Blindside Page 2

  2

  Now Cahill was wide awake.

  ‘Have you called Tim’s cell phone?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Melanie replied. ‘It defaults to voicemail.’

  ‘What about his car?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is it at the airport somewhere, maybe in a long-stay car park or something?’

  ‘I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘Look, get back in touch with the police and tell them that he said he would be on the flight and that he’s ex-Secret Service. That should get their attention. Ask them to check for his car and call the airline as well.’

  She took a few deep breaths.

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  ‘They’ll have access to security cameras covering every inch of the airport so if his car is there they’ll find it. But you realise that will just confirm he was at the airport. Not that he got on that flight. Or any flight.’

  ‘It would be better if he wasn’t on it, you know. They’re saying that there are no survivors.’

  ‘Take small steps right now. Find out what you can.’

  Cahill was about to end the call when something jagged into his mind, a shard of mental glass.

  ‘Melanie, you said he got fired from the Service. Have you tried calling there?’

  ‘I did. I couldn’t get past the front desk. It was almost like they fed me a script. I don’t know what’s going on.’ She started crying. ‘I trusted him,’ she said. ‘And he never let me down before.’

  ‘He was always someone I could trust,’ Cahill told her.

  ‘He said the same about you. He looked up to you so much.’

  Cahill didn’t know how to respond.

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’m going to go talk to the police again and I’ll call you after. But let me give you my numbers so you know how to get me.’

  Cahill jotted down her home and mobile numbers.

  ‘Is there anyone there with you? Any family?’

  ‘My son’s coming with his wife. He’ll be here soon.’

  ‘Good. Take care, Melanie.’

  Cahill sat at his desk staring at the TV screen and the devastation wrought by the crash. It would be just past midnight in Washington. He scrolled through his contacts until he found the name he was looking for – Scott Boston, his old boss in the Secret Service.

  Cahill called Boston’s office number. Had a hunch that if he was still the same man he might be at his desk even at midnight on a Sunday. He liked to work when it was quiet.

  Boston picked up on the second ring.

  ‘Scott, it’s Alex Cahill.’

  Boston said nothing for a moment.

  ‘Alex, Jesus. It’s been a while. How are you?’

  ‘I’m good, Scott. How’s life in the Service?’

  Standard platitudes.

  ‘You know, same old same old. What can I do for you at this time on a Sunday?’

  ‘Actually it’s early Monday for me.’

  ‘I forgot. How’s it working out for you over there?’

  Cahill’s hand went involuntarily to his side. He felt the ribs he had broken in an explosion last September during what was supposed to have been an easy gig protecting an actress at a film premiere. He was sure Boston would have heard about it through government channels – would have heard that Cahill had lost one of his men, Chris Washington, in the same incident.

  ‘It’s been an interesting couple of years, you know. Listen, I’m calling about one of the guys. Tim Stark.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Cahill heard the caution in Boston’s voice.

  ‘We stayed in touch after I left and I just heard he got fired from the Service.’

  ‘Alex, you know I can’t talk to you about that stuff. Who told you that anyway?’

  ‘His wife.’

  ‘Melanie? When did you speak to her?’

  ‘Just now. She called me from Kansas. Said she thinks he was on that plane that went down over there.’

  Cahill heard a noise on the other end of the phone, like Boston had stood up quickly and his chair had shot back and hit something.

  ‘What plane?’

  ‘You didn’t hear? The one that went down outside Denver. It was headed your way.’

  ‘He was coming to Washington? Tim Stark was coming here?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  Boston was quiet.

  ‘Scott, what’s going on with this?’

  ‘Alex, I’ve got to go. Sorry.’

  Cahill held the phone away from his ear as Boston slammed the receiver down to end the call. He was left in the quiet of his study listening to nothing but the dial tone.

  3

  Cahill called Tom Hardy: a six-foot-four Texan hard-ass and his second in command at CPO – the company he ran to provide close protection for anyone who needed it and could afford the best. They had set up CPO together after a career in the army and the US Secret Service.

  ‘You up yet, Tom?’ Cahill asked when Hardy answered.

  ‘Fixin’ breakfast,’ Hardy said in his Texas drawl. ‘Been for a run already.’

  Cahill believed him.

  ‘You in contact with any of the guys from back in the Service?’ Cahill asked.

  ‘A couple,’ Hardy answered. ‘Why?’

  ‘You remember Tim Stark?’

  ‘FBI guy?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘What’s going on, Alex?’

  ‘I got a call from Tim’s wife this morning. She thinks he was on the plane that went down over in Denver.’

  ‘I saw that on the news. Looks bad.’

  ‘They’re saying no survivors.’

  ‘Why’d she call you?’

  ‘Me and Tim stayed in touch. Anyway, she said Tim got fired last year and might be caught up in something illicit now.’

  ‘Tim? No way.’

  ‘That’s what I said. He told her he was going to be on that flight but his name’s not on the passenger list and apparently the cops are being tight-lipped about it.’

  ‘What’s this got to do with you?’

  ‘A good friend might be in trouble, Tom. Or worse.’

  ‘She didn’t call the cops?’

  ‘Yeah, but they won’t talk to her. Plus, I called Scott Boston and it sounded like he almost had a heart attack when I told him that Tim was supposed to be on a plane heading for Washington. Wouldn’t tell me why Tim got fired – or much of anything, for that matter.’

  ‘Let me call the guys I know. See what I can find out.’

  Sam came into the study as Cahill finished the call with Hardy, walked over to him and sat beside him on the couch, laying her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Can’t sleep?’ Cahill asked.

  Sam shook her head.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked. ‘Anything important?’

  ‘I don’t know. Could be something, could be nothing. One of the guys I knew back in the Secret Service might have been on that plane and his wife called me looking for help.’

  Cahill nodded at the TV screen and Sam sat up to watch the news, Cahill turning the sound back on.

  ‘Want some breakfast?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  Cahill watched the news feed some more while Sam made scrambled eggs with toast and coffee. He began to feel a little more human with food in his belly. Sam ate her breakfast with him and went back upstairs when she heard their two daughters – Anna and Jodie – starting to stir noisily.

  It was close to seven when Cahill called Logan Finch, his best friend and in-house lawyer at CPO. They shared a history of more than just business dealings.

  Logan sounded alert when he answered the phone; Cahill heard lots of voices in the background.

  ‘Hey, Logan,’ Cahill said. ‘Sounds like you had a sleepover last night?’

  Logan was heavily involved with Rebecca Irvine – a detective constable in Strathclyde Police. She was divorced with a young son and they socialised with Logan
and his daughter, Ellie, at weekends. Sometimes the socialising for Logan and Rebecca went on into the night. Cahill was glad. It was a good relationship for both of them.

  ‘What can I say?’ Logan answered. ‘It was fun.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  ‘I take it this is more than a friendly call, given we’re due to be in the same office in less than two hours.’

  ‘Yeah, it is. Did I remember right that when you were in private practice you had a couple of cases with the US Government? Or at least some kind of organisation connected to it?’

  ‘It was at DHS. Homeland Security. I defended them against a couple of claims in the courts over here by Scottish tourists who did not appreciate their very thorough customs examinations.’

  ‘Criminals, eh?’ Cahill said. ‘Never happy getting arrested.’

  ‘Something like that,’ Logan said, laughing.

  ‘Can you make contact?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can try. Why?’

  ‘I’ll fill you in later.’

  ‘Okay. We’ve got to get the kids ready for nursery and school. Can we catch up about it in the office?’

  ‘Okay. But get there as soon as you can, okay? I get the feeling the longer we wait on this the more likely that the lines of communication will close up.’

  ‘Sounds mysterious.’

  ‘You ain’t heard nothing yet.’

  4

  CNN was showing a helpline number for families to call at the airline in the US if they wanted information about the crash. Cahill thought he’d give it a go while he waited to hear back from Hardy.

  It took a while for the call to be connected and a man’s voice came on, sounding harassed.

  ‘Uh … it’s about the crash.’ Cahill did his best to sound upset and distracted.

  ‘How can I help, sir?’

  ‘My brother. He’s—’ Cough.

  ‘I know this is difficult, sir,’ sounding sympathetic now, ‘but before I can do anything for you I need a name.’

  ‘Sorry, of course.’ Sniff. ‘His name is Tim,’ Cahill said. ‘Tim Stark. I just know he was on it. He told me he would be.’

  ‘I’m checking for you now, sir.’

  Silence.

  Cahill heard fingers tapping on a computer keyboard. Then some more tapping.

  The guy started talking to someone beside him, but was covering the mouthpiece of his phone.

  The talking stopped.

  ‘I’m going to put you on hold for a minute, sir,’ the man said. ‘Please stay on the line.’

  Cahill held.

  Held some more.

  Looked at his watch and saw five minutes tick by. No way to treat a grieving brother, he thought.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’ A different male voice came on the line. ‘You’re asking about your brother. About Tim Stark.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Cahill had given up the pretence of trying to sound upset. This man sounded like he was not in the mood for anyone’s bullshit.

  ‘What’s your name, sir?’ the man asked.

  ‘Alexander Cahill.’

  Pause.

  ‘Sir, I don’t understand.’

  ‘We’re half-brothers.’

  The line went dead again – back on hold. Cahill had given his own name because he knew that they would check him out and find out that he had been a serious player, and had a connection with Stark in the Service.

  He held again for a while. It was approaching ten minutes this time when the same man came back on to the line.

  ‘Mr Cahill,’ he said, ‘what’s your interest in this matter?’

  ‘Are you with the airline?’ Cahill asked.

  ‘I think you know that I’m no more with the airline than you are Mr Stark’s half-brother.’

  ‘We’re being honest with each other, are we?’

  ‘Let’s see how we get on.’

  ‘Tim and I go back a ways.’

  ‘We know. We looked into it.’

  ‘So you know that he’s on our side, right?’

  ‘I know that he was.’

  ‘His wife called me today in a state. Tim told her he was going to be on that flight but his name is not on the passenger list. And no one will tell her anything. So I offered to help. I’m good that way. Helpful, I mean. Especially where my friends are concerned.’

  ‘The information she was given is correct. His name did not appear on the passenger manifest for the flight.’

  ‘That’s a very carefully worded answer.’

  No response.

  ‘Which agency are you with?’ Cahill asked. ‘FBI?’

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of any more help.’

  ‘Are you there because you think that plane was brought down deliberately?’

  ‘This is a very serious incident and a lot of families are suffering tonight. A lot of people lost their lives.’

  ‘I understand that. All I want to know is whether Tim Stark boarded that plane and if he was still on it when it took off.’

  ‘You have no official role in this and I am not able to release any further information to you as a result. No matter what your relationship with Mrs Stark.’

  Cahill didn’t like the innuendo.

  ‘That was a cheap shot. Are you trying to piss me off? Because most people who do usually end up regretting it. Not a wise move.’

  ‘Are you threatening me? It’s a federal offence to interfere with a law enforcement official—’ He stopped himself.

  ‘Look,’ Cahill said. ‘You know who I am. What I did for our country. What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m ending the call now, Mr Cahill. Goodnight.’

  Click

  Cahill called Tom Hardy again.

  ‘Any luck yet?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I didn’t reach anyone.’

  ‘I spoke to a Fed at the airport. Don’t know which agency exactly. Probably FBI. They’re all over this.’

  ‘What’s the story? What do you think Tim was into?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’m starting to believe that he was on that flight. Or at least that he boarded it. Whether he was still on it when it took off, I don’t know.’

  ‘So what now? I mean, I know you, Alex. Don’t make this a crusade. We just got confirmation that the UK Government is renewing our contract for another three years. I don’t need to remind you that it’s our most profitable gig. Your head needs to be in the right place.’

  ‘I’m going into the office. Logan might have someone he knows who can help, from back when he was a scumbag lawyer.’

  Hardy laughed in spite of himself – Cahill having completely ignored what he had just said.

  ‘He’s still a lawyer, Alex.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  5

  Logan Finch watched from the couch as Rebecca Irvine tied his daughter’s hair in a French plait. He liked watching Ellie and Irvine together, was happy that they were getting on better now.

  Irvine saw him watching and made a face. He smiled at her, stood and went to the kitchen.

  Irvine’s three-year-old son, Connor, was sitting on the floor tracing shapes in the orange juice he had spilled. He saw Logan and lifted his arms up, laughing.

  ‘Let’s get you ready for nursery, buddy,’ Logan said, lifting him off the floor and skidding in the juice puddle.

  Domesticity.

  ‘Time to make a move, everybody,’ Logan shouted as he went from the kitchen into the hall of his flat.

  Irvine came out of the living room and grabbed Connor from him.

  ‘You in a hurry?’ she asked.

  ‘Kind of. Alex called and he needs me to look into something this morning. Sounded urgent.’

  ‘Want me to drop the kids off?’

  ‘Would you? That would be great.’

  Irvine smiled. He was transparent.

  ‘All you had to do was ask.’

  ‘But it’s more fun when you think that it’s all your own idea, right?’

  ‘Oh, sure.
’

  Logan leaned in past the flailing arms of her son and kissed her. Irvine’s hand slid up his back and on to his neck as their lips opened on one another.

  ‘I had fun this weekend,’ he told her.

  ‘Me too. Let’s do it again sometime.’

  He kissed her again before going to his bedroom to grab a jacket, stopping by the bed and putting a hand on the mattress. Feeling the last heat from their bodies lingering there and remembering …

  ‘Logan …’

  Ellie stood in the door with a knowing smile. He didn’t mind that she sometimes still called him by his name instead of Dad. She had only come into his life three years ago – after the murder of her mother. But at fourteen, she seemed far more mature than he remembered being at that age.

  ‘I gotta go, Ellie,’ he said, brushing past her and kissing the top of her head.

  ‘Piano practice tonight,’ she said. ‘Did you remember?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, not meaning it. ‘Pick you up at seven from Valerie’s?’

  ‘You forgot again.’

  ‘Did not.’

  Logan walked through the CPO reception, nodding at the woman behind the desk. The company name – the ‘O’ a stylised target of concentric rings – was on the wall above her. Cahill and Hardy were waiting for him in the War Room – the biggest of the meeting rooms in the CPO office suite. The two men were sitting at a small conference table in the centre of the windowless room, spotlights shining on the glossy table top. A large TV was mounted in the centre of the wall to the right of the door.

  Cahill looked up and put a finger to his mouth when Logan came into the room, pointing at the conference phone that was sitting on the table. Logan pulled a chair out from the table and sat quietly.

  ‘Guys,’ an American voice sounded from the phone, ‘I can’t help you on this. Not right now anyway. Place is locked down tight and no one is telling me anything.’

  ‘Thanks, anyway,’ Hardy said before pressing a button to end the call.

  Logan looked at Cahill.

  ‘We’re getting exactly nowhere,’ Cahill said. ‘Nobody wants to talk to us.’

  ‘You need to fill me in on this before I make the call to the woman I know at Homeland Security,’ Logan told them.

  Cahill picked a remote device from the table top and aimed it at the TV. The screen ran a feed from an American news network – still focusing on the crash outside Denver.