The Racketeer

you?”
    “At the airport. I bought a ticket, made it through Customs, and I’ll board in an hour. So far, no problems. Where are you?”
    “I’m leaving this dump. I’ve loaded up the good stuff and put everything back in its place. The house is locked.”
    “Don’t worry about the house. He’ll never see it again.”
    “I know. I gave his dog a whole sackful of food. Maybe someone will check on him.”
    “Get away from that place.”
    “I’m leaving now.”
    “Just follow the plan and I’ll call when I can.”

CHAPTER 37
    I t’s almost eleven, Sunday morning, July 24, a hot clear day with little traffic around Radford. Vanessa wants to avoid another encounter with anyone who might see Nathan’s pickup truck and get suspicious. She heads north on the interstate, past Roanoke, into the heart of the Shenandoah Valley, driving as cautiously as humanly possible with the needle stuck on seventy miles per hour and every lane change properly telegraphed with a turn signal. She watches the rearview mirror because it’s now such a habit, and she watches every other vehicle to avoid any chance of a collision. On the passenger’s floorboard, and on the seat next to her, there is literally a fortune in gold, a fortune in unmarked and untraceable ingots freshly stolen from a thief who stole them from a crook who took them from a gang of thugs. How could she explain such a collection of precious metal to a nosy state trooper? She could not, so she drives as perfectly as possible as the 18-wheelers roar by in the left lane.
    She exits at a small town and drifts until she finds a cheap dollar store. The banner across the front windows advertises pre-back-to-school specials. She parks near the entrance and spreads a soiled blanket, taken from Nathan’s, over the cigar boxes. She puts the Glock under a corner of the blanket, next to her, and analyzes the parking lot. It’s virtually empty on a Sunday morning.Finally, she takes a deep breath, gets out, locks the truck, and hurries inside. In less than ten minutes, Vanessa buys ten kids’ backpacks, all with a Desert Storm camouflage motif. She pays in cash and does not respond when the cashier quips, “Must have a lot of kids heading back to school.”
    She shoves her purchases into the cab of the truck and heads back to the interstate. An hour later, she finds a truck stop near Staunton, Virginia, and parks next to the rigs. When she’s certain that no one is watching, she begins to quickly stuff the cigar boxes into the backpacks, two of which are not used.
    She fills up the tank, eats lunch from a fast-food drive-through, and kills time roaming up and down Interstate 81, as far north as Maryland and as far south as Roanoke. The hours drag by. She cannot park and leave the jackpot. It has to be guarded at all times, so she flows with the traffic while she waits on darkness.

    I’m pacing in a crowded and humid wing of the San Juan airport, waiting on a Delta flight to Atlanta. My ticket was purchased in the name of Malcolm Bannister, and his old passport worked just fine. It will expire in four months. The last time it was used, Dionne and I escaped on a cheap cruise to the Bahamas. Another lifetime.
    I call Vanessa twice and we speak in code. Got the goods. Packages are fine. She’s moving around, following the plan. If a spook somewhere is listening, then he’s scratching his head.
    At 3:30 we finally board, and then sit for an hour in the sweltering cabin as a howling storm pounds the airport and the pilots go mute. At least two babies are squalling behind me. As tempers rise, I close my eyes and try to nap, but I have deprived myself of sleep for so long I have forgotten how to doze off. Instead, I thinkof Nathan Cooley and his hopeless situation, though I have little sympathy. I think of Vanessa and smile at her toughness under pressure. We are so close to the finish line, but there are still so many ways to fail. We have the gold, but can we keep it?
    I wake up as we lurch forward and begin rumbling down the runway. Two hours later we land in Atlanta. At Passport Control, I manage to avoid the counters manned by black Customs agents and instead pick a beefy young white boy who seems to be bored and indifferent. He takes my passport, glances at a nine-year-old photo of Malcolm Bannister, quickly compares it to the revised face of Max Reed Baldwin, and sees nothing unusual. We all look the same.
    I am assuming Customs has by now notified the FBI that I