“Keep everyone on alert,” the man in the balaclava replied. “Things will happen at a rapid pace now. The lure has been set. The trap will not remain empty for long.”
25
Ecuador
They parted ways at the airport—Rudi boarding a flight for Washington to put out a growing series of political brush fires, Kurt and Emma boarding the NUMA Gulfstream for a ninety-minute flight to Cajamarca, Peru, where they would meet up with Paul and Gamay.
Joe would follow in the Erickson Air-Crane, but the helicopter’s lumbering pace and the need to stop for fuel along the way meant it would be nine hours before the Air-Crane reached Cajamarca. It was a long delay, but if they were lucky enough to find the Nighthawk—or major pieces of it—they’d need some way to haul it out of the jungle or off the moun
tains.
Shortly after takeoff, Emma used the encrypted satellite linkup to contact Steve Gowdy and give him a status update.
The NSA chief was blunt from the word go. “So, what was all that business with the fruit bowl?”
“Complimentary gift,” Kurt said. “We send one out to all the VIPs.”
“You’re not helping,” Emma said.
Kurt put up a hand and remained quiet for the rest of the call while Emma explained their new theory and vouched for Kurt’s belief that the NSA had a leak.
On-screen, Gowdy’s eyes narrowed, but instead of anger or defensive bluster, he said simply, “Falconer. I thought we’d determined that to be an unfounded rumor.”
“Listen to the tapes,” Emma suggested. “As they say, dead men tell no lies.”
Gowdy nodded. “I’ll start an immediate investigation. But if there is a mole in here somewhere, then you’d better be careful. Your move to Cajamarca might be front-page news already.”
“We haven’t reported it to anyone but you,” Emma replied. “But we’ll keep our eyes open.”
“You’re going to need more than that. I’m sending Hurns and Rodriguez back down to help you out. Don’t brush them off this time.”
Emma shook her head. “No deal,” she said. “If the Falconer is real and has a contact inside the NSA, it could be anyone. Even one of them, for all we know.”
“They’re field agents,” Gowdy said. “They have no access to Vandenberg. They weren’t even on the project until after the Nighthawk went missing. They’re clean, I promise you.”
Emma sighed and looked at Kurt. He shrugged. With a little luck, they’d have the Nighthawk in hand by the time the two agents arrived.
“I still don’t like it,” Emma said.
“And I don’t care,” Gowdy said. “They can stand by in Cajamarca in case you need them, but I’m sending them.”
She couldn’t argue with that. “Fine. Anything else?”
“Just be quick about this,” Gowdy said. “We’re running out of time.”
Kurt saw a look pass between the two of them. Even on a video screen, even from five thousand miles away, it was obvious and intimate—the acknowledgment of something unsaid.
Without another word, Gowdy signed off.
As the screen faded to black, Emma sat quietly.
Kurt looked on. It was now obvious to him that she was concealing something—probably on direct orders from Gowdy—but, as the saying went, a lie is a lie is a lie. And, in this business, the lack of information tended to get people killed, people like Kurt and Joe.
They touched down in Cajamarca thirty minutes later and Kurt stepped from the plane into the brisk mountain air. Cajamarca sat at nearly seven thousand feet. This time of year, the midday temperatures hovered in the fifties. Quite a change from the steamy subtropical heat of Guayaquil. It was also overcast and, as any skier could attest, the difference between clouds and sunshine at high elevations was far more pronounced than at sea level.
Pulling a black sweater over his head, Kurt moved down the stairs and signed a rental car agreement for a burnt-orange four-wheel drive Range Rover Sport. It sat on the ramp beside the plane, where it would be easy to load up. As Emma swept the vehicle for bugs, Kurt walked inside the small terminal, where he spied a pair of friendly faces.
Paul and Gamay Trout had been airlifted in from the Catalina and then flown up commercial, arriving shortly before the NUMA jet.