Wingo turned on the TV in his room to see if there was any more news about the missing money. Every local station was chasing the same story, but it wasn’t this story.
There had been an explosion at a motor court in south Alexandria. The cause of the explosion was unknown as yet. But he sat up when the news anchor mentioned something else, namely that the room had been rented long-term to a Jean Shepherd, whose whereabouts were currently unknown.
Jean Shepherd? That was Jean’s real name.
He thumbed in another message to Tyler, urgently asking his son to contact him. He waited. And then waited some more. His phone never vibrated.
He debated whether to drive over to the house and see what he could find out. But that would be suicide, he knew. Yet he seriously thought about chancing it to make sure his son was okay.
He contemplated Adeel’s email. Westerners coming into Afghanistan on a charter flight. Heron Air Service based out of Dulles, Virginia, which was not that far away. Could he maybe get a line on Tim Simons from Nebraska? It was the only lead he had right now. He rose, slipped his gun into its belt holster, and headed out.
Later, from inside his car, Wingo watched a jet lift into the air away from a storm approaching from the west. It made a graceful ascent, then performed a long bank to the south before leveling out and continuing its climb out from Dulles Airport.
Wingo took the fork to the right and made his way to the general aviation section of the sprawling 12,000-acre airport. It had been opened in 1972, and for many years had been largely unused by the flying public, which had preferred closer-in Washington National Airport. Now Dulles was one of the busiest terminals in the country, with short-haul flights to New York and nonstop routes to Tokyo. Its terminal roof, roughly in the shape of a wing, had been ultramodern when it was first built, though now it looked dated. The original control tower with the enormous pearl-white ball on top was no longer used. It had been replaced by a new tower about five years ago, and there were currently six air traffic controllers stationed there to keep the busy area skies safe.
Wingo had flown out of Dulles many times over the years. He had landed in a cargo plane here not that long ago. His name had been on the flight crew manifest, something that had cost him quite a bit of money. With private flights, the CBP, or Custom and Border Patrol agents, would meet the deplaning passengers at the front door of the fixed-base operator, or FBO, operating the flight. With cargo flights they came directly to the plane. They would check the people on board, but their chief concern was the cargo. It had been an ignominious homecoming but at least he had arrived back in the country safely. Before the CBP agents had even arrived he had walked directly out of the FBO, into a parking lot across the street, and from there to the rental center where he’d picked up his car.
Now Wingo parked his car, partially slid down his window, and took up observation with a pair of binoculars. He kept looking around for anyone watching him. He knew there were surveillance cameras everywhere, and he tried to keep out of the direct sight lines of the ones he could see. He knew there was a ramp tower that housed individuals whose job it was to keep things safe on the ground, looking for anything out of the ordinary that would require airport security to be called in. Wingo kept low in the seat for this reason.
People came and went from Cargo Buildings One through Four. These narrow warehouses, barely sixty feet deep, were home to mom-and-pop cargo consolidator companies. They packaged freight and loaded it into the bellies of planes.
Heron Air Service was located next to one of these cargo facilities. In the restricted lot behind the building Wingo could see jets of varying sizes either sitting with wheels chocked or else being prepped for departure; there was one jet heading in after taxiing off the runway. This was how the rich and well connected flew. No security lines, no parking problems, no dealing with the little people.
Wingo didn’t know if Heron was simply a charter company or did any freight business, but he had situated himself to be able to see both sectors of business conducted there as best he could. Still, Dulles Airport had over half a million square feet of cargo warehouse space and nearly a million square feet of cargo ramp. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of employees worked here, Wingo thought. Not to mention all the millions of people who came through as passengers. And while there might not be as many charter flights and passengers as on the commercial side of the airport, he was still looking for a needle in a haystack.
And then a miracle happened right in front of him.
He stiffened when he saw the man exit the offices of Heron Air Service. He wore a pilot’s uniform. He headed across the parking lot to his car.
Wingo snapped a picture of him with his cell phone.
The man climbed into a late-model Audi.
Wing noted the license plate and took a picture of it and the car. When the man drove off, Wingo fell in behind him.
The man was not Tim Simons from Nebraska.
But he was one of the men in that stone building in Afghanistan. And thus he represented the best and only lead Wingo had right now to uncover what the hell was going on.
CHAPTER
41
“DO YOU EVEN REALIZE how much trouble you’re in?”
The person asking this was not Agent McKinney. It was FBI Special Agent Dwayne Littlefield—or so said his ID badge. He had not bothered to formally introduce himself.
He was in his early forties, black, about six feet tall, with wide shoulders, big arms that strained against the dress shirt holding them in, and a thick, heavily veined neck. He looked strong enough to punch a hole in the metal door of the room they were in, and pissed off enough to do it.
Sean and Michelle sat stonily in their chairs at the FBI’s Washington Field Office in downtown D.C. Tyler was not with them. He had been led to another room, they assumed for a debrief or possibly interrogation.
Littlefield leaned into Sean’s face. “I asked a question.”
“I assumed it was a rhetorical one,” replied Sean. “But in case you were really wondering, I would say that we are duly aware of our surroundings and circumstances, yes.”
“Why in the hell did you think it was necessary to send an army of agents to come get us,” bristled Michelle. “Don’t you have a cell phone?”
Littlefield wheeled around on her. “Are you telling me how to do my damn job?”