Tripwire
But the final sheet in Kaplan’s file was dated exactly two years later than the final mission report. It was a formal determination made after due consideration of the circumstances by the Department of the Army that F. G. Kaplan had been killed in action four miles west of the An Khe Pass when the helicopter he was copiloting was brought down by enemy ground-to-air fire. No body had been recovered, but the death was to be considered as actual for purposes of memorializing and payment of pensions. Reacher squared the sheet of paper on the desk.
"So why doesn’t Victor Hobie have one of these?"
Conrad shook his head. "I don’t know."
"I want to go to Texas," Reacher said.
NOI BAI AIRPORT outside Hanoi and Hickam Field outside Honolulu share exactly the same latitude, so the U.S. Air Force Starlifter flew neither north nor south. It just followed a pure west-east flight path across the Pacific, holding comfortably between the Tropic of Cancer and the Twentieth Parallel. Six thousand miles, six hundred miles an hour, ten hours’ flight time, but it was on approach seven hours before it took off, at three o’clock in the afternoon of the day before. The Air Force captain made the usual announcement as they crossed the date line and the tall silver-haired American in the rear of the cockpit wound his watch back and added another bonus day to his life.
Hickam Field is Hawaii’s main military air facility, but it shares runway space and air-traffic control with Honolulu International, so the Starlifter had to turn a wide, weary circle above the sea, waiting for a JAL 747 from Tokyo to get down. Then it turned in and flattened and came down behind it, tires shrieking, engines screaming with reverse thrust. The pilot was not concerned with the niceties of civilian flying, so she jammed the brakes on hard and stopped short enough to get off the runway on the first taxiway. There was a standing request from the airport to keep the military planes away from the tourists. Especially the Japanese tourists. This pilot was from Connecticut and had no real interest in Hawaii’s staple industry or Oriental sensitivities, but the first taxiway gave her a shorter run to the military compound, which is why she always aimed to take it.
The Starlifter taxied slowly, as was appropriate, and stopped fifty yards from a long, low cement building near the wire. The pilot shut down her engines and sat in silence. Ground crew in full uniform marched slowly toward the belly of the plane, dragging a fat cable behind them. They latched it into a port under the nose and the plane’s systems kicked in again under the airfield’s own power. That way, the ceremony could be conducted in silence.
The honor guard at Hickam that day was the usual eight men in the usual mosaic of four different full-dress uniforms, two from the United States Army, two from the United States Navy, two from the United States Marine Corps, and two from the United States Air Force. The eight slow-marched forward and waited in silent formation. The pilot hit the switch and the rear ramp came whining down. It settled against the hot blacktop of American territory and the guard slow-marched up its exact center into the belly of the plane. They passed between the twin lines of silent aircrew and moved forward. The loadmaster removed the rubber straps and the guard lifted the first casket off the shelves and onto their shoulders. They slow-marched back with it through the darkened fuselage and down the ramp and out into the blazing afternoon, the shined aluminum winking and the flag glowing bright in the sun against the blue Pacific and the green highlands of Oahu. They right-wheeled on the apron and slow-marched the fifty yards to the long, low cement building. They went inside and bent their knees and laid the casket down. They stood in silence, hands folded behind them, heads bowed, and then they about-turned and slow-marched back toward the plane.
It took an hour to unload all seven of the caskets. Only when the task was complete did the tall silver-haired American leave his seat. He used the pilot’s stairway, and paused at the top to stretch his weary limbs in the sun.
Chapter 12
STONE HAD TO wait five minutes behind the black glass in the rear of the Tahoe, because the loading dock under the World Trade Center was busy. Tony loitered nearby, leaning on a pillar in the noisy dark, waiting until a delivery truck moved out in a blast of diesel and there was a moment before the next one could move in. He used that moment to hustle Stone across the garage to the freight elevator. He hit the button and they rode up in silence, heads down, breathing hard, smelling the strong smell of the tough rubber floor. They came out in the back of the eighty-eighth floor lobby and Tony scanned ahead. The way was clear to the door of Hobie’s suite.
The thickset man was at the reception counter. They walked straight past him into the office. It was dark, as usual. The blinds were pulled tight and it was quiet. Hobie was at the desk, sitting still and silent, gazing at Marilyn, who was on the sofa with her legs tucked underneath her.
"Well?" he asked. "Mission accomplished?"
Stone nodded. "She got inside OK."
"Where?" Marilyn asked. "Which hospital?"
"St. Vincent’s," Tony said. "Straight into the ER."
Stone nodded to confirm it and he saw Marilyn smile a slight smile of relief.
"OK," Hobie said into the silence. "’That’s the good deed for the day. Now we do business. What are these complications I need to know about?"
Tony shoved Stone around the coffee table to the sofa. He sat down heavily next to Marilyn and stared straight ahead, focusing on nothing.
"Well?" Hobie said again.
"The stock," Marilyn said. "He doesn’t own it outright."
Hobie stared at her. "Yes he damn well does. I checked it at the Exchange."
She nodded. "Well, yes, he owns it. What I mean is, he doesn’t control it. He doesn’t have free access to it."
"Why the hell not?"
"There’s a trust. Access is regulated by the trustees."
"What trust? Why?"
"His father set it up, before he died. He didn’t trust Chester to handle it all outright. He felt he needed supervision."
Hobie stared at her.
"Any major stock disposals need to be co-signed," she said. "By the trustees."
There was silence.
"Both of them," she said.
Hobie switched his gaze to Chester Stone. It was like a searchlight beam flicking sideways. Marilyn watched his good eye. Watched him thinking. Watched him buying into the lie, like she knew he would, because it jibed with what he thought he already knew. Chester’s business was failing, because he was a bad businessman. A bad businessman would have been spotted early by a close relative like a father. And a responsible father would have protected the family heritage with a trust.
"It’s unbreakable," she said. "God knows we’ve tried often enough."
Hobie nodded. Just a slight movement of his head. Almost imperceptible. Marilyn smiled inside. Smiled with triumph. Her final comment had done it to him. A trust was a thing to be broken. It had to be fought. Therefore the attempts to fight it proved it existed.
"Who are the trustees?" he asked quietly.
"I’m one of them," she said. "The other is the senior partner at his law firm."
"Just two trustees?"
She nodded.
"And you’re one of them?"
She nodded again. "And you’ve already got my vote. I just want to get rid of the whole damn thing and get you off our backs."
Hobie nodded back to her. "You’re a smart woman."
"Which law firm?" Tony asked.
"Forster and Abelstein," she said. "Right here in town."
"Who’s the senior partner?" Tony asked.
"A guy called David Forster," Marilyn said.
"How do we set up the meeting?" Hobie asked.
"I call him," Marilyn said. "Or Chester does, but I think right now it would be better if I did."
"So call him, set it up for this afternoon."
She shook her head. "Won’t be that quick. Could be a couple of days."
There was silence. Just the boom and shudder of the giant building breathing. Hobie tapped his hook on the desk. He closed his eyes. The damaged eyelid stayed open a fraction. The eyeball rolled up and showed white, like a crescent moon.
"Tomorrow morning," he said quietly. "At the very latest. Tell him it’s a matter of considerable urgency to you."
Then his eyes snapped open.
"And tell him to fax the trust deeds to me," he whispered. "Immediately. I need to know what the hell I’m dealing with."
Marilyn was shaking inside. She pushed down on the soft upholstery, trying to ground herself. "There won’t be a problem. It’s really just a formality."
"So let’s go make the call," Hobie said.
Marilyn was unsteady on her feet. She stood swaying, smoothing the dress down over her thighs. Chester touched her elbow, just for a second. A tiny gesture of support. She straightened and followed Hobie out to the reception counter.
"Dial nine for a line," he said.
She moved behind the counter and the three men watched her. The phone was a small console. She scanned across the buttons and saw no speakerphone facility. She relaxed a fraction and picked up the handset. Pressed nine and heard a dial tone.
"Behave yourself," Hobie said. "You’re a smart woman, remember, and right now you need to stay smart."
She nodded. He raised the hook. It glittered in the artificial light. It looked heavy. It was beautifully made and lovingly polished, mechanically simple and terribly brutal. She saw him inviting her to imagine the things that could be done with it.