Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  Bain Madox moved further away and both men stared at each other. Harry took a step toward Madox, but his legs felt heavy, and the room was starting to swirl.

  Madox said, “You need to calm down.”

  Harry felt his legs buckling, and he dropped to his knees. He noticed something sticking out of his chest and put his hand on it.

  “A tranquilizer dart,” Madox said, “which we use for black bears. We’re not allowed to kill them off-season.”

  Harry pulled the dart out of his chest and saw blood on the needle.

  “And I’m also not allowed to kill a Federal agent, so you have to die some other way. Probably a hunting accident.”

  The door opened, and one of the guards asked, “Is everything all right, Mr. Madox?”

  “Yes, Carl, it is. Please take Mr. Muller down to his room.”

  Another security guard appeared, and he and Carl came toward Harry.

  Harry could barely stay upright on his knees, and the room was getting darker, but he took a deep breath and said, “Nuclear . . .” He knew he had to stay motionless so that the tranquilizer in his bloodstream wouldn’t act quickly. “They’re going to . . . blow up . . . the suitcase . . .”

  The security guards lifted him to his feet, and Carl stooped and got him in a fireman’s carry, then walked toward the door.

  Bain Madox stood by the door and said to Harry, “I actually like you. Good balls. And you did me a great service. So, no hard feelings.”

  Harry could barely understand what Madox was saying, but he managed to whisper, “Fuck you . . .”

  “I don’t think so.” He told Carl, “Keep him sedated. I’ll check him later.”

  They left, and Bain Madox shut the door. He was annoyed by the cigarette butts on the oriental rug and tidied up.

  He then went to the black suitcase and ran his hands over the smooth, shiny leather. He whispered, “Please, God, let this work.”

  PART VII

  Sunday

  NORTH FORK, LONG ISLAND,

  & NEW YORK CITY

  We have the right to kill four million Americans—two million of them children—and to exile twice as many and wound and cripple hundreds of thousands.

  —Suleiman Abu Ghaith

  Spokesman for Osama bin Laden, May 2002

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Kate and I made it down to breakfast on Sunday morning, and our fellow guests turned out to be no big surprise: the usual collection of cool oenophiles from Manhattan—in this case, three couples of indeterminate gender who took everything very seriously, like they were auditioning for National Public Radio. I couldn’t tell if they knew one another, or who was with whom, or if they’d recently all met at an anti-testicle rally.

  They were chatting and passing around sections of the Sunday Times as though they’d found sacred texts rolled up in their napkin rings.

  We all did the intros, and Kate and I sat at the two empty places at the dining room table. The prison matron brought us coffee and orange juice and recommended the hot oatmeal for starters. I asked, “Do you have bagels?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t read the Times without a bagel. Hot oatmeal goes with the Wall Street Journal. Do you have a Wall Street Journal?”

  Kate interrupted. “Hot oatmeal sounds fine, thank you.”

  My breakfast companions were commenting on little gems from the various sections of the Times—art, leisure, books, travel, and so forth. Did I call this or what?

  Kate and I had finished a bottle of wine aprés sex, and I had a slight red-wine hangover, which was making me grumpy, and I wasn’t contributing to the conversation, though Kate held up her end.

  I was carrying my little Smith & Wesson off-duty piece in my ankle holster, and I was thinking about dropping my napkin and bringing up my gun and yelling, “Freeze! I’m a philistine! Shut up and eat your oatmeal!” But I know how Kate gets whenever I get silly.

  Anyway, the conversation got around to the Times headline—RUMSFELD ORDERS WAR PLANS REDONE FOR FASTER ACTION—and my fellow guests all agreed that war with Iraq was inevitable, given the mind-set of the present administration.

  If I was a betting man—which, actually, I am—I’d bet on January, or maybe February. But I’d probably get better odds if I bet on March.

  One of the men, Owen, sensed that I wasn’t paying close attention and asked me, “What do you think, John? Why does this administration want to go to war with a country that hasn’t done us any harm?”

  The question seemed slightly loaded, like the questions I ask of suspects, such as, “When did you stop beating your wife and start working for Al Qaeda?”

  I replied to Owen, truthfully, “I think we can avoid a war by taking out Saddam and his psychopathic sons with a sniper team or a few cruise missiles.”

  There was a momentary silence, then one of the men, Mark, said, “So . . . you’re not in favor of war . . . but you think we should kill Saddam Hussein?”

  “That’s how I’d do it. We should save the wars for when we need them.”

  One of the women, Mia, asked rhetorically, I think, “Do we ever need war?”

  I asked her, “What would you have done after the World Trade Center and the Pentagon were attacked? Send the Dixie Chicks to Afghanistan on a peace tour?”

  Kate said, “John likes to make provocative statements.”

  I thought I’d shut down the conversation, which was fine with me, but Mark seemed interested in me. “What line of work are you in, John?”

  I usually tell people I’m a termite inspector, but I decided to cut through the bullshit, and I replied, “I’m a Federal agent with the Anti-Terrorist Task Force.”

  After a second of silence, Mark asked, “Really?”

  “Really. And Kate is an FBI special agent.”

  Kate said, “We work together.”

  One of the ladies, Alison, remarked, “How interesting.”

  The third guy, Jason, asked me, “Do you think the threat level—we’re up to Orange—is that real, or is it being manipulated for political reasons?”

  “Gee, I don’t know, Jason. What does it say in the Times?”

  He persisted, “How real is the threat today?”

  Kate replied, “The threat of terrorism in America is very real. However, without giving away any classified information, I can say that we have no specific information about an imminent attack.”

  “Then why,” asked Jason, “are we in condition Orange, which means high risk of terrorist attack?”

  Kate answered, “This is just a precaution because of the one-year anniversary of 9/11.”

  “That’s past,” said Mark. “I think this is just a way of keeping the country in a state of fear so the administration can push its domestic security agenda, which is really a crackdown on civil liberties.” He looked at me and asked, “Would you agree with that, John?”

  “Absolutely. In fact, Mark, Special Agent Mayfield and I are out here to report on anti-government subversives, and I need to warn you that anything you say may be held against you in a military tribunal.”

  Mark managed a weak smile.

  Alison said to me, “I think you’re being provocative again.”

  “It must be my aftershave lotion.”

  Alison actually giggled. I think she liked me. Also, I strongly suspected she was the Friday-night screamer.

  The third woman, Pam, asked both of us, “Have you ever arrested a terrorist?”

  It seemed like a normal question, but by Pam’s tone of voice, and the general context, it could be taken in another way, which is how Kate took it.

  Kate responded, “If you mean an Islamic terrorist, no, but—” She stood and hiked up her pullover, exposing a long, white scar that began under her left rib cage and continued down to the top of her butt. She said, “A Libyan gentleman named Asad Khalil got me with a sniper rifle. He got John, too.”

  My scar was along my right hip, and short of dropping my shorts, I didn’t see how I was going
to show this in mixed company.

  Kate pulled down her sweater and said, “So, no, I never arrested a terrorist, but I was shot by one. And I was at the Twin Towers when they were hit.”

  The room got a little quiet, and I thought maybe everyone was waiting to see my scar. I did have the three bullet holes from the Hispanic gentlemen that ended my NYPD career. Two holes were indecently located, but I had one in my chest that I could say was from the Libyan, because I really wanted to unbutton my shirt to show Alison my wound.

  “John?”

  “Huh?”

  “I said, I’m ready to go.”

  “I smell sausage cooking.”

  “I want to get an early start.”

  “Right.” I stood and said to everyone, “We’re off to Plum Island. You know, the biological warfare research lab. There’s, like, eight liters of anthrax missing, and we have to try to figure out where it went.” I added, “That could be nasty if a crop duster sprays it over the vineyards, or—” I coughed twice and said, “Excuse me. So, have a nice day.”

  We left the quaint house and walked to my Jeep.

  Kate said, “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”

  “What?”

  “You know what.” She laughed, which she wouldn’t have done before 9/11 or six months after. Now, as I said, she was a different woman, and she’d loosened up a lot and finally appreciated my rapier wit and sophisticated humor. She noted, “You are so fucking immature.”

  That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking. We both got into the Jeep, and off we went.

  She spoke in a deep bass voice, which I guess was an imitation of me. “There’s, like, eight liters of anthrax missing.”

  “Do you have a cold?”

  She continued, “That could be nasty if a crop duster sprays it over the vineyards.” She coughed twice. “Excuse me. I think I have anthrax.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Where do you get this stuff?”

  “I don’t know. It just pops into my head.”

  “Scary.”

  “Anthrax is very scary.”

  “I mean, your head.”

  “Right. So, where to?” I asked.

  “I know a great antique store in Southold.”

  “Let’s go to church. It’s cheaper.”

  “Southold. Make a left here.”

  So, we spent Sunday morning antiquing. I’m not a huge fan of antiques, which I think are mostly verminous chunks of rotten wood and unsanitary scraps of germ-infested fabric. I’d take my chances with anthrax before antiques.

  Needless to say, we didn’t buy anything. In fact, Kate commented, “Why do I need to buy an antique? I’m married to one.”

  We had lunch in a diner where I finally got my bagel, plus the sausages and eggs I’d missed at breakfast.

  After lunch, we hit a few more wineries, where we picked up a dozen bottles of wine that we could have bought in Manhattan for the same price, and then we stopped at a farm stand.

  We rarely eat at home—she can’t cook and neither can I, and I don’t eat fruit or vegetables—but we bought a ton of this stuff with leaves and dirt on it, plus a fifty-pound bag of Long Island potatoes. I asked, “What are we going to do with all this crap?”

  “You run over a deer, and I’ll make hunter’s stew.”

  That was actually funny. Why didn’t I think of it?

  We collected our belongings from the B&B, settled the bill, and started back to the city.

  She asked me, “Did you have a good weekend?”

  “I did. Except for breakfast.”

  “You need to talk to people with opposing views.”

  “I do. I’m married.”

  “Very funny.” She asked, “Why don’t we go upstate next weekend?”

  “Good idea.” Which reminded me to ask her, “What do you know about the Custer Hill Club? I didn’t buy your last response.”

  She considered the question and the statement, then replied, “I know that you almost spent this weekend there.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Well . . . Tom Walsh asked me if I’d have an objection to him sending you there on a surveillance.”

  “Really? And you said?”

  “I said, yes, I would object.” She asked me, “How did you know about the Custer Hill Club?”

  “From Harry Muller, who got the assignment.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “I’m asking the questions. Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “Tom asked me not to. But I was going to tell you.”

  “When?”

  “Now. On the trip home.”

  “Yeah. Right. Why didn’t you want me to go?”

  “I was looking forward to getting away with you this weekend.”

  “I didn’t know about that either, until about four-thirty, Friday.”

  “I’d been thinking about it.”

  “You were actually scrambling to find a place to stay on short notice.” I informed her, “You’re talking to me, darling. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter who’s also a brilliant detective.”

  She considered that. “Well . . . I just didn’t like the sound of the assignment . . . so I told Tom we had plans, and then I needed to make plans.”

  I digested all of this and asked her, “What do you mean you didn’t like the sound of the assignment?”

  “I don’t know . . . just instinct . . . something about Tom’s demeanor . . .”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “No, I can’t . . . but thinking back on it, I may have read too much into what he was saying. Also, I didn’t want to be alone for the weekend.”

  “Why didn’t you volunteer to come with me?”

  “John, just drop it. I’m sorry I lied to you and sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

  “Apology accepted, if you tell me what is the Custer Hill Club.”

  “I’m not sure. But Tom said it was a social and recreational club composed of rich and powerful men.”

  “I might have had a good time.”

  “You were supposed to take photographs of—”

  “I know all that. What I don’t know is why these men need watching.”

  “I really don’t know. He wasn’t going to share that information with me.” She added, “You can assume they’re politically conservative, and maybe radically so.”

  “That’s not a crime.”

  “That’s all I know.”

  I was on the Long Island Expressway now, heading west into the sinking sun. The Jeep smelled like a Korean produce market, and the wine was rattling around on the floor behind me.

  I thought about what Kate had said, but I didn’t have enough facts to draw any conclusions. A few things stuck out, however, such as the political orientation of the Custer Hill Club and the upscale membership. The crazies on the right who actually engage in criminal activities are almost always of the lower-class variety. Their clubhouse, if they have one, is a gas station or a shack in the woods. This group was apparently something quite different.

  And that’s about all I had at the moment, and if I was smart, that’s all I needed to know, and if I wanted to know more, I could ask Harry in the morning.

  Kate said, “I think you’re annoyed at me for not mentioning that Tom and I discussed sending you on the assignment.”

  “Not at all. I’m happy that my career is in such good hands. In fact, it’s sort of touching to think of you and Walsh discussing if little Johnny should go away for the weekend.”

  “John—”

  “Maybe you should have said it was okay with you, but he should check first with his wife to see if it was okay with her.”

  “Stop being an idiot.”

  “I’m just getting warmed up.”

  “Just drop it. It’s totally unimportant. Go tell Walsh that I told you, and that you’re not happy with his management style.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

 
; “Don’t be confrontational. Try being diplomatic.”

  “I’ll be very diplomatic.” I asked, “Can I put him in a headlock?”

  We drove in silence awhile. I realized I should speak to Harry before I confronted Walsh in the morning. I dialed Harry’s cell number on my hands-free phone.

  Kate asked, “Who are you calling?”

  “My emotional-stress counselor.”

  After six rings, Harry’s voice came on the line. “This is Detective Harry Muller. At the tone, leave me a message and a phone number where I can reach you.” Beep.

  I said, “Harry, it’s Corey. Kate wants to make hunter’s stew. I got potatoes, vegetables, and red wine. One of us has to run over a deer for the rest of the recipe. Call me ASAP.”

  I hung up and said to Kate, “That surveillance could have been a career builder, if I didn’t get eaten by a bear.”

  “Maybe that’s why Tom wanted you to go.”

  “To help my career, or get me eaten by a bear?”

  “Do you have to ask?”

  I smiled. We held hands, and she turned on the radio to an easy-listening station. We made small talk on the way back to the city.

  As we approached the Midtown Tunnel, the lit skyline of Manhattan came into view. Neither Kate nor I commented on the missing Twin Towers, but we both knew what we were thinking.

  I remember that one of my first coherent thoughts after the towers were hit was that a man who pulls a knife on you doesn’t have a gun, and I recall saying to a cop next to me, “Thank God. This means they don’t have a nuclear bomb.”

  The cop replied, “Not yet.”

  PART VIII

  Monday

  NEW YORK CITY

  In America there are factions,

  but no conspiracies.

  —Alexis De Tocqueville

  Democracy in America (1835)

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was Columbus Day, a special day to celebrate a dead white male stumbling onto a continent on his way to someplace else. I’ve had similar experiences coming out of Dresner’s bar.

  We were dressed casually today; I had on comfortable loafers, black jeans, a sports shirt, and a leather jacket. Kate was also wearing jeans, with boots, a turtleneck, and a suede jacket. I said, “Your handbag doesn’t match your holster.”