Blindside Page 14

  Logan fiddled with his watch until he got it to three. He stretched and yawned as the plane slowed and turned towards the terminal.

  ‘Best way to beat the jet lag is to try to get acclimatised now. Stay awake as long as you can.’

  Logan nodded, knew he was right. He also knew that he was going to struggle to make it much past dinner.

  ‘Trouble with this place,’ Cahill went on, ‘is you’ve got the altitude to adjust to as well. You’ll probably feel nauseous for a day or two till your body gets used to the thin air.’

  ‘Great.’

  Cahill clapped a hand on his shoulder and unbuckled his seatbelt. The plane was still moving. Logan had a thing about keeping his belt fastened till the light went off. Cahill was not so much one for the rules. He stood and opened the overhead luggage space, drawing a look from one of the female stewards at the front of the cabin. He smiled at her sheepishly, a look Logan guessed he’d perfected over many years. The woman shook her head and smiled. The benefits of looking a bit like Bob Redford.

  All his friends call him Bob.

  They trooped off the plane and walked with the other passengers through a series of long corridors. Logan noticed a lot of Native American images on the walls and heard chanted music. He asked Cahill what it was about.

  ‘American guilt. Like all this makes up for everything that was done to the native population. You’ll see when we get into town that a lot of the streets are named after tribes as well. Champa, Arapahoe and the like.’

  The arrivals hall was like any other place: everyone was tired and desperate to get to their end destination. Logan was glad that they had packed carry-on luggage only as they walked towards the immigration lines.

  ‘This is where we find out’, Cahill said, ‘if we are persons of interest.’ He made quotation marks in the air with his fingers.

  ‘Nice euphemism,’ Logan said.

  ‘You ready to be locked away in a room for several hours?’

  ‘Not really. Unless there’s a couch I can crash on.’

  ‘There will be a floor. Beyond that, who can say.’

  ‘Look forward to it.’

  There were separate queues for US citizens and foreign nationals so Logan and Cahill split up and waited in line. Logan looked across at Cahill and saw that he would be at the desk before Cahill.

  He stood nervously behind the white line, watching as a German family in front of him went through the process: the parents having their fingerprints scanned and recorded digitally. The young man behind the desk wore a navy blue uniform with Department of Homeland Security insignia and a sidearm in a belt holster. His shirt was tight on his muscular frame.

  When the family was done, the officer waved Logan forward. Logan glanced quickly over at the US queue and saw that Cahill was third in line.

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ the officer said as Logan handed over his passport.

  The name badge pinned to his shirt read ‘Whitaker’.

  He looked at the passport and up at Logan. ‘What brings you to Denver, sir?’

  Unfailingly polite.

  ‘I’m here with a friend. He’s over here to see some family.’

  Whitaker looked at the line of people behind Logan.

  ‘He’s an American citizen,’ Logan said. ‘He’s in that line.’

  Whitaker nodded and tapped something on the keyboard in front of him. He looked at a monitor screen hidden from Logan’s view under the desk. After a moment he asked Logan to register his fingerprints on the digital scanner. Logan did what he was asked, noticing that the officer had kept hold of his passport. He tapped some more on the keyboard while Logan went through the fingerprint process.

  When he was done, Logan looked over again at Cahill and saw that he was now at the immigration desk as well.

  Whitaker handed Logan his passport.

  ‘Welcome to Denver, sir. Have a nice stay.’

  Logan smiled and said thanks, his heart beating hard enough to bruise itself against his ribcage.

  He walked past the desk and over towards the US citizens desk to wait for Cahill. When he got there, Cahill looked over and winked. Logan was amazed that he looked so calm.

  Logan went to the far wall and leaned against it, propping his bag up and closing his eyes. He felt exhausted, but knew Cahill was right about beating the jet lag. He couldn’t afford to go to sleep now – or in the next few hours.

  When he opened his eyes, Cahill was at the immigration desk. The officer was speaking into a radio mike attached to his shirt. Logan came off the wall and felt his pulse start to accelerate again. What if they took Cahill and left him? He didn’t know much about US law – had visions of Cahill being transported to Guantanamo Bay in an orange jumpsuit and made to sit on the ground outside all day with a bag over his head.

  But the officer finished his radio conversation, looked at Cahill and smiled before handing over his passport.

  ‘See,’ Cahill said as he walked up to Logan. ‘Piece of cake.’

  ‘I’m glad. Orange isn’t your colour.’

  Cahill frowned, not understanding.

  ‘Never mind,’ Logan said, grabbing the handle of his bag. ‘Let’s get out of here before they change their minds.’

  7

  There was more Native American art on the walls of the main terminal building when they came out of the customs hall. Cahill pointed to a sign suspended above them indicating the way out.

  ‘Let’s go find a cab,’ he said.

  Logan nodded and followed after Cahill. They went down a short, wide corridor to automatic doors leading out of the terminal concourse. Logan was suddenly aware of two DHS uniformed officers behind them. He couldn’t be sure, but it felt as if they were being shadowed by the two men.

  ‘Are we being followed?’ he asked Cahill.

  ‘Yeah. You just noticed?’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Since we left the immigration desks.’

  ‘But why didn’t they detain us there? I mean, wouldn’t that have made more sense?’

  ‘Maybe they want to wait. See what we’re going to get up to.’

  ‘You don’t believe that.’

  Ahead of them, a dark car pulled up outside the exit doors.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Cahill answered after a pause.

  ‘So what’s up?’

  ‘I reckon it’s the FBI that is involved with this thing with Tim. So the DHS guys are probably just keeping an eye on us until the Feds show up. They’ll want to take us to the local field office rather than get stuck out here. That’s their comfort zone.’

  The door of the car facing the terminal opened and a Hispanic man in his early thirties got out. He was wearing a dark suit. Another man got out of the other side of the car. They both had dark hair parted neatly on the side.

  ‘And here they are,’ Cahill said.

  The men walked forward as Cahill and Logan stepped through the automatic doors. Logan could see the flat expanse of the land beyond the airport, with the sun still high in the clear sky. The air was pleasant, but with an underlying chill as the day wore on. Snow was visible on the Rocky Mountains to the west.

  Logan turned to look for the DHS officers and saw them standing inside the doors.

  ‘Mr Cahill?’ one of the suits asked, stepping up to within a few feet of them.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘You must be Mr Finch.’

  Logan nodded.

  The man reached into his jacket and took out a leather wallet. He showed his identification.

  ‘I’m Special Agent Martinez and this is Special Agent Ruiz. We’re with the FBI.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ Cahill said.

  Martinez cocked his head to one side, like he didn’t understand what Cahill had said.

  ‘Would you come with us, please?’

  Ruiz opened the rear door of the car.

  ‘What’s this about?’ Logan asked, stepping in front of Cahill. ‘I mean, we’re not under arrest, are we?’
r />   Martinez looked at Logan, then at Ruiz.

  ‘No, sir,’ Ruiz said.

  ‘We’re hoping you could help us with our inquiries,’ Martinez said, turning back to face them.

  Cahill stayed quiet, content for Logan to take the lead.

  ‘Can you tell us anything else?’

  ‘We can speak more comfortably at our office in town, sir.’

  ‘I’m a lawyer and I’d prefer to know what this is about before I get into that car.’

  Ruiz spoke again and Logan began to wonder if he was the more senior of the two agents, even though Martinez had taken the lead initially.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to discuss that with you right now, sir. But I’m sure it will all be clearer when we get to the office.’

  Cahill looked at Logan and shrugged: it’s up to you.

  ‘We’re not under arrest?’ Logan asked Ruiz.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And you have no plans to send us back the way we came on the first available flight?’

  ‘That’s correct, sir. You’re welcome to stay here. Mr Cahill is a US citizen after all.’

  ‘You just want to ask us some questions about Tim Stark?’

  That got a reaction. Martinez drew in his breath sharply and stared at Logan.

  ‘No one said that.’

  ‘But that’s what it’s about, right?’

  ‘As I said, sir,’ Ruiz interrupted, an edge in his voice like he was annoyed with his partner for reacting. ‘We can go over everything in town.’

  ‘I guess we could do that.’

  Cahill took his bag from over his shoulder and held it out to Martinez.

  ‘Would you mind?’ he said.

  Martinez hesitated and took the bag. Logan left his on the concrete and followed Cahill past Martinez and into the back of the car. He looked up to see Martinez set his mouth in a thin line before picking up his bag and heading to the back of the car. He could’ve sworn that Ruiz smiled a little before he closed the door.

  ‘Game on,’ Cahill said, rubbing his hands together.

  The air con was on full all the way in from the airport and Logan felt gooseflesh rise on his skin. Both agents wore aviator-style sunglasses like in the movies and Logan swallowed an urge to laugh. The journey along the interstate was uneventful and the traffic fairly light. The city looked compact to Logan, the real centre of it probably no bigger than Glasgow. High-rise buildings stretched up with the mountains looming in the background.

  Logan did not know the geography of the city centre or the outlying suburbs so he was content to watch the world go by outside. They stopped at a set of traffic lights and two city cops on horseback stopped beside the car. Logan looked up at the men and saw that they wore dark-coloured Stetsons to match their uniforms. One of the officers looked down at Logan and raised a hand in greeting.

  ‘Welcome to the wild west,’ Logan said quietly.

  ‘What?’ Cahill asked.

  ‘Talking to myself.’

  They drove on for another few minutes before the driver, Ruiz, indicated to turn left and slowed the car. Logan looked out of his window as they drove through the entrance to an underground garage that lay below an eighteen-storey office block.

  The agents said very little after parking in a bay next to an elevator and going round to the back of the car to retrieve the bags. Logan pulled at the handle on his door but it was locked.

  ‘We’ll have to sit tight and wait for them,’ Cahill said.

  Logan looked out into the garage and saw Martinez and Ruiz carry their bags over to another agent who had emerged from a door to the right of the elevator. He took the bags from them and went back through the door.

  ‘They took our bags,’ Logan said.

  Cahill glanced out of his window as the agents walked back towards the car. Logan stepped out when the door opened and asked what they had done with the bags.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ Ruiz told him. ‘We took them for safe keeping.’

  His overly polite and officious language was beginning to grind on Logan.

  ‘You don’t have permission to open and search the bags. You know that, right?’

  Ruiz said nothing for a moment.

  ‘Is there anything in the bags we should know about?’

  ‘No.’

  They stood looking at each other.

  ‘Follow me please, sir.’

  Ruiz walked towards the elevator while Martinez waited behind them.

  Cahill motioned with his head for Logan to follow Ruiz, which he did. Martinez stayed five paces behind them until they got to the elevator. Inside, Ruiz pressed the button for the eighteenth floor and the doors slid shut quietly. No one said anything and there was no horrible muzak playing. Talk about uncomfortable silences.

  The reception area of the FBI field office was decorated in muted earth tones with a representation of the shield on the wall behind a desk. A young black woman sat at the desk and smiled when they approached.

  ‘Where are we, Martha?’ Ruiz asked the woman.

  ‘Meeting room four.’

  ‘They in there already?’

  ‘Sure are. Go on ahead and I’ll let them know you’re coming.’

  Logan had no idea who ‘they’ were, but was intrigued to find out.

  He and Cahill dutifully followed behind Ruiz again as he used a swipe card to open a secure, frosted-glass door and walked along a narrow corridor past a series of meeting rooms.

  They stopped outside a room near the end of the corridor and Ruiz knocked on the door before swiping his card to open it. Inside, two men sat at the far side of a long table. The sun shone in through high, narrow windows.

  Both men stood as Ruiz held the door open and motioned for Logan and Cahill to enter the room. When they were in, Ruiz pulled the door closed leaving the four men alone.

  One of the men took the lead, walking around the table and holding out his hand. He was a fit-looking black man just under six feet tall. Logan found it difficult to judge his age. Looked like he ran a lot, his smooth skin tight against the contours of his face. Logan stepped forward and shook his hand.

  The other man stayed on the far side of the table. He was taller, probably six-two, with greying hair and small, frameless glasses. He clearly kept himself in shape too and his black suit was cut to fit his long frame just so.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the shorter of the men said when he shook Cahill’s hand. ‘I’m Special Agent in Charge Randall Webb, head of the Denver field office.’

  Logan nodded at him.

  ‘And this is Special Agent Cooper Grange. He leads the Joint Terrorism Task Force out of this field office. Have a seat.’

  Logan wondered if Webb’s use of the word ‘Terrorism’ was supposed to scare him. It was working.

  8

  ‘What brings you to Denver for the first time, Mr Finch?’ Randall Webb asked.

  ‘Tim Stark,’ Cahill answered.

  Webb’s eyes flicked to Cahill but the smile stayed on his face. Grange continued to stare at Logan. Webb leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of him on the table.

  ‘You prefer the direct approach, Mr Cahill, is that it?’

  Cahill nodded.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  Webb sat back and turned to Grange.

  ‘It’s all yours, Coop.’

  Grange took his time, showing them that he was in control of the room and would dictate the pace of the conversation. He reminded Logan of Tom Hardy in the power that clearly lay behind his languid surface.

  ‘Gentlemen, I’m sure you will appreciate that there’s very little information that we are able to disclose concerning matters under inquiry.’

  ‘So there is an active FBI inquiry underway into Tim Stark’s death?’ Logan asked.

  Grange regarded him like a lizard does an insect it’s considering for breakfast.

  ‘Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough. I’m afraid you’ve wasted your trip
if you came to find out what’s going on.’

  ‘Is that what we tell Tim’s wife?’ Cahill said, his tone even. ‘I mean, that his death is not important enough for anyone even to tell her about it?’

  ‘You keep talking about his death …’

  ‘That’s because he’s dead.’

  ‘… but no one here has confirmed that.’

  Logan was concerned that Cahill would use the information they had got from DHS and land his contact in a disciplinary process. Or on the receiving end of a prosecution for revealing sensitive material.

  ‘Why don’t you confirm that now for us?’ he said. ‘Clear everything up, you know.’

  ‘Like I said—’

  ‘I get it. You can’t say.’

  Cahill stood and pushed his chair back. Grange watched him but did not move.

  ‘I guess’, Cahill said, ‘that if we’re not under arrest and you’re not going to tell us anything, there’s no reason for this meeting to continue. We’re free to go.’

  ‘Any time you like.’

  Logan looked at Webb, noticed a tension in his body language that had not been there before.

  ‘Look,’ Logan interrupted. ‘Why don’t we all save some time and effort and talk about why you pulled us in. I mean, Alex and I are tired and pretty cranky after being on the go all day. I know I need a good night’s sleep. So why don’t you come out and say what you’ve got to say without all the dancing.’

  Webb put a hand on Grange’s forearm.

  ‘You’re a lawyer back in Britain, Mr Finch. Is that right?’ Webb asked.

  ‘I’m sure you know it is.’

  Webb smiled and nodded. Cahill sat back down.

  ‘And you’ve done some business with our government?’

  ‘Yes.’ He was cautious now.

  ‘So you know how we like to operate. Take our time. Check all the angles.’

  Logan nodded.

  ‘So why not let us get on and do that without upsetting everything? We do have a plan, you know.’

  ‘I’m certain you do. But Alex here lost a good friend and that man’s wife can’t start the grieving process until she knows what happened. I mean, right now she thinks that her husband is mixed up in some bad business. And this was a man of the highest integrity as I understand it.’