CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Haines flew the Jet Ranger low and fast, wanting to get the flight over as quickly as possible. They were now over the Atlantic where waves glittered with tones of orange and ocher in the late afternoon sun descending behind them. They were heading eastward toward Potemkin’s ship. Haines glanced at Bryson Witner, who was sitting to his right in the copilot’s seat. Eyes fixed straight ahead, Witner’s lips were curled into a tight smile, but tiny beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead, looking like coarse grains of salt. From under the band of his headset, his gray hair spilled in unkempt greasy strands.

Haines swallowed, his mouth bone-dry. He was all for helping old friends to whom he owed a favor, but this was way beyond the pale. He was secreting a psychopathic serial killer out of the country so that he might live out his days in comfort and luxury. It was a sickening thing to do, not to mention dangerous as hell. But Potemkin had put him in this situation, and what other choice did he have? Call the police?

“I can see why you enjoy flying,” Witner said, his voice crisp through the intercom. “It’s like being on a magic carpet.”

Haines returned his full attention to flying. An engine failure at this altitude would require an instant autorotation to avoid slamming into the sea. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t fly while surface-hugging at a high speed like this for such a long time. The need to avoid detection by air traffic control radar, however, overrode all other concerns now. He must get Witner out to Potemkin’s ship and then return without the bird displaying on any ATC database.

With the hospital deal done, he’d hoped to forever wash his hands of both Witner and Potemkin, but at dawn this morning he was utterly blindsided by an out-of-the-blue call from Witner. After escaping from the Patterson Institute last evening—an event Haines had heard nothing about yet—Witner sped south all night in a stolen vehicle, lurking in shadows less than a mile from Haines’s house in Raleigh. Plans for the escape had been engineered by Potemkin, Witner told him. But things had gotten complicated, and Potemkin had instructed him to go directly to Haines, who would fly him personally to the ship.

Haines’s first response was disbelief. To his immediate question of why Potemkin hadn’t given him a warning, Witner had explained that the Russian believed his secure communication system may have suffered a breach in the process of arranging the escape. To protect everyone involved, Witner insisted, Haines should make no effort to contact the oligarch. No calls, no radio. Just fly Witner out to the ship. It would be a final favor. After that Haines would be free of further demands. No more contact with either of them. But Haines had meetings that morning that he couldn’t avoid. No problem, Witner had assured him. Afternoon would be fine. Potemkin would understand and be waiting, and in the meantime, Witner would stay hidden until Haines was ready to fly.

So there they were, low-leveling toward Wiegatesland—the last time, God willing, that he’d ever see that damned floating den of corruption and insanity.

He glanced at Witner. “I still think I might ought to radio Potemkin and let him know.”

Witner shrugged. “Do so if you insist, Lawrence. But I warn you, it’s at your own risk. You know how angry he can get. If he says his communications were compromised, I suggest we believe him.”

Haines swallowed. “All right, then. But tell me, how long was Potemkin planning to help you escape?”

“Since the beginning. I thought you knew.”

Haines clenched his jaw. “I did not. I didn’t know many things.”

“I had to get something out of this, after all,” Witner said. “When will we be there?”

Haines glanced at the GPS. “Twelve minutes. What’s the matter? Feeling airsick?”

“Not in the slightest. I have a vestibular system of titanium. I used to drink you and Mikhail under the table, remember? Do you ever think of our Boston days?”

It was true that when the three of them would do a pub crawl after coin club meetings, Witner never seemed to loosen up, regardless how much alcohol he’d consumed. He would remain articulate and aloof, continued giving the impression he knew something no one else did. Every so often he would smile for no apparent reason and gaze at people in a way that made them feel uncomfortable.

Potemkin had liked to call him Dr. Witch, partly because it seemed to annoy Witner. Of course, this only encouraged the Russian. Sometimes in his cups, Potemkin would yell out, “And here’s the infamous Dr. Witch,” and he’d start singing the Dr. Who theme song. Weird. But the nickname fit. And, of course, Witner eventually had his breakdown and ended up in McLean for half a year, though that was after Haines had finished his training and moved on.

“I suppose I do think of those days from time to time,” Haines said.

Witner chuckled. “And look how far we’ve come. You, the famous head of a massive doctoring company; Mikhail, an infamous master criminal who rules his own nation; and me . . . a recovering lunatic, whose help the both of you accepted. Aren’t you glad we reconnected? Aren’t you happy you considered my proposal?”

Haines gripped the cyclic stick more tightly and glanced at him again. As always—the inscrutable expression, the questions that may or may not be sarcastic. When Witner had reached out to him several years ago, saying he’d recovered from his psychosis, was lonely, and hoped that his dear friend would pay a visit for old time’s sake, Haines had gone, partly out of morbid curiosity. But while they’d walked in the courtyard, Witner had revealed something astonishing. After all that had happened—the murders, Witner’s arrest, him being locked away among the criminally insane—he could still log into the New Canterbury Medical Center’s network, could update his password and browse the secure library. And he had a proposition for Haines. If Haines reached out to their old mutual friend, Mikhail, Witner could help the Russian computer genius bypass the firewall and enter the system. Given Mikhail’s expertise, he could drill deep and surreptitiously surveil the medical center’s accounts and business practices. It would facilitate Haines acquiring New Canterbury. Witner said he was certain that if Haines made the request, Mikhail would jump at the chance. As for Witner, he would be happy simply to help an old comrade expand his empire.

“The fact is, Witner,” Haines said, leaning forward as he spotted something directly ahead, “I wish I’d never seen you again after I left Boston all those years ago.”

“Despite what you’ve gained? More the pity.”

It looked like a fishing boat returning from the Gulf Stream. He banked the bird to stay well away from it. His tail number must remain unseen. A few moments later, he spotted the superstructure of Potemkin’s ship rising above the horizon. Ordinarily, he’d be in radio contact with it by now, but given the situation, radio silence it would be. It was disturbing, even surprising, that Potemkin had let his communications become compromised.

“So that’s it,” Witner said.

“That’s it.”

Witner laughed. “Well, well . . .”

As they neared, Haines pulled back the cyclic stick, climbed, and slowed to fifty knots to overfly the ship and set up for his approach. But as he passed over, it was clear that something was amiss on deck below. A tingle of alarm crawled up his neck. Armed Wiegatesland marines were spilling onto the deck, gesturing up at him.

“Did you not say Mikhail was expecting us?” Haines asked.

“Yes, I think I remember saying something like that.”

“What do you mean, think you remember?”

“Don’t worry. He just wasn’t sure when we’d be here. My, what a big boat.”

As Haines lined up into the wind and began his approach, it was increasingly obvious that many assault rifles were trained on him. By the time he brought the bird to a three-foot hover and lowered onto the helipad, his face was dripping sweat. He had no sooner than shut down the turbine when fifty or sixty of the marines coalesced around the aircraft, rifles aimed.

He slipped off his headset and glared at Witner. “What the hell is going on?”

“Very skillful landing,” replied Witner.

Ducking under the rotor blades, Colonel Spavin yanked open Haines’s door.

“Doctor, do you realize you almost got shot down? You’re lucky we recognized your ID number before the lads blew you to pieces.”

“There must have been a miscommunication, Colonel. I was told we were expected.”

“Who the devil’s that?” Spavin pointed at Witner.

“This is Dr. Bryson Witner. An old friend of the prime minister’s.”

“Don’t move.” Spavin strode off and spoke into a walkie-talkie.

Haines fixed Witner with a stare. “What kind of game is this, you son of a bitch?”

“All will soon be clear. Be patient.”

Spavin returned. “Come with me. I’ll take you to the PM. Step out. Both of you.”

As two burly marines aggressively frisked them, Haines caught Spavin’s eyes. “Listen, Colonel, I came only to deliver Dr. Witner. I was told Potemkin wanted me to avoid radio contact. You know who I am. I have business back on the mainland and I’d like to fly out immediately and leave you in peace.”

Spavin’s nostrils flared. “Sorry, but the PM wants to see you both. He’s the one you need to talk to. Let’s go, gentlemen.”