Vail’s guests noshed nervously on scampi, salads, veal Avanti, meatballs, and pasta, and chatted with Jimmy Hines, whom Vail had introduced simply as a friend of the family. He was nervous about how the group would react to his news. Finally he tapped his knuckles on the table, and they all fell silent immediately.
“I’ve got a little entertainment for you,” he said. “Let’s go in the living room and get comfortable.” The Wild Bunch gathered there, sitting on the floor or lounging in easy chairs. Magoo strolled in, flopped down at Vail’s feet, yawned, and went to sleep. No one said anything or interrupted while Vail played the two tapes he had recorded. When they were finished, Vail snapped the audio recorder off.
“The first tape was Gary Jordan. He’s in the federal pen in New Mexico. The other one is in witness protection. Just call him W.P. The Sanctuary is the most well-organized, well-trained, and dedicated militia in the country. Four brigades posing as churches under the umbrella of Engstrom’s Sanctuary. Six thousand soldiers expertly trained in guerrilla tactics and survival. They can justify anything, even murder, by quoting the Bible.
“So, at about nine-thirty this morning, I became a U.S. assistant attorney general. At the President’s request, I’ve agreed to pursue a RICO case against the Sanctuary of the Lord and the Wrath of God.”
His announcement was greeted with stark amazement by everyone. Shana Parver finally broke the open-mouthed silence with a response that reflected everyone’s reaction.
“Huh!”
Naomi was more specific: “Uh-oh.”
Followed by a wave of nervous laughter.
“This is very sudden. I was offered the job by the Attorney General three days ago. I met with the President, the A.G., and the man who runs the FBI, at the White House this morning and agreed to take on the job. I’ll be in full charge, reporting only to the President and Attorney General Castaigne.”
“You met the President and the Attorney General?” Naomi asked incredulously.
“Yep.”
“And he asked you to do this?” Harrison said.
“Yep.”
“Holy shit,” Flaherty murmured.
“I need you all,” Vail said. “This one’s going to make Grand County look like a minor league warm-up. We’ll use everything we’ve learned in previous RICO cases and still wish we knew more. We’ll have three strong allies on our staff. Jimmy Hines here is one of them. He’s more than a friend of the family, he’s an electronics genius and can access any records we need and store all our data. Sam Firestone is a marshal who was brought up in the area. He’s half Indian and knows the territory. He probably knows most of the answers we’re looking for, but he doesn’t say much.”
“Like Harve?” Flaherty said, and they all laughed.
“Yeah, like Harve,” Vail said, recalling the missing St. Clair. “We also have Billy Hardistan working with us. Hardistan is the man who runs the FBI. He eats red tape for breakfast. Billy and I have a meeting tomorrow with a federal judge. We’ll see how much room she’s going to give us.”
“She?” Naomi said.
“Name’s McIntyre. Originally from South Carolina. Ex-prosecutor, ex-superior court judge, and member of the Supreme Court there. I’m told she’s tough but fair.”
“Judges,” Latimore growled. “Good luck.”
Vail put the briefcase on the floor and opened it, taking out the case of CDs, the hate literature, and the Phantom Project file.
“These are CDs of the files on the Sanctuary and other hate groups. I’ll have copies made for everybody who joins up. Homework.”
Meyer groaned.
“Aw, you’ll love it, Ben,” Vail said. “It’s like reading a thriller. Right now this is the background data the FBI has prepared. This is what we start with, this and one witness.”
“The W.P.,” Flaherty said.
“Right. I’m hoping that tape will convince the judge to give us all the necessary warrants and sanctions we need.”
“Will he hold up if we need him in court?” Flaherty asked.
“I don’t know,” Vail answered.
“You don’t see him as the link, then?” Meyer said.
Vail shook his head.
“What specifically is the case, Marty?” Parver asked.
“Murder, armed robbery, theft of government property, interstate transport of stolen vehicles, money laundering…”
“Yeah,” Meyer said softly.
“That’s your job, Ben. The money. Naomi and Jim Hines can help you with that. Remember, a lot of this information may already be on record. The FBI and the ATF haven’t been sleeping for the last two years. We want to know their banks, the directors and owners, the officers, how many branches they have, how much money they handle, what loans the four churches and the Sanctuary have. Also the specific real estate holdings of the Sanctuary.”
“That’s going to be tough,” Hines said.
“We’ve done it before,” Meyer said, “and legally.”
“It depends on how big a door the judge opens for us,” Vail said. “Dermott, your job is hard felonies. We want to know every bank robbery, armored car heist, every armory that’s been robbed, every hijacking, even gun store robberies, during the past two years.”
“What area?” Flaherty asked.
“Montana, Idaho, Colorado, and Wyoming.”
“We’ve probably got a lot of that information on file,” Hines said. “Double-check everything. We don’t want to miss a trick. We also want to know the M.O.’s on all these jobs. Jimmy, can you crossreference this material?”
“No problem,” Hines answered. “I wrote a program for the A.G. that will cross-reference by name, occupation, police record, real estate, driver’s license, even similarity in appearance, or any other variable you want to throw in. Then it files alphabetically and by category.”
“Excellent. Naomi is an expert at RICO. She knows specifically what we’re looking for and what matches are significant. Shana? The four churches. Who’s in them, occupations, ages, what the chain of command is, where they’re located. And eventually, you and I will do the interrogations of these people.”
“Great,” she said with a smile.
“Oh yeah, I want to know who the members of the I.F. are—that’s their intelligence department. The W.P. mentioned it on the tape.”
She nodded.
“Harrison, I want you to concentrate on this radio nut, Abraham.”
“The FBI’s been spot-taping his sermons, if that’s what you want to call them—since he started,” Hines offered. “Give you an idea of what he’s all about.”
“Good,” Latimore said.
“I want chapter and verse on this guy. He preaches blowing up government buildings, looting courthouses and armories and banks, murdering judges and federal employees. I want to know who this guy is. Where did he spring from, where does he live, where does he record his shows, who’s in business with him?”
“Gotcha,” Latimore said. “You want the whole kahuna.”
“Whatever you want to call it. I’ve arranged a hard surveillance of Fort Yahweh from ground and air. The FBI will handle that. Naomi, we need to advise all FBI, ATF, and marshal offices that we should be notified of any event—any event—involving the militia. That includes arrests. We’ll screen them out. You’re not gonna get much sleep on this trip, Naom.”
“So what’s new?” she answered with a smile.
“That’s about it,” Vail said, “except for one other thing. We’re opening a small office here in the city. But mainly we’ll be operating out of an AMOC.”
“A what?” Latimore said.
“Air Mobile Operations Center—an AMOC. A 737 fully equipped with all the toys we’ll need on this journey.”
“Our own jet!” Latimore said.
“Our own jet.”
“I hate to fly,” Naomi said.
“That’s why you’ll run the office here,” Vail said.
“Thank God,” she said. “I have one ques
tion.”
“Shoot.”
“What’s bugging you about this?”
“Nothing’s bugging me.”
“Martin, I know when you’re bugged, and you’re bugged.”
He sighed and thought for a moment before answering.
“We have eighteen months to get this case on the docket,” he said finally. “But I keep thinking about what the W.P. said. ‘Maybe it’s an act of war.’ For all we know they may be planning to start Armageddon the day after tomorrow. Maybe next month is D-USA-Day. I want them before a jury before they go any further, and so does the President. I just want everybody to know from the front end, we’re on the clock on this one. The President gave us eighteen months. I want us to pursue this case like eighteen months ends tomorrow.”
“Don’t we always?”
“We had the time to develop the case on our own terms in Grand County. We don’t have that luxury here. Dermott, I want you on top of everything. Put it in that matrix on the back of your eyeballs and come up with a link. Then we’ll try to break him or her. I want the link. I want the one person who can tie these four churches to Engstrom. We get that, we can go for indictments, lean on them big-time, and build the case on the way to court.”
“That’s risky,” Meyer said.
“Everything’s risky, Ben. The difference is, the stakes are really high this time.”
“We need to follow the money,” Meyer said.
“What money?” Latimore asked.
“Hell, they’re robbing banks, stealing weapons, and selling them,” Meyer answered. “A lot of money is floating around. How are they washing it?”
“Work up options, Ben. Remember how we worked the banks in Grand County? Go straight for the jugular. Remember, you have the whole FBI working for you.”
Vail looked around the group. “Are you all in?”
Their enthusiasm answered the question.
Then the phone rang.
Annoyed, Vail snatched it up. “Vail,” he said sternly. The group watched him as his expression turned from annoyance to disbelief to anger.
“Martin, this is Billy. Our W.P just got hit. He’s dead.”
“My God!” Vail said.
“What is it?” Jane asked, but he held up his hand.
“Sam and I are taking a small jet to Fort Wayne. We’ll go on to the scene in a car.”
“Where did it happen?”
“On the farm. Apparently, he was out in the field messing with that tractor of his. He was shot twice. Can you join us? We can drive in together.”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll see you in Fort Wayne ASAP.” He cradled the phone and turned to his young colleagues.
“You all may want to change your minds,” he said.
“What happened?” Jane asked.
“We just lost our only witness,” he said. “Somebody killed the W.P.”
CHAPTER 19
Floyd McCurdy was the agent in charge of the FBI field office in Columbus, Ohio. The twenty-year FBI veteran was a soft-spoken man on the short side with a widow’s peak of brown hair and brown eyes behind rimless glasses. He was wearing a dark blue FBI parka, old-fashioned galoshes over his shoes, and a dark blue ski cap pulled down over his ears. He had arrived at the scene of the Waller murder at three a.m. with twenty agents and John Nash, a forensics expert, and a field lab, which was parked near Waller’s house. Twenty more agents were expected momentarily.
He stood in a bloodred early dawn, his gloved hands tucked under his arms and his shoulders hunched against the biting cold when Vail, Firestone, Meyer, Flaherty, and Hardistan arrived a little after six a.m.
“Good morning, sir,” he said as Hardistan got out of the car.
“Floyd.” Hardistan nodded and introduced the other four passengers.
“It’s six below,” McCurdy said. “We need more light before we start searching the area. Let’s wait inside.”
The living room had been converted into a field headquarters, with three bridge tables shoved together acting as a temporary desk. A map of the Waller site was spread out on the makeshift worktable. The agents were gathered in the den, drinking coffee and watching the early news on television. McCurdy led them to the kitchen doorway.
Vail looked into the wrecked kitchen. A small tractor was embedded in the kitchen wall, its engine buried under the rubble of wall, ceiling, and kitchen counter. Stalks of water pipes, broken off and bent, protruded from the wreckage. The water had been turned off but the entire room was still sodden. A round battery-driven kitchen clock lay in the middle of the floor, the battery lying several feet away. Its hands were frozen at 6:23. Yellow crime ribbons were draped around the kitchen’s perimeter. The only sound in the room was the solitary plunk plunk of dripping water.
“Here’s what we know so far,” McCurdy began. “At about six-fifteen last night, Waller took out the garbage, then went out to his tractor, which had been stuck in a mud hole for a couple of days. He had some wire fencing to use for traction to try and move it. He jogged the tractor loose. His wife was standing at the kitchen window over there and saw him stop the tractor for a minute and turn around, apparently to check the rear wheels to make sure they were clear of the wire. A second later his head snapped back and he fell sideways across the throttle. The tractor came straight across the field and rammed into the kitchen. He was shot twice, once over the right eye and once in the side. The bullet entered his side under his left arm and appears to have hit him in the heart.
“We found parts of his skull and some brain matter out near the hole, which is twenty, thirty yards out in the field, so we know that’s where he took the kill shot. The insurance shot got him after he fell, somewhere between here and there. The body was at a local funeral home but our people moved it up to Lima to do the autopsy.”
“What kind of weapon was used?” Vail asked.
“Fifty caliber, probably a rifle.”
“He was using talons,” John Nash said.
“What’s a talon?” Vail asked.
“It’s a bullet that has small barbs in the nose,” Nash said. “When the shot hits, the barbs splay out. It makes a nice neat hole going in and then spreads out the size of a pancake. We found this spent round near the head debris.”
He held up a Baggie. It contained a single round caked with blood and membrane. Small half-inch steel darts encircled the bullet.
“Jesus,” Meyer said.
“His wife went berserk, as you can imagine,” McCurdy went on. “They don’t have a phone, the nearest house is two miles away, and the road to town is a mile back down the dirt road you came in on. The shooter got off another hit on the front right tire of the pickup before the tractor got to the house. She never heard a shot. The loudest noise was the tire exploding. That bullet disintegrated when it hit the wheel rim.”
Nash, the forensics man, who was tall and wore an old-fashioned felt hat, picked up the story.
“We can triangulate the three shots. My guess is they cross about half a mile east of the house. There’s a line of trees and shrubs out there. Beyond them he wouldn’t have had a clear shot. He obviously used a silencer. I think we can safely assume for the moment that this is a professional hit.”
“The woman panicked,” McCurdy said. “She pulled Waller’s body out of the wreckage and realized he was dead. She finally got her wits together and drove the pickup, flat and all, down to the highway. About half an hour later a passerby picked her up and took her to the police station. That’s when she called you, Billy. That was at 8:35, more than two hours after the killing.”
“He was halfway to China before anybody even knew what happened,” Hardistan said.
“The local and state police have been very cooperative,” Nash said. “They set up a perimeter around the place to keep strangers out. We also have crime scene ribbons around the entire perimeter.”
“How about the press?”
“Nothing so far. We’re pretty isolated out here. The nearest town of any cons
equence is Lima, about fifteen miles north of here.”
“Keep ’em out,” Hardistan said.
“Right.”
They all went outside, where the sun was beginning to spread long shadows across the field. They started walking across the hard earth toward the line of trees, still a dark shape a thousand yards ahead of them. Frozen snow crunched underfoot. Vail shuddered as the wind sheared through his jacket.
“I know how you must feel about this, Martin,” Firestone said to Vail. “You shouldn’t feel responsible.”
“I don’t,” Vail answered calmly, his breath steaming in the frigid air. “Waller wasn’t my W.P.”
Firestone was shaken by Vail’s blunt response. His jaw tightened and he straightened up and stared out across the field at the feds who were starting to scour the area on foot. Hardistan, too, was surprised at Vail’s response.
“I didn’t say it was your fault, Sam,” Vail went on. “You took every possible precaution coming out here. Hell, for all we know we had a breach of security.”
“Not a chance,” Hardistan said defensively.
“I agree it’s remote, but we have to consider every possibility. For all we know, the shooter was on to Waller and was already here when Sam and I arrived. I don’t think that happened, I don’t believe in coincidence. But I never rule it out, either.”
“It was dark,” Hardistan said. “He could’ve walked across the field and plugged Waller at close range.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” Firestone said. “He’d take the long shot so he could get away fast. Wherever he was when he took that shot, we’ll find a road nearby.”
“You’re right,” McCurdy agreed. “There’s a dirt road behind the trees. Leads to State 501. From there he could have gone in any direction. He had two and a half hours before the police were even on the scene. He was 150 miles from here by then.”
“How the hell did he find Waller?” Hardistan said bitterly.
“I’m more interested in who the shooter is than where he was when he pulled the trigger,” Vail said.
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