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“You’re on,” she replied.
17
While Holly was working on her Agency computer, another user had logged on from the Bahamas, routing his connection through a number of other computers around the country. Teddy Fay knew the CIA computer system better than most of its employees, and he routed through the mainframe to connect with the Federal Aviation Administration’s list of U.S.-registered aircraft at a level that allowed him to edit. He created a new entry, gave the airplane a registration number that had not been assigned to any other airplane and entered the name and bogus address in South Florida that he had chosen for himself. That done, Teddy packed up his laptop, got up from his makeshift desk in a corner of the ramshackle hangar he had rented for the past few weeks and put the case into the luggage compartment of his airplane, along with the possessions he considered necessary to maintain whatever identity and appearance he chose.
For some years now, Teddy had been retired from the CIA, where he had been a highly placed member of the Technical Services Department, the division of the Agency that supplies its agents with identities, passports, disguises, weapons, clothing and any other resource they require to roam the world, doing the bidding of their masters. Almost since the day of his retirement, Teddy had been a fugitive, having employed the skills he learned during his thirty-year career to deliver his own brand of justice to those who had disagreed with him, some of them highly placed in the government.
He had faked his death a couple of times, but he knew there were those at the Agency who still wanted him even more dead. His greatest protection lay in the fact that the denial of his existence was just as much in their interests as in his.
His Cessna airplane, a model 182 retractable, sported a new paint job that masked a number of replacement-skin panels where the aircraft had taken fire from one of the Agency’s minions some weeks before. He shook a rolled-up sheet of plastic from a cardboard tube, peeled a layer of it away and applied it to the rear of the airplane, repeating the process on the other side. Then he peeled off another layer, leaving his brand-new registration number affixed to the airplane.
That done and the airplane packed, he swung open the doors of the battered hangar and, employing a tow bar, rolled the airplane out onto the weedy tarmac. Ten minutes later he was headed north-west at a very low altitude, nearly skimming the waves. Whenever he saw a boat in the distance he swung astern of it and kept far enough away so that no one aboard could note his tail number, then he resumed his old course, using the onboard GPS units.
He made landfall at the northern end of Amelia Island, Florida’s northernmost barrier island. Shortly, he spotted the Fernandina Beach Airport a few miles away and climbed to pattern altitude. He announced his intention to land over the local radio frequency, entered the traffic pattern, set down and taxied over to the local fixed-base operator or FBO. He shut down the engine, went inside and ordered fuel.
“Where you in from?” the woman at the desk asked.
“I’ve been visiting my sister in north Georgia,” he replied.
“Where you bound for?”
“Key West,” he replied. “I’m based there.” He paid for the fuel with a credit card from a Cayman Islands bank, where his comfortable wealth was on deposit, took off and headed south, under visual flight rules. Forty minutes later he called the Vero Beach tower and received landing instructions. Once on the ground he arranged for a tie-down space, ordered fuel, then went into the SunJet Aviation terminal, carrying his briefcase, and found an attractive middle-aged woman waiting for him.
“Adele Mason?” he asked.
“Mr. Smithson?” she replied. They shook hands.
“Jack,” he said.
“Jack, I have half a dozen properties to show you,” Adele said. “My car is right outside.”
Teddy followed her to the car.
“I thought we’d start with a couple of beachfront properties,” she said. “They’re more expensive than things on the mainland, though.”
“That’s all right,” Teddy said. As she drove, he memorized the route from the airport to the beach.
Once on the barrier island, she drove south for a couple of miles, through a comfortable-looking, older neighborhood, then she turned down a driveway. They passed a 1950s ranch house.
“That’s the main house,” she said. “The owners live in Atlanta and don’t get down all that often. The guesthouse is next.” She continued past the main house, drove behind a hedge and stopped at a small cottage.
Teddy could see the ocean thirty yards away. He got out of the car and followed her to the front door. She unlocked it and led him inside.
The house reminded him of his childhood on Chesapeake Bay, on the eastern shore of Maryland. There was a living room with a small dining table, a kitchen with older appliances, two small bedrooms and a small room with a desk in it.
“How much?” he asked.
She told him.
“How long?”
“As long as you like.”
“I’ll take it.”
She looked surprised. “Don’t you want to look at anything else?”
“No. This is perfect. Did you bring a lease?”
