CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The Gulfstream G600 twin-engine private jet felt like it was going straight up as it roared away from Teterboro Airport, the general aviation airfield just across the Hudson River in New Jersey. The plane could go as fast as 610 mph and as high as 51,000 feet, so it was a much quicker way to get to Albuquerque than Southwest Airlines, and without TSA security lines or baggage claim carousels. The FBI has dozens of propeller planes that it uses for surveillance, but only a handful of jets, which Congress funds primarily for transporting international criminal suspects and for moving the Director and the Attorney General safely.

Nora sat in one of the big cream-colored leather armchair seats and pressed her forehead against the enormous oval window, watching New York City quickly recede from view. She and Jessica had the four-seat front cabin all to themselves, facing forward, slipping off their shoes to prop their feet on the leather seats opposite each of them. The cockpit door was closed and Benny had also closed the door behind them, to the rear compartment where he was sitting, so they were alone in a world of leather and polished mahogany. Large wall-mounted screens showed the plane’s progress superimposed on a digital image of the globe. The picture gradually zoomed in, showing landmarks, before switching to a home-screen photo of the Cleveland Browns football team, then returned to the zooming globe.

After watching the loop—and the Browns—several times, Nora looked across the aisle and gave Jessica a quizzical look.

Jessica knew exactly what Nora’s question was. “One of the pilots said we bought the plane from the owner of the team and nobody has figured out how to change it.”

Nora shrugged. Suppose it’s not a high priority.

A black FBI Chevy Suburban drove onto the tarmac at Kirtland Air Force Base, which shared runways with Albuquerque International Airport. It stopped at the G600’s stairs to collect the passengers before roaring out, headed into the desert. Not long after they’d left Albuquerque’s far suburbs, the vehicle turned off the main road, driving up a long rise. At the crest of the rise, they could see a two-story structure sprawling out below them, down in a wide and desolate valley. This was one of the federal government’s prisons reserved entirely for inmates in the Witness Security program.

Even though the jail was full of witnesses for the United States, it was still surrounded by a high double perimeter of concertina wire–topped fencing. “To keep the good guys in and the bad guys out,” Benny explained. In fact, he said, the prison was a bit like a fraternity; no new inmate could join unless every current inmate approved of his joining. If an inmate was black-balled as a potential threat, he would have to try one of the other WITSEC facilities. It was a tough place to get into. Benny had been here many times working with witnesses to build mob cases, but this was his first time bringing a guest.

Frenchie looked tan and fit in his prison clothes as he stepped into the room, breaking into a wide grin the moment he saw the mountain that was Benny Dugan. “The big man returns!” Frenchie almost shouted. He began to say something to Nora when a figure slipped from behind Benny’s big body, freezing Frenchie with his mouth slightly open. Frenchie’s eyes filled with tears, then flashed a worried look. He turned to Benny, searching the big face.

“What’s wrong? What happened? Why is he here?”

Then he looked directly at his son and asked, “Why are you here?”

“He’s here because we need to ask you to do something hard,” Benny said.