“The number is N94732. It’ll take you to the fixed-base operator terminal in Atlanta. I’ll meet you there.”
“We can’t go together?”
“No. Safer this way. I’m flying to Charlotte and then driving to Georgia. From there, St. Croix and eventually France.”
There was a company in Paris that had an active small modular reactor operation. He and Marianne had talked about opening a joint venture between HEP and Fabrication de Systèmes Nucléaire de la Loire.
“You’ve been brushing up on your French, right?”
“Oui. Like you said.”
“That’s my girl. Now, there’s a go-bag for you in the bottom of my office closet.”
“You made one for me?” Her voice was now adoring.
“Of course I did.” He gave a kind laugh. “There’s about two hundred thousand in it. Go into the office in the morning, act like nothing’s happened. If anybody asks where I am, tell them I’ve gone to Washington for a meeting with the NRC.”
“Marty, what do they know?” The adoration had slipped.
“I think we’re safe. There’s no evidence. No traceable phone calls, no emails, no paperwork. I’ve planted stories that those two men wanted to kill Allison because of her containment vessel. Sabotage. And the move overseas? I’d had enough. Armed spies stealing the S.I.T. trigger? Attempted murder of my engineer? Maybe I’d be next. And we left together... because we’re in love.”
“Oh, Marty...” The worship was back.
“I should go. Eleven tomorrow.”
“N94732.”
“Good, baby. I love you.”
“Love you, Marty.”
Harmon disconnected, started the car and drove to the edge of the truck stop, a particularly dingy area of crumbling asphalt, discarded truck parts, patches of grease and oil, sickly vegetation dying from spilt chemicals. He parked under a large, full beech tree—the species that loses its leaves last of all deciduous trees. He was next to a black Cadillac sedan, engine idling. The sedan was registered in the name of Harmon Energy.
He nodded to the sturdy driver, who rolled down the window. He was wearing latex gloves. Harmon handed him an envelope of ten thousand dollars and his phone. The man put the car in gear and sped from the lot. He had instructions to drive to an international airport a hundred miles away, where the car would be left in long-term parking, after imprinting its presence on a half-dozen video cameras.
Harmon opened the trunk of the Maserati and took from it a large backpack and his own go-bag, which contained several passports—his picture, but different names and dates of birth—and eight hundred thousand in cash. This was merely spending and bribe money for him. The bulk of his resources were in Bitcoin vaults.
He still resented that his coffers were diminished by the $200K he’d set aside for Marianne Keller. He had debated a figure. Then decided that a fifth of a million would make her believe that he was sincere and truly wanted her with him in his new life.
She’d never suspect what was really going to happen: that she’d be arrested as she left HEP to catch a private jet that didn’t exist, carrying cash that Harmon’s anonymous call would report she’d stolen from the company.
Then a police search of her computer would find it brimming with those very incriminating memos and emails that he claimeddidn’t exist—linking her to Moll and Desmond and the death of the truck driver and the cover-up of the spill.
They’d find emails too from Dom Ryan, who had—thank you, God—been killed up at that lake house. The best kind of witness.
Oh, everything would all lead back to Harmon ultimately. But the essence of escape is diversion and misdirection. By the time they tied the pieces together, he would be safely ensconced in his new home, immune from extradition.
A home that was not in the French Republic.
Leaving the lovely car unlocked, he tossed the keys on the floor. He smiled sadly in farewell; he had no idea what its fate would be. But in this part of the state it would disappear within the hour. What exactly a meth cooker would do with this masterpiece of a vehicle he had no idea. Probably he’d just change the plates and drive it; the market for chopped parts from an Italian supercar was somewhat limited.
A moment later a box truck drove slowly under the beech tree, its back door open.
The vehicle didn’t stop but was going slowly enough that Harmon could easily toss in his bags and jump inside after them. He pulled the back panel down. Security cameras and any extremely unlikely drones would have seen zip.
Harmon slapped the front of the box and the driver began to accelerate.
Quite the elaborate plan.