearby, his feet propped up on the table. His eyes were closed, but it was doubtful he was sleeping.
Hunz closed the Plexiglas door behind him and joined Sydney. Four wide soft leather chairs were arranged in pairs, facing each other. Hunz sat next to Sydney, who was watching Cheryl love her daughter.
“And it was nice of you to invite Josh and me along, though I still don’t understand why you did.” Sydney paused for an explanation. When Hunz didn’t offer one, she said, “I’ve never flown on a private jet before. I’ve never even flown first class, only cattle car coach.”
Hunz slumped back in his chair. He let out a sigh of accomplishment.
“At the studio, you called Sol and arranged things then, didn’t you?” Sydney said. “The limo, the jet, all of it.”
She just couldn’t let it go. The details of the trip. Hunz’s reasoning. They were little niggling worms under her skin.
Hunz closed his eyes. “Being an international celebrity has its perks.”
“You did it for Stacy, didn’t you? You and she have formed quite an attachment.”
Hunz smiled, his eyes still closed.
“What did you promise him?” Sydney asked.
“Who?”
“Sol. He’s not the kind of guy who gives something unless he gets something in return. You promised him something. What?”
Hunz sighed again, obviously a bit agitated at the question. “Does it matter?”
“It depends on what you promised him.”
Hunz turned his head without lifting it to look at her. “An exclusive,” he said. “I offered Sol an exclusive.”
It took a moment for what he said to register. When it did, Sydney bolted upright. She looked at Cheryl, then back at Hunz.
“You scum!” she shouted. “All this time I thought you were rescuing Cheryl from those game show piranha, and you were just saving her for yourself! You’re no better than they are! I take that back. You’re worse!”
“Scum,” Hunz said calmly. “I don’t know that word.”
“Dirtbag. Sleaze. Wretch.”
“Ah, wretch. Now that’s a word I know.”
He didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned by Sydney’s outrage.
Sydney was beside herself. “How could you do such a thing? How could you be so low? Here I thought you were trying to help Cheryl, while all the time you’re setting her up to exploit her!”
“Everything has a price,” Hunz said. “Cheryl wanted to get back to Chicago to deliver her baby. The price of the airfare was an
exclusive interview with a death watch victim at the moment of death—in perfect health one minute, dead the next. Sol liked the idea. Said it would make a splash.”
“I might expect this kind of despicable behavior from Sol, but you? I thought you were better than that.”
Hunz’s face reddened. “Maybe you’ve forgotten who we are. We’re reporters, not a rescue aid society. Reporters report—automobile crashes, burning buildings, natural disasters, murders. Every day people die and we’re there live, broadcasting it to our viewing audience. It’s the nature of our business. And if you don’t know that by now, you’re in the wrong business. If you want to save people, join the Red Cross!”
Sydney sat facing him on the edge of her seat, her hands balled in fists.
“But this is Cheryl!”
Hunz was unmoved. “First rule of journalism: Never compromise your objectivity.”
Sydney glared at him. “Why now? Why Cheryl? We could have done this story with Lyle Vandeveer.”
“Things were different back then.”
The way he said it,
back then
sounded like it was several decades ago instead of just last night.
“Back then,” Sydney said, “you thought interviewing Mr. Vandeveer was a waste of time.”
“Like I said, things change.”
Sydney studied him. What had changed? It had to be more than just a matter of passing time. Was it the fact that Cheryl was now a game show celebrity? Or was it something else? What else had changed since last night?
“You heard from the FBI,” she said.
Hunz looked away. He said nothing. But he heard her, because his jaw muscles tensed, just like it had in the vomitory when he returned after making a phone call.
After a few moments, he said, “A few hours ago, General Baranov surrendered to FBI agents outside his villa on Barbados.”
“That’s good news, isn’t it? Has he talked? Has he told the FBI where to find Yuri Kiselev?”
Hunz nodded. “Baranov talked.”
“And?”
“He’s not behind Death Watch.”
Sydney was crestfallen. “Oh, Hunz! Is that what Baranov said? He’d deny it, of course. Is the FBI certain?”
“Baranov told them where they could find Yuri Kiselev. He’s buried in a basement just outside of Minsk. He’s been dead for two months. Apparently, he made the mistake of falling in love with Baranov’s mistress.”
“And the nanotechnology?”
Hunz shook his head. “There is no production lab. No master plan.”
“What about someone else? If the technology is possible, maybe someone else—”
“The theory was based on Baranov’s money and Kiselev’s brains. And from what the FBI told me, Baranov is as anxious as we are to find out who’s behind Death Watch. His mother died this morning. A death watch victim.”
Sydney touched his arm with sympathy. “That was our best lead. It all made sense, in a warped, villainous way. So what are we left with? Does the FBI or your EuroNet team have any other suspects? ”
“A hundred leads. All long shots.”
Sydney looked toward the back of the plane. “That means that Cheryl and Josh will most likely ”
“Yeah.”
“At least you’ll get your exclusive,” Sydney said, her tone turning hard. Just because she was disappointed his theory hadn’t worked out didn’t mean she’d forgiven him for exploiting Cheryl.
“Yeah. Looks like I will,” Hunz said sadly. “But that’s not why I arranged to get Cheryl back to Chicago.”
“But you just said . ”
“I said there is always a price to pay.”
“An exclusive.”
Hunz nodded. “An exclusive.”
“You have something up your sleeve,” Sydney said.
Hunz laughed. “I wish I did.” He sighed heavily. It was the third sigh since he sat down. “Actually, this whole enterprise is because of you.”
“Me?”
“Last night. The look in Lyle Vandeveer’s eyes. It meant everything to him that you were there. I’d be willing to bet he hadn’t smiled that much in years. Then tonight, after hearing from the FBI…well, I wanted to do something similar for Cheryl, something that would make her smile, make her happy, before…”
“Before she dies.” Sydney finished his sentence for him.
“No,” Hunz said. “Before I die.”
O
f the 51,327 tons of cargo that passed through Chicago’s O’Hare airport that month, 167 pounds of it was Billy Peppers.
His feet and hands were frozen, his joints stiff, and his rear end numb from four hours of nonstop vibration. Shut up in the packing crate, in pitch-black darkness, he listened for activity, sounds similar to those he’d heard in LA when they were loading the plane—forklift engines; heavy boots; male voices shouting orders, cursing, talking sports, telling off-color stories. For the last ten minutes or so—who could tell for sure? It was too dark to see his pink Tinkerbell watch—he’d heard nothing except the sound of his teeth chattering.
The vertebrae-wrenching landing would have sent him to the chiropractor tomorrow if he had money for that sort of thing. That was followed by the monotonous rumble of taxiing. With no windows to gauge the distance, it seemed as though they taxied to Cleveland before the engines finally wound down, sounding very much like a huge vacuum cleaner that just had its plug pulled. Soon afterward, Billy felt the fuselage shake as a door was opened. There was activity for a while, then silence.
Buster told him to wait until the workers moved him into the hangar. It was safest that way.
“They’ll offload you,” Buster had said, “stick you off to the side, and pretty much leave you alone. You’re not a priority package, so no one will get to you until morning. That should give you plenty of time to hammer your way out.”
Billy didn’t take the “you’re not a priority package” comment personally.
He strained to hear something beyond the plywood walls. He heard nothing. Buster told him to wait, and Buster knew what he was talking about. But Buster was talking about the way things were supposed to work. Things don’t always work the way they’re supposed to work.
In the dark this needling doubt pricked Billy repeatedly. What if someone had made a mistake? The guys who load and unload cargo weren’t exactly Rhodes scholars.
No offense, Buster.
It was possible they overlooked him, or were intentionally blinded to the markings on the crate. That wasn’t out of the realm of possibility, knowing what he knew.
Billy leaned forward at the thought. There were two sides to this spiritual war in which he was involved, with angels on both sides. It stood to reason that if a good angel told him to go to Chicago, there was a bad angel who didn’t want him here, and it was certainly within a bad angel’s ability to blind the eyes of a cargo handler! If that was the case .
He listened for a new sound—the closing of a cargo hatch. What if they were done unloading? What if Chicago was not the plane’s final destination? He could end up in Boston, or New Orleans, or Winnemucca.
Setting the Nike shoe box to one side—with the lid unsecured, he’d held it the entire trip to keep the angels from spilling out—Billy felt for the hammer Buster had given him. Grabbing it, he let loose with two good whacks across the upper edge of the crate, then listened, which was harder now because of the ringing in his ears from hammering in such close quarters.
The noise didn’t seem to attract attention, but neither did it make much of an impression on the crate. He had little room in which to swing the hammer, and Buster had nailed him in good.
A couple more whacks, harder and louder this time, and he failed to see even a suggestion of an opening along the top edge of the crate. Each blow sounded like firecrackers going off.
It was time for a different approach. Dropping the hammer, Billy pressed his back against the crate and gave the opposite side a couple of kicks with the heel of his shoe.
He saw a strip of light.
A couple more kicks and one entire edge was loose. A couple more and the opening was large enough for him to crawl out.
Tucking his shoe box under his arm, Billy Peppers crouched like a running back prepared to take on a pair of three-hundred-and-fifty-pound tackles. Who knew what he would encounter? But the only thing that hit him when he emerged was the cool Chicago night air.
A quick glance up and down the fuselage revealed he was alone. A huge portal opened up to the airport runway. In the distance, an Aer Lingus Airbus with a green shamrock spotlighted on its tail was landing.
Billy approached the edge of the hatch. He saw no ramp, no ladder. He’d have to jump. It was about an eight-foot drop, maybe ten. Most days this would be a challenge. Tonight, with his feet frozen and his knees feeling like rusted hinges, the jump had
pain
written all over it.
He heard voices, though he couldn’t see the men they were attached to. They were getting louder. Billy looked at the tarmac. Jump or hide? Did he have a choice? The crate was yawning open. He supposed he could nail it shut again, but what then? Hide among the cargo? He could possibly get lucky and someone would pull a ramp up to the side of the plane and then leave again so he could walk out. Or they could shut him up in the belly of this silver whale, and the next thing you know he’d be disgorged onto the sands of Winnemucca.
It was time to take a leap of faith.
Billy crouched down, prayed a simple h
elp-me-Jesus
prayer, and jumped.
There was a moment when he seemed to hang suspended in the air, an exhilarating feeling of flight that ended suddenly and most
painfully. The tarmac struck the bottom of his feet with what felt like lightning; his knees cracked and buckled; the Nike shoe box went flying, spilling angels everywhere; and when the rest of him crashed against the cement, he tried to stop himself from falling with outstretched hands and managed to scrape both palms, embedding pebbles in his flesh that looked like little comets with long red tails.
With his cheek pressed against the cement, while various body parts issued emergency signals to his brain, Billy remembered how parachute jumpers dipped their shoulders and rolled upon impact. Sure, now he remembered.
Gingerly, because he had to use his hands to push himself up and they were presently screaming at him, Billy managed to get to his knees. There was a stiff breeze and some of his angels were trying to fly away. They looked like they’d forgotten how, tumbling this way and that.
“Hey! You!”
One of the voices he’d heard earlier took human form. It became a body dressed in gray coveralls with a face that didn’t look pleased to see him. In fact, there were three men just inside the hangar. Two were smoking. One was sitting on top of a crate, his feet dangling.
“Get away from that plane!”
All three men were looking at him now. The one shouting had taken a last draw from his cigarette and tossed it aside. He picked up a crowbar and came toward Billy. The crowbar fit his hand with familiarity, much the same way a nine iron would fit in the hand of a golfer, or a bat in the hand of a baseball player.
Billy scrambled to capture the last of the runaway angels and shoved them into the box. The two ceramic angels were scuffed but not broken. His Bible lay open, the wind’s fingers flipping its pages.
He grabbed them all and tossed them into the box, then wrestled with the lid. His knees complaining loudly, he managed to get on his feet and—hobbling—put some distance between him and the crowbar.
“That’s right, get outta here! Go on. Git! Git!”
Maybe it was a universal thing; Chicago was no different than LA. In both places they used the same language to chase away dogs and bums. Billy hobbled out of the hangar lights and into the darkness.
To one side, in the distance, like a finger pointing heavenward, stood the O’Hare airport control tower. Splayed beneath it were lights, both stationary and moving, a city of people in transit from all quarters of the world.
“Well, we’re here,” Billy said to the air. “Now what?”