The Eyes of Darkness

too thin. What you should be doing—"
    "I'll make those decisions," Alexander said icily.
    "What about the airport?"
    "That's taken care of," Alexander assured him. "We've got men going over the passenger lists of every outbound flight." He picked up an ivory-handled letter opener, turned it over and over in his hands. "Anyway, even if we're spread a bit thin, it doesn't matter much. I already know where we're going to nail Stryker. Here. Right here in this house. That's why I'm still hanging around. Oh, I know, I know, you don't think he'll show up. But a long time ago you were Stryker's mentor, the man he respected, the man he learned from, and now you've betrayed him. He'll come here to confront you, even if he knows it's risky. I'm sure he will."
    "Ridiculous," Kennebeck said sourly. "Our relationship was never like that. He—"
    "I know human nature," Alexander said, though he was one of the least observant and least analytical men that Kennebeck had ever known.
    These days cream seldom rose in the intelligence community—but crap still floated.
    Angry, frustrated, Kennebeck turned again to the bottle that contained the French frigate. Suddenly he remembered something important about Elliot Stryker. "Ah," he said.
    Alexander put down the enameled cigarette box that he had been studying. "What is it?"
    "Elliot's a pilot. He owns his own plane."
    Alexander frowned.
    "Have you been checking small craft leaving the airport?" Kennebeck asked.
    "No. Just scheduled airliners and charters."
    "Ah."
    "He'd have had to take off in the dark," Alexander said. "You think he's licensed for instrument flying? Most businessmen-pilots and hobby pilots aren't certified for anything but daylight."
    "Better get hold of your men at the airport," Kennebeck said. "I already know what they're going to find. I'll bet a hundred bucks to a dime Elliot slipped out of town under your nose."
     
    •         •          •
     
    The Cessna Turbo Skylane RG knifed through the darkness, two miles above the Nevada desert, with the low clouds under it, wings plated silver by moonlight.
    "Elliot?"
    "Hmmm?"
    "I'm sorry I got you mixed up in this."
    "You don't like my company?"
    "You know what I mean. I'm really sorry."
    "Hey, you didn't get me mixed up in it. You didn't twist my arm. I practically volunteered to help you with the exhumation, and it all just fell apart from there. It's not your fault."
    "Still . . . here you are, running for your life, and all because of me."
    "Nonsense. You couldn't have known what would happen after I talked to Kennebeck."
    "I can't help feeling guilty about involving you."
    "If it wasn't me, it would have been some other attorney. And maybe he wouldn't have known how to handle Vince. In which case, both he and you might be dead. So if you look at it that way, it worked out as well as it possibly could."
    "You're really something else," she said.
    "What else am I?"
    "Lots of things."
    "Such as?"
    "Terrific."
    "Not me. What else?"
    "Brave."
    "Bravery is a virtue of fools."
    "Smart."
    "Not as smart as I think I am."
    "Tough."
    "I cry at sad movies. See, I'm not as great as you think I am."
    "You can cook."
    "Now that's true!"
    The Cessna hit an air pocket, dropped three hundred feet with a sickening lurch, and then soared to its correct altitude.
    "A great cook but a lousy pilot," she said.
    "That was God's turbulence. Complain to Him."
    "How long till we land in Reno?"
    "Eighty minutes."
     
    •         •         •
     
    George Alexander hung up the telephone. He was still sitting in Kennebeck's wing chair. "Stryker and the woman took off from McCarran International more than two hours ago. They left in his Cessna. He filed a flight plan for Flagstaff."
    The judge stopped pacing. "Arizona?"
    "That's the only Flagstaff I know. But why would they go to Arizona, of all places?"
    "They probably didn't," Kennebeck said. "I figure Elliot filed a false flight plan to throw you off his trail." He was perversely proud of Stryker's cleverness.
    "If they actually headed for Flagstaff," Alexander said, "they ought to have landed by now. I'll call the night manager at the airport down there, pretend to be FBI, see what he can tell me."
    Because the Network did not officially exist, it couldn't openly use its authority to gather information. As a result, Network agents routinely posed as FBI men, with counterfeit credentials in the names of actual FBI agents.
    While he waited for Alexander to