The Coffin Dancer by Jeffery Deaver Page A

could’ve gotten to the plane there? After the—what do you call it? When the pilot inspects the plane?”
    “The walkaround. I suppose it’s possible.”
    “But there were people around all the time,” Lauren said. The crying fit was over and she’d wiped her face. She was calmer now and determination had replaced despair in her eyes.
    “Who are you, please?”
    “Lauren Simmons.”
    “Lauren’s our assistant operations manager,” Talbot said. “She works for me.”
    Lauren continued. “We’d been working with Stu—our chief mechanic, our former chief mechanic—to outfit the aircraft, working round the clock. We would’ve seen anybody near the plane.”
    “So,” she said, “he mounted the bomb after the plane left the hangar.”
    “Chronology!” Rhyme’s voice crackled through the headset. “Where was it from the moment it left the hangar until takeoff?”
    When she relayed this question Talbot and Lauren led her into a conference room. It was filled with charts and scheduling boards, hundreds of books and notebooks and stacks of papers. Lauren unrolled a large map of the airport. It contained a thousand numbers and symbols Sachs didn’t understand, though the buildings and roadways were clearly outlined.
    “No plane moves an inch,” Talbot explained in a gruff baritone, “unless Ground Control gives the okay. Charlie Juliet was—”
    “What? Charlie ... ?”
    “The number of the plane. We refer to planes by the last two letters on the registration number. See on the fuselage? CJ. So we called it Charlie Juliet. It was parked in the hangar here ...” He tapped the map. “We finished loading—”
    “When?” Rhyme called; so loud she wouldn’t have been surprised if Talbot had heard. “We need times! Exact times.”
    The logbook in Charlie Juliet ’d been burned to a cinder and the time-stamped FAA tape hadn’t been transcribed yet. But Lauren examined the company’s internal records. “Tower gave ’em push-back clearance at seven-sixteen. And they reported wheels up at seven-thirty.”
    Rhyme had heard. “Fourteen minutes. Ask them if the plane was ever both out of sight and stopped during that time.”
    Sachs did and Lauren answered, “Probably there.” She pointed.
    A narrow portion of taxiway about two hundred feet long. The row of hangars hid it from the rest of the airport. It ended at a T intersection.
    Lauren said, “Oh, and it’s an ATC No Vis area.”
    “That’s right,” Talbot said, as if this were significant.
    “Translation!” Rhyme called.
    “Meaning?” Sachs asked.
    “Out of visibility from Air Traffic Control,” Lauren answered. “A blind spot.”
    “Yes!” came the voice through her earphone. “Okay, Sachs. Seal and search. Release the hangar.”
    To Talbot she said, “We’re not going to bother with the hangar. I’m releasing it. But I want to seal off that taxiway. Can you call the tower? Have them divert traffic?”
    “I can ,” he said doubtfully. “They aren’t going to like it.”
    She said, “If there’s any problem have them call Thomas Perkins. He’s head of the FBI’s Manhattan office. He’ll clear it with FAA HQ.”
    “FAA? In Washington?” Lauren asked.
    “That’s the one.”
    Talbot gave a faint smile. “Well, okay.”
    Sachs started for the main door then paused, looking out at the busy airport. “Oh, I’ve got a car,” she called to Talbot. “Is there anything special you do when you drive around an airport?”
    “Yeah,” he said, “try not to run into any airplanes.”

II

The Kill Zone
A falconer’s bird, however tame and affectionate, is as close to a wild animal in condition and habit as an animal that lives with man can be. Above all, it hunts.
    A Rage for Falcons,
    Stephen Bodio

chapter ten
    Hour 3 of 45
    I’m here, Rhyme,” she announced.
    Sachs climbed out of the RRV wagon and pulled latex gloves on her hands and wound rubber bands around her shoes—to make certain her footprints wouldn’t be