Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  In any case, Tom Walsh changed the subject. “The state police have search aircraft with infrared sensors to locate large living—or recently dead—organisms. They’re highly trained and equipped to find persons missing in the woods.”

  “That’s good.” It was my turn to change the subject, and I pointed out to Walsh, “You seem to suggest that this was a routine assignment, and yet, you’re here on a holiday to meet and debrief Harry. And apparently Tech is open to receive his digital-camera disks and videotape, which I assume will be transmitted to Washington ASAP, along with whatever he came up with at the airport.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “What is the urgency with this surveillance?”

  “I have no idea. I just follow orders like you . . . Actually, you don’t follow orders, but I do.” He advised me, “You need to only ask questions that will help you complete your assignment.” He further informed me, “Our job is to gather intelligence. Sometimes we know why. Sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we’re told to act on intelligence—sometimes someone else acts on it.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Quite a while.”

  As always, there’s a slight clash of cultures between the FBI and the police, which is frustrating to everyone, I’m sure.

  Kate said to Walsh, “Tom, I’ve worked with a lot of NYPD since I’ve been on the Task Force, and I’ve learned a lot from them, and they’ve learned a lot from us.”

  Actually, I’ve learned next to nothing from the FBI, though the CIA is interesting.

  Kate continued, “Since 9/11, we need to think differently, to ask any questions we want to ask, and to challenge our supervisors when we’re not satisfied with what they’re telling us.”

  Walsh looked at her awhile, then observed, “I think someone is setting a bad example for you.”

  “No. What happened a year ago is what has changed how I think.”

  Walsh didn’t respond to that. “Let’s return to the subject of the missing—”

  Kate interrupted and went into her lawyer mode. “Tom, I still don’t understand why this group is under surveillance. What illegal activity or Federal crime are they suspected of?”

  “Whatever they are suspected of has nothing to do with Harry Muller’s apparent disappearance, and therefore you have no need to know.”

  I butted into the argument. “This is a reactionary group. Correct? Right-wing loony lodge.”

  He nodded.

  “So, considering that, and the high-level political and financial membership of this so-called hunting and fishing club, maybe we’re talking about a conspiracy to take over the government.”

  He smiled and replied, “I think they already did that on Election Day.”

  “Good point. Meanwhile, we’d really like to know what Headquarters told you.”

  Walsh considered that for a moment. “Okay, for what it’s worth, what I was told was that this had something to do with a conspiracy to rig oil prices. The guy who apparently runs the club is Bain Madox. You may have heard the name. He owns and operates Global Oil Corporation. GOCO.” He added, “That’s more than you need to know.”

  I processed that. The name was familiar. And oil-price rigging was not unheard-of. Still, that didn’t completely explain the existence of the Custer Hill Club, or even the club members for that matter. Something was a little off here, and Tom Walsh wasn’t going to put it straight, even if he could.

  Nevertheless, I said to him, “I read your memo.”

  “That’s encouraging.”

  I pointed out, “I thought that Iraqis were on the front burner.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So? What does the Custer Hill Club have to do with Iraqis or the coming war?”

  “Nothing, as far as I know. Harry’s assignment came about because of the weekend meeting at this club, which I assume doesn’t happen that often. Are you having trouble following this?”

  “Sorry. I was all set to act on your memo and wrap a rag around my head and hang around an Iraqi coffee shop today.”

  “Forget that. Let’s return to the problem at hand. Quite frankly, I have not yet reported this missing agent to Headquarters, but very soon someone there will inquire about the information they asked for. When that happens, I’ll have to explain that I’m temporarily out of contact with the agent assigned to the job. That’s not going to be a pleasant conversation, but if we catch a break between now and then, I might be able to offer some positive news.”

  I said, “Kate and I would like to go upstate and assist in the search.”

  I’m sure I wasn’t Tom Walsh’s first choice to take this assignment, but I was on-duty today, plus he knew Harry and I were friends. Also, he needed an FBI agent on the spot ASAP, and Kate had made the mistake of coming in for half a day on a holiday, and voilá, Walsh could tell Washington he already had a team on the way upstate.

  Walsh said to me and Kate, “I thought you’d want to do that, so it’s all arranged.”

  “Good. We’ll leave as soon as possible.”

  He checked his watch. “In fact, you’re leaving in about five minutes. There’s a car downstairs to take you to the Downtown Manhattan Heliport. An FBI helicopter will take you to Adirondack Regional Airport. Travel time is about two hours. There will be a Hertz rental car at the airport in John’s name. When you get there, call me, and I’ll give you further instructions.”

  Kate asked, “Do we have a contact person there?”

  “You may.” He added, “Agents from Albany and from here will be joining you tonight or tomorrow.”

  I inquired, “Have we gotten a search warrant for the Custer Hill Club?”

  “The last I heard from our office in Albany is that they were trying to find a U.S. attorney on the holiday, who in turn needs to find a Federal judge who wants to work today.”

  “Have they tried the saloons?”

  Walsh continued, “The U.S. attorney will need to convince a judge that this is a Federal case, and that he or she should issue a search warrant for the Custer Hill Club property—which is about sixteen square miles of land—but not the lodge itself. We’re not going to get that without probable cause, and we have no reason to think that Harry Muller is in the house.”

  Kate said, “We don’t need a warrant if there’s an immediate danger that a person’s life may be in jeopardy.”

  Walsh agreed. “I’m sure the owner, Mr. Madox, would consent to a search for a person who may be lost or injured on his property, and we’ll go that route first. But if Madox is not cooperative, or just not available, and an employee of the club doesn’t know what to do, then we’ll execute the warrant for the property search.”

  I asked, “And how do you explain to Mr. Madox that you may have a Federal agent missing on his property?”

  “He doesn’t need to know it’s a Federal agent. We’ll leave the property search to the state police.” He added, “Obviously we’re trying to do all we can, short of alerting Madox that he’s under surveillance.”

  I pointed out, “If Harry was detained by the security people at this club, then Madox knows he’s under surveillance, Tom.”

  “First, there is no evidence and no reason to believe that Harry was detained at the Custer Hill Club. But if he was, then he’d certainly stick to his cover story.”

  “Which is?”

  “A lost bird-watcher.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to fly, pardon the pun.” I asked, “And what if these security people searched him? Was he clean going in?”

  Walsh hesitated, then replied, “No. But what are the chances that private security people are going to physically search a trespasser? Or that Harry would allow that?”

  “I don’t know, Tom. But I wouldn’t want to find out the hard way. If I had gone in, I wouldn’t be carrying my Fed creds and Glock.” I reminded him, “Cops impersonating drug dealers don’t have their gun and badge with them.”

  Walsh didn’t seem to appreciate
the lecture. He said to me, “First of all, the Custer Hill Club is not a drug den, so don’t use your NYPD analogies where they’re not appropriate. Also, let’s assume Harry was not stopped, detained, or searched by the private security people at the Custer Hill Club.”

  “Okay, so let’s assume he’s lost or hurt on club property. The state and local police should be conducting a land-and-air search right now. What are we waiting for?”

  “We’re not waiting, John. We’re taking it a step at a time, and they are searching the wooded area outside the club property.” He stared at us and said, “I personally don’t think we’re going to find Harry on that property. And neither do you, if you think about it. Let’s be rational, and let’s try to balance our concern for Harry against our need to keep Mr. Madox in the dark.”

  I replied, “I’m not seeing much light here myself.”

  “This is no different than any other assignment. You get as much light as you need to take the next step into the dark.”

  “Sounds like bullshit to me.”

  “It’s actually official policy.”

  Kate said, “John, we need to get going.”

  Walsh stood, and we stood with him. He said, “If anything develops on the way there, I’ll radio the helicopter.”

  We all shook hands, and Walsh said, “If you need to stay overnight, find a room.”

  I replied, “Don’t expect to see us until we’ve found Harry.”

  “Good luck.”

  We left Walsh’s office, returned to our desks, shut down our computers and gathered our belongings, then took the elevator to the lobby.

  A car and driver were waiting for us outside, and on the way to the heliport, Kate asked me, “What do you think?”

  “I think you should never go to the office on your day off. No good deed goes unpunished.”

  “I was fortunate to be here.” She asked, “I mean, what do you think about Harry?”

  “Based on my experience and on statistics, the most probable explanation for any disappearance, especially that of an adult male, is an accident that hasn’t yet been discovered, a suicide, or a planned disappearance. Rarely is foul play involved.”

  She thought about that and asked me, “Do you think he had an accident?”

  “No.”

  “Suicide?”

  “Not Harry.”

  “Do you think he’s just goofing off someplace?”

  “No.”

  “So . . .”

  “Yes.”

  We didn’t speak for the rest of the ride.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Afew helicopters sat on the pad, and ours was easy to spot because it had FBI markings, which most FBI aircraft don’t. I prefer to travel and arrive in unmarked conveyances, but the pilot explained that this was the only chopper available on short notice. No big deal.

  We climbed aboard the helicopter—a Bell JetRanger—and it lifted from its pad on the East River and followed the river north. To my left was the towering skyline of Manhattan Island, and to my right, the mysterious flatlands of Brooklyn and Queens, where I rarely venture.

  We continued north over the Hudson, following the majestic river valley.

  In less than ten minutes, we passed over the Tappan Zee Bridge, and a few minutes later, we were flying over open countryside on both sides of the valley as we continued to follow the Hudson River northbound.

  I’m not a big fan of the great outdoors, but from up here, the landscape was a spectacular panorama of small towns, farms, and trees whose autumn leaves were glowing in the bright sunlight.

  Kate said, “We should get a weekend house up here.”

  I knew that was coming. Wherever we go, she wants a weekend house, or a beach house, or a summerhouse, or a ski house, or whatever. We’re up to, I think, fourteen houses. I replied, as I always do, “Great idea.”

  The Hudson River, America’s Rhine, sparkled in the sunlight, and we could see mansions and castles along the high riverbanks. I said, “There’s a nice castle with a For Sale sign.”

  She ignored this and said, “Sometimes, I think I want to chuck it all, and get a place in the country, and just live a normal life. Do you ever think about that?”

  I’d heard this before, too, not only from Kate but from other people since 9/11. The media shrinks were explaining it as post-traumatic stress, war anxiety, fear of another attack, the anthrax scare, and so forth. I replied, “I was ready to pack it in last year, as you recall, but after the attacks, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. I’m motivated.”

  She nodded. “I understand. But . . . I keep thinking that it’s going to happen again, and next time it could be worse. Maybe anthrax, or poison gas, or a radiological device. . . .”

  I didn’t respond.

  She said, “People have left the city, John.”

  “I know. It’s much easier now to get a cab and a dinner reservation.”

  “This is not funny.”

  “No, it’s not funny.” In fact, I knew people who, since 9/11, had bought places in the country, or bought boats for a quick escape, or simply moved to Dubuque. This was not healthy, though it may have been smart.

  I said to Kate, “I’m older than you, and I remember a time when things were different. I don’t like the way these bastards have made us live. I’d like to live long enough to see things get better, and I’d like to be part of making them better.” I added, “I’m not running.”

  She didn’t have a response for that, and we both gazed out the windows at the pleasant autumn landscape.

  On the west bank of the Hudson, the United States Military Academy at West Point came into view, its tall Gothic spires capturing the sunlight. I could see a formation of cadets on the parade grounds.

  Kate said, “Things are not going to get better in your lifetime or mine.”

  “You never know. Meanwhile, we’ll give it our best shot.”

  She thought a moment and said, “This thing with Harry . . . it has nothing to do with Islamic terrorism, but it’s all part of the same problem.”

  “How’s that?”

  “It’s all about people who are engaged in some sort of power struggle. Religion, politics, war, oil, terrorism . . . the world is headed for something much worse than anything we’ve seen so far.”

  “Probably. In the meantime, let’s find Harry.”

  She stared out the window.

  Kate is physically brave, as I saw when Mr. Khalil was using us for target practice with his sniper rifle, but the last year was taking its toll on her emotional health.

  Also, for those of us working in this business, it didn’t help our mental health to read the classified memos we got every day concerning this or that domestic threat. That, plus the looming war with Iraq, was starting to fray the nerves of some of the people I was working with.

  Kate had good days and bad days, as we all do. Today was not a good day. In fact, September 10, 2001, was really the last good day.

  PART IX

  Monday

  UPSTATE NEW YORK

  Given the magnitude of the federal response to a suspected WMD incident, first responders might be reluctant to initiate the mechanisms to set that response in motion.

  —Terrorism in the United States

  FBI Publications, 1997

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Two hours and fifteen minutes after we’d left the Downtown Manhattan Heliport, we flew over the upstate town of Saranac Lake. A few minutes later, three long runways forming a triangle came into view, surrounded by forest. I thought I saw bears lurking at the edge of the clearing.

  As we descended, I could see some snazzy corporate jets parked on the ramp, though only one of them sported a corporate logo on the tail. In the case of corporate jets, it did not pay to advertise, partly for security reasons, and partly because it pissed off the stockholders. Nevertheless, I looked for a jet that was marked GOCO, but didn’t see any identifying markings as we hovered lower.

  The pilot spoke to someone on the r
adio, then put the chopper down on the pavement behind a long, wood-shingled building that looked like an Adirondack lodge. This building seemed a little incongruous for an airport, but I knew from my infrequent trips into these mountains that the locals took their faux rustic stuff seriously, and I was surprised that the hangars didn’t look like log cabins.

  Anyway, the pilot shut down the helicopter’s engine, and the noise level dropped dramatically.

  The co-pilot jumped out of the cockpit, swung open the door of the cabin, and took Kate’s hand as she jumped down. I followed without taking the fellow’s hand, and said to him over the sound of the slowing rotor blades, “Did you see any bears?”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. Are you staying?”

  “No. We’ll fuel up, then head back to New York.” As he spoke, I spotted a fuel truck coming in our direction, which is quicker service than I get at my gas station. It must have something to do with the FBI markings on the chopper.

  I turned and looked around the mostly empty tarmac. The corporate jets were parked in a row on a blacktop ramp in the distance, and beyond them was a scattering of smaller light airplanes. There was no activity to speak of.

  It was much colder up here, and I could see my breath, which is not what I wanted to see at 1:30 in the afternoon on a sunny day in early October.

  Kate said, “Smell that air.”

  “I don’t smell anything.”

  “The mountain air, John. And look at those trees, and those mountains.”

  “Where the hell are we?”

  “In God’s country.”

  “Good. I have a few questions to ask him.”

  Apparently the Adirondack lodge building was the main passenger terminal, and we walked around to the front entrance, which had a covered veranda surrounded by a rustic railing. There was a picnic table and Pepsi machine on the veranda, and a security guy was sitting there smoking a cigarette. No one would mistake this place for JFK International Airport.