Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [117]
This time, when Traxler didn’t say anything, Pauling grabbed his face and squeezed hard, pressing the heel of his hand against the FBI agent’s nose. He put all the fury and loss and sadness of Bill Lerner’s death, the woman at the Jasper ranch, the victims of the plane crash, even the slain Russian into his grip. Traxler whined from the excruciating pain and slipped down in the chair. Pauling stood, yanked him up to a sitting position, and brought his face within inches. “When?” he repeated with vengeance. “Tonight?”
Traxler’s nod was almost imperceptible.
Pauling stepped back and asked Jessica, “There a phone here?”
She shrugged, started to look for one. “No,” she said from the far end of the room.
“You have a cell phone?” Pauling asked Traxler.
“Go to hell.”
Pauling brought the back of his hand against the side of Traxler’s face. “Where’s the nearest phone, Traxler?”
Silence.
Pauling handed the Glock to Jessica: “Keep it on him, Jess, and don’t be afraid; if he moves, use it.” He went to the kitchen and rummaged through several drawers, coming up with a roll of gray duct tape. He returned to the main room, shoved Traxler against a wall, and taped his hands behind him. “Let’s go,” he said.
They exited through the rear door and went to Pauling’s rented Caprice. Traxler was stuffed into the backseat, and Pauling used more tape to secure his ankles and mouth. Jessica, still holding the Glock, got in the front passenger seat while Pauling backed out from beneath the trees, clipping the sideview mirror against one and knocking it off. “Going to be an expensive rental,” he grumbled, coming forward again, then going into reverse and clearing the obstacle. He could barely see, but he managed to reach the road in front of the cabin.
Chapter 45
That Same Night
Pittsburgh
“Your flight’s ready to board, Senator Jackson,” the VIP lounge’s hostess said.
“Great,” he said. “Thanks.”
Roseann saw Jackson and his aide stand, and put her book in her carry-on bag. Jackson waved for Roseann to join them, and they left the lounge and went to the boarding gate. Airline ramp personnel held large golf umbrellas with the airline’s insignia on them over the passengers as they crossed the tarmac and went up the short flight of stairs into the twin-engine turboprop. Jackson asked if he could sit next to Roseann. She couldn’t refuse, although she hoped he wouldn’t ask more questions about Joe. She was afraid she’d say something that would get him in trouble.
“Welcome aboard, ladies and gentlemen,” the captain said in a deep Southern accent through the intercom. “Sorry for the delay tonight but the weather hasn’t been very cooperative. But we’ll be on our way in a few minutes and get you good folks back to Washington in short order. Just settle back, kick off your shoes, make sure those seat belts are nice and snug, and we’ll get goin’.”
Roseann and Jackson smiled at the captain’s down-home safety announcement. One of two flight attendants came down the narrow aisle to make sure seat belts were fastened, and took her seat next to the other attendant in preparation for departure.
They taxied to the end of the active runway. Roseann looked out the window and saw flashing lights on what appeared to be emergency vehicles. What’s that all about? she wondered, her natural fear of flying kicking in. Senator Jackson saw it, too, and leaned across her to get a better view.
The captain’s voice was heard again: “Ah, ladies and gentlemen, seems like we’re goin’ to have us another short delay. I’ll keep you posted.”
“What’s wrong?” an elderly woman behind them asked.
“I don’t think we’ll ever get off the ground,” a man said in a disgruntled, booming voice.
Jackson stopped a flight attendant. “Is there a mechanical problem?” he asked.
She ignored his question and entered the cockpit.
More lights could be seen outside the plane, and then the sound of helicopters was heard. They passed directly over the aircraft, powerful floodlights