East London, South Africa
November 12, 5:21 A.M.
The two tall, older South African Police Service officers stood shoulder to shoulder at her door, their expressions distressed and impatient. Clearly, they—and their department—had had an unforgiving night.
She only saw one car at the curb and the men were not trying to look past her. This might not be what she feared.
One man touched the brim of his hat. “We understand from Mr. Claude Foster that you were the pilot of the autogyro that we found unlawfully parked on Nahoon Beach.”
Katinka unfroze when she heard that. She laughed. It was partly relief but also the idiocy of the priorities of local authorities.
“I will remove it,” she assured them.
“Mr. Foster has additional instructions,” the officer said.
So that was how it was. Foster had often mentioned a “flag” system of security. If his name came up in an investigation, officers knew that a month’s pay awaited anyone who made the situation go away. These men had broken from a national emergency for pay.
“I’m listening,” Katinka said.
“He has reserved a lot at the Vandermeer Car Rental at the airport,” the officer replied. “He said you know the place?”
“Yes, we … provide them with automobiles.”
“Very good. There will be cones with red flags at either end. May we take you there so we may report it was done?”
Katinka did not want to go. What she wanted was more time to think.
“I will go myself so that—”
“Ma’am, that was not a request,” the officer interrupted. “We do have other, rather urgent duties today, as you might understand.”
“Of course,” was her only response. “I’m sorry. I was not thinking.”
There would be no packing, getting the core sample, and then flying north. What’s more, she had a very good idea that Foster would be waiting for her. This may have been part of his plan all along. She was the only one who could report him to the authorities.
Katinka snatched her keys from a table beside the door and followed the men to their patrol car. A man walking his dog had stopped to watch. Police escorting a resident from her home was not a common occurrence on this quiet street.
Five minutes later, Katinka was on the beach.
“We have been told that it is safe to fly west and then north, at a ceiling of five hundred feet,” the officer said as he walked her to the autogyro.
“How was that calculated, based on what data?” she asked.
He looked at her. “Ma’am, if you have a question I am able to answer—?”
“No, Officer. None. Thank you and be safe.”
“Our appreciation,” he replied.
Two minutes later, Katinka was airborne. Only then did the police car pull away.
“I do not want to be a prisoner of Foster but I cannot leave without my core sample,” she thought aloud.
There was a third option, she suddenly realized. So direct it had not occurred to her.
“That’s how long you’ve spent being devious,” she admonished herself.
To this point, she had done anything.
“Not done much,” she corrected herself. She drilled illegally at Prince Edward Island and blew up a boat—though she could cover that somehow. “You knew about the toxin but you kept it safe. You meant to turn it over to the proper authorities, right?”
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She looked at it.
“Shit.”
It was Foster.
“Okay,” she said. “Either you’re ignoring him and going to the authorities or confronting him and landing.”
She opted to answer the call. It was better to know where she stood.
“You didn’t return my calls,” he said. “That was inconsiderate.”
“I’m in the autogyro,” she answered flatly.
“I know,” Foster said. “Officer Cronje informed me.”
“What do you want?” she asked.
“You know, I had intended for you to be a part of this. A part of the plan I’ve created.”
“I don’t want it. None of it. Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” Foster said. “The officer put the canister I used in the storage space behind you. You cannot reach it while flying, nor have you the time to try. It is rigged with a detonator cap that will crack it in—let’s see, seven minutes and thirty-three seconds, unless you have set down, as instructed. I will be there to disarm it. And if you somehow manage to reach the sample and toss it—well, perhaps you can outrun the toxin, perhaps not. But many will die and the authorities will know who is responsible.”
Katinka felt as though the bottom had dropped from the autogyro and she was falling. Yet some corner of her brain managed to stay on point and continue flying.
“Why did you do this?” she asked. “How did I never see?”
“I’d concentrate on landing, not antisocial resolution, yes?”
Katinka angrily killed the call and looked at the time.
“Less than seven minutes,” she said as she peered from the phone out at the landscape two hundred feet below. Over the rooftops of the homes and low-lying industrial structures she saw the airport and, south of it, the rental car parking lot. She would not have to cross any air lanes to land.
“He planned that too.”
She would be landing in less than four minutes. She understood, now, another reason Foster had selected that lot. If she set down and tried to run, if he allowed the canister to open, most likely she along with untold numbers of travelers and airport workers would die.
As she approached, she saw Foster’s van. He was propped against the hood, arms folded, relaxed.
What he had done was monstrous, and his betrayal of her after so many years and exploits was unfathomable. As the autogyro set down between the cones, she found her desire for wealth replaced by something stronger.
Guilt so strong that she intended to destroy him and whatever he was planning.