The warren of Knightsbridge was abustle as usual, the corridors filled with
agents and staff hurrying about their respective assignments with
coordinated delicacy. The waters of this bureaucratic pond parted as if by
magic, however, to permit the passage of Jason Locke without hindrance.
One look at the thundercloud that sat across the black agent's brow and
even these trained operatives stood aside, none daring to interfere with
whatever purpose took him striding through their midst.
Even Dolly Burke, Newman's usually intrepid secretary, could only gawk without protest when he stormed her boss's stronghold. Dolly might be fearless, but she was far from suicidal.
The office door had barely slammed shut behind him before Jason was across the room, leaning his palms flat on Donald Newman's polished desk. "Pamela's dead," he gritted, his rage skewering the older agent as though on a spit.
Except for mild surprise at the precipitous entrance, Newman's lined face held little reaction to the announcement. He casually slid the photograph he'd been examining back into the top drawer of his desk, then leaned back in his leather wingbacked chair until he could see the other without having to crane his neck. "So I've been given to understand," he drawled, his Savannah accent very pronounced, a sure sign of distraction. "Needless to say, ah've been keeping my eye on the case despite the fact that this is not a matter for our division."
The last statement was a clear enough warning, one that Jason ignored as thoroughly as if it'd not been spoken at all. "Pamela Billingsley was one of the best agents Archangel had. Her cover was blown because someone on the inside leaked her identity."
Something indecipherable flashed in the older man's brown eyes at that although his expression was carefully neutral. He steepled his fingers and gazed calmly into Jason's tight face. "Ah'm sorry the woman is dead, but I think looking for a traitor within the gates might be giving her just a little too much credit. It's long been evident that Michael tended to choose a woman more for her appearance than her abilities, and given Miss Billingsley's more ... er ... aesthetic attributes...."
If he was expecting this to defuse the incipient fury building behind Locke's dark eyes he was doomed to be disappointed. The black agent's full lips tightened even further. "I knew Pamela personally -- worked with her in the past. She wasn't hired because of her legs but because she was the best undercover operative in the business."
"Meaning you still believe there's a leak in the Company," Newman translated, focussing at some point over Jason's shoulder.
Locke took a deep breath and straightened, staring thoughtfully at the prints his hands had left on the top of the desk. "There's no doubt in my mind."
"Tell me what you have." The words were spoken almost reluctantly as if Newman didn't really want to know. They earned a curiously flat look from Locke, whose anger had not abated.
"We have more than we expected. Before she died, Pamela managed to get a name to us -- Morris' employer."
"John Bradford Horn." Donald Newman, code named Apollo, murmured the name quietly, only then offering his associate an explanatory shrug. "I had access to the police reports, too."
"You mean the empty file?" Jason shot at him, studying his superior intently.
Newman sensed the scrutiny and returned an irritated glare and a dismissive wave. "After twenty-five years in this organization, I hardly qualify as an amateur, Mister Locke. Proceed with your report." He smiled thinly. "As evidently you did not follow my cease and desist order."
Jason's countenance did not alter although his stance stiffened ever so slightly. "One priority is to find out who arranged that meeting between Archangel and Stringfellow Hawke. Michael's communications officer, Sun Li, checked out in the clear; whoever sent the revised location schedules could be our man. I have a team of experts working on that angle."
"Makes sense," Newman said, his tones again betraying a mind that was far away from the present situation. He cracked open his drawer until the overhead lights glinted on the photograph he'd been perusing when Locke had entered. "What else?"
Jason went on with his report, now frankly studying his superior. "We've got APB's out on Horn and Bishop Morris. I know Morris rented a car at the airport, then switched to another one somewhere outside of the Los Angeles area. California Highway Patrol has a lead on direction. We hope to have at least an approximate location soon."
Apollo nodded, sliding his hand into the drawer in a tender gesture. "Very good, Mister Locke. I'll arrange for an old associate of mine to give you assistance. Fran Carrigan is with the Las Vegas police; he could be useful for narrowing your search further."
He reached for the phone, dialing a number rapidly from memory. He kept his head down, carefully avoiding eye contact, and thus missed seeing the expression of revelation cross his subordinates face. "Hel-- What are you doing?" This last was in response to the dark finger pressing down the receiver hook. Newman looked up, gaping to find a small, dark-metalled automatic pistol pointed at the exact spot marking the center of his forehead. "You'd better have a very good explanation for your actions, Mr. Locke," he blustered, recradling the receiver.
Jason's mustache twitched in a humorless smile. "I think your being an accessory to murder explains my actions pretty well," he returned coolly. He cocked his head, something akin to disappointment joining the burning anger behind his black eyes. "I didn't want to believe it was you," he stated flatly. "Even though you were the only one outside of myself and the Airwolf team who knew about Pamela's contact with Morris, I kept looking for another mole. Even when my instincts were screaming at me that you were up to something, I wanted to trust you."
"In this business, one is always up to something," the older man retorted in an unsuccessful attempt at bravado. When Locke merely gazed at him, he sighed, carefully lifting both hands into plain sight. "You can't interfere, Jason. I'm begging you not to try. There's more at stake here than you can imagine."
"Suppose you enlighten me," the black agent suggested with mock reasonableness. As an afterthought he leaned over and opened the desk drawer, pulling out the object Newman had been touching. It was a framed picture of a girl of about eight -- his daughter. Locke tossed it back dismissively, ignoring the automatic protest of the older man.
"I...." Newman aborted the essay abruptly, pressing his lips tight together and shaking his head. With his slumped shoulders and lined face he suddenly looked much older than his fifty-five years.
Jason waited a full sixty seconds; when it became apparent he was going to get no more from the man, he gestured him to his feet with the pistol. "My biggest problem right now is not knowing how far this treachery has gone," he said grimly. "I can't rely on your not having accomplices within the organization -- not with the lives of two people at stake." He waggled the gun again more forcefully. "We're going for a little ride, Donald, to make contact with some people I can trust. Come out from behind that desk."
Newman obeyed, only pausing when they were abreast to ask quietly, "What makes you think I'm guilty? Pamela could have told someone of her assignment."
Newman debated silently, then met his gaze. "As I said, you were the only person outside of my team who knew Pamela was going to meet with Morris yesterday; that was the first clue. Second, I traced the codes used to erase the police report on Pamela's death; that a contact of mine found out about her death at all was the purest accident. I couldn't pinpoint anyone specific, but they would have had to come from near Committee level to override my requests." He jerked his head at the cradled phone. "That decided it for me. I never said anything about Nevada even though that is where we're concentrating the search ... as of fifteen minutes ago. And I've been calling the Las Vegas police department among others for the past two hours -- that wasn't their number you were dialing."
Newman licked his lips, body tense, and Jason braced himself for the attack he was sure was to follow. Then the older man relaxed again, recognizing the futility of any attempt at this point. "You're making a mistake," was all he said.
Locke gestured him on ahead. "Maybe, but with the lives of two good men at stake, I'd rather err on the side of circumstantial evidence and my own intuition. Let's go. We're going to pay a visit to Santini Air."
***
Even Dolly Burke, Newman's usually intrepid secretary, could only gawk without protest when he stormed her boss's stronghold. Dolly might be fearless, but she was far from suicidal.
The office door had barely slammed shut behind him before Jason was across the room, leaning his palms flat on Donald Newman's polished desk. "Pamela's dead," he gritted, his rage skewering the older agent as though on a spit.
Except for mild surprise at the precipitous entrance, Newman's lined face held little reaction to the announcement. He casually slid the photograph he'd been examining back into the top drawer of his desk, then leaned back in his leather wingbacked chair until he could see the other without having to crane his neck. "So I've been given to understand," he drawled, his Savannah accent very pronounced, a sure sign of distraction. "Needless to say, ah've been keeping my eye on the case despite the fact that this is not a matter for our division."
The last statement was a clear enough warning, one that Jason ignored as thoroughly as if it'd not been spoken at all. "Pamela Billingsley was one of the best agents Archangel had. Her cover was blown because someone on the inside leaked her identity."
Something indecipherable flashed in the older man's brown eyes at that although his expression was carefully neutral. He steepled his fingers and gazed calmly into Jason's tight face. "Ah'm sorry the woman is dead, but I think looking for a traitor within the gates might be giving her just a little too much credit. It's long been evident that Michael tended to choose a woman more for her appearance than her abilities, and given Miss Billingsley's more ... er ... aesthetic attributes...."
If he was expecting this to defuse the incipient fury building behind Locke's dark eyes he was doomed to be disappointed. The black agent's full lips tightened even further. "I knew Pamela personally -- worked with her in the past. She wasn't hired because of her legs but because she was the best undercover operative in the business."
"Meaning you still believe there's a leak in the Company," Newman translated, focussing at some point over Jason's shoulder.
Locke took a deep breath and straightened, staring thoughtfully at the prints his hands had left on the top of the desk. "There's no doubt in my mind."
"Tell me what you have." The words were spoken almost reluctantly as if Newman didn't really want to know. They earned a curiously flat look from Locke, whose anger had not abated.
"We have more than we expected. Before she died, Pamela managed to get a name to us -- Morris' employer."
"John Bradford Horn." Donald Newman, code named Apollo, murmured the name quietly, only then offering his associate an explanatory shrug. "I had access to the police reports, too."
"You mean the empty file?" Jason shot at him, studying his superior intently.
Newman sensed the scrutiny and returned an irritated glare and a dismissive wave. "After twenty-five years in this organization, I hardly qualify as an amateur, Mister Locke. Proceed with your report." He smiled thinly. "As evidently you did not follow my cease and desist order."
Jason's countenance did not alter although his stance stiffened ever so slightly. "One priority is to find out who arranged that meeting between Archangel and Stringfellow Hawke. Michael's communications officer, Sun Li, checked out in the clear; whoever sent the revised location schedules could be our man. I have a team of experts working on that angle."
"Makes sense," Newman said, his tones again betraying a mind that was far away from the present situation. He cracked open his drawer until the overhead lights glinted on the photograph he'd been perusing when Locke had entered. "What else?"
Jason went on with his report, now frankly studying his superior. "We've got APB's out on Horn and Bishop Morris. I know Morris rented a car at the airport, then switched to another one somewhere outside of the Los Angeles area. California Highway Patrol has a lead on direction. We hope to have at least an approximate location soon."
Apollo nodded, sliding his hand into the drawer in a tender gesture. "Very good, Mister Locke. I'll arrange for an old associate of mine to give you assistance. Fran Carrigan is with the Las Vegas police; he could be useful for narrowing your search further."
He reached for the phone, dialing a number rapidly from memory. He kept his head down, carefully avoiding eye contact, and thus missed seeing the expression of revelation cross his subordinates face. "Hel-- What are you doing?" This last was in response to the dark finger pressing down the receiver hook. Newman looked up, gaping to find a small, dark-metalled automatic pistol pointed at the exact spot marking the center of his forehead. "You'd better have a very good explanation for your actions, Mr. Locke," he blustered, recradling the receiver.
Jason's mustache twitched in a humorless smile. "I think your being an accessory to murder explains my actions pretty well," he returned coolly. He cocked his head, something akin to disappointment joining the burning anger behind his black eyes. "I didn't want to believe it was you," he stated flatly. "Even though you were the only one outside of myself and the Airwolf team who knew about Pamela's contact with Morris, I kept looking for another mole. Even when my instincts were screaming at me that you were up to something, I wanted to trust you."
"In this business, one is always up to something," the older man retorted in an unsuccessful attempt at bravado. When Locke merely gazed at him, he sighed, carefully lifting both hands into plain sight. "You can't interfere, Jason. I'm begging you not to try. There's more at stake here than you can imagine."
"Suppose you enlighten me," the black agent suggested with mock reasonableness. As an afterthought he leaned over and opened the desk drawer, pulling out the object Newman had been touching. It was a framed picture of a girl of about eight -- his daughter. Locke tossed it back dismissively, ignoring the automatic protest of the older man.
"I...." Newman aborted the essay abruptly, pressing his lips tight together and shaking his head. With his slumped shoulders and lined face he suddenly looked much older than his fifty-five years.
Jason waited a full sixty seconds; when it became apparent he was going to get no more from the man, he gestured him to his feet with the pistol. "My biggest problem right now is not knowing how far this treachery has gone," he said grimly. "I can't rely on your not having accomplices within the organization -- not with the lives of two people at stake." He waggled the gun again more forcefully. "We're going for a little ride, Donald, to make contact with some people I can trust. Come out from behind that desk."
Newman obeyed, only pausing when they were abreast to ask quietly, "What makes you think I'm guilty? Pamela could have told someone of her assignment."
Newman debated silently, then met his gaze. "As I said, you were the only person outside of my team who knew Pamela was going to meet with Morris yesterday; that was the first clue. Second, I traced the codes used to erase the police report on Pamela's death; that a contact of mine found out about her death at all was the purest accident. I couldn't pinpoint anyone specific, but they would have had to come from near Committee level to override my requests." He jerked his head at the cradled phone. "That decided it for me. I never said anything about Nevada even though that is where we're concentrating the search ... as of fifteen minutes ago. And I've been calling the Las Vegas police department among others for the past two hours -- that wasn't their number you were dialing."
Newman licked his lips, body tense, and Jason braced himself for the attack he was sure was to follow. Then the older man relaxed again, recognizing the futility of any attempt at this point. "You're making a mistake," was all he said.
Locke gestured him on ahead. "Maybe, but with the lives of two good men at stake, I'd rather err on the side of circumstantial evidence and my own intuition. Let's go. We're going to pay a visit to Santini Air."
***