“Maybe you can give me a hint about how national security plays into Kate killing a CIA officer.”
Kate responded, “Liam, I don’t think your security clearance is high enough for me to tell you about that.”
He looked a little pissed, but got off a smart remark. “Ted always spoke highly of you, Kate.”
“Not the last time we spoke.”
Liam Griffith is no idiot, and said, “You’re both either in deep trouble or you’re going to get a commendation. So I’ll just shut up until I find out which it’s going to be.”
I commented, “Today must be your annual smart day.”
So we spent an hour with Major Schaeffer, the state detectives, and the crime scene investigators, during which Kate and I danced around the central issue of what the hell was going on in the Führerbunker. Then, after a pissing match between Schaeffer and Griffith, Kate and I got in Liam’s rental car and began our drive from the lodge, which took us past the flagpole where the American flag still flew, illuminated by the spotlight; and below the stars and stripes was Bain Madox’s Seventh Cavalry regiment pennant.
Yeah, I had mixed feelings about the guy, mostly negative, but . . . well, if he hadn’t killed Harry, and if he hadn’t been prepared to kill a few million other Americans, including Kate, me, and anyone else who got in his way, plus a couple hundred million innocent men, women, and children . . . well, he was a complex man, and it was going to take me a while to figure him out.
We also passed by the wood chipper, and that sort of brought me back to reality. The big things—like nuclear Armageddon—were a little abstract. It’s the small things, like the wood chipper, that make you understand evil.
Well, we helicoptered back to New York City, and by the time we got to 26 Federal Plaza, there were about a dozen people there from the office, including, of course, Tom Walsh, and another dozen from Washington, all waiting for us with open notebooks and tape recorders.
Tom Walsh greeted us warmly by saying, “What the fuck was I thinking when I sent you two up there?”
I replied, “What were you thinking when you sent Harry up there?”
He had no answer for that, so I asked him, “Whose idea was it to send me up there alone on that assignment?”
No response.
I informed him, “I’ll tell you. It was Ted Nash’s idea.”
“Nash is dead.”
“He is now, and I’m not.”
Kate said to Walsh, “But it could have easily gone the other way.”
Walsh looked at both of us, and I could see he was trying to figure out if he was supposed to be clueless, angry, or blameless. He couldn’t seem to decide, so he went to the men’s room.
I could see that there was still a lot of confusion about what had happened and what our status was—heroes or felons—but I also sensed that one or two guys from Washington knew exactly what this was all about, but kept it to themselves.
We were debriefed in Walsh’s office by two-man relay teams for hours, but Kate and I held up pretty well as we gave the interviewers an hour-by-hour, blow-by-blow account of everything that had happened since we walked into 26 Federal Plaza on Columbus Day morning and spoke to Tom Walsh—including talking to Betty at Continental CommutAir and Max and Larry at the car-rental desks, then checking out Madox’s jets at the general aviation office, then the decision to go to the Custer Hill lodge instead of state police headquarters, and on and on.
I could see that the FBI people were partly impressed by our initiative and good investigative techniques, and somewhat troubled by our total failure to follow orders and becoming fugitives. I hoped they were learning something.
Also, I could sort of tell, as the night wore on, that Kate and I were the only ones there who weren’t worried about something.
Interestingly, most of the FBI interviewers seemed unhappy that Bain Madox—the mastermind and prime witness to this conspiracy—was dead, and that I killed him. I said, of course, it was self-defense, though it was actually self-gratification. I mean, it was a stupid thing to do, and by whacking him, I complicated the investigation into the conspiracy. I wish I had it to do over again; of course, I’d do the same thing, but I’d first remind myself that I wasn’t acting professionally.
Also, unless I was imagining things, at least two of the FBI guys from Washington did not seem that unhappy that Madox was not able to talk.
On the subject of Kate killing CIA officer Ted Nash, none of the FBI guys commented or pressed the questioning, which was odd but understandable. They weren’t going to touch that subject unless or until they heard from someone higher up.
I had a little fun watching Tom Walsh squirm, and more fun sitting in his office with my feet on his conference table as Kate and I were debriefed. At about 3:00 A.M., I expressed a strong craving for Chinese food, and an FBI agent went out and found an open place. Hey, it’s not every day you’re the center of attention, and you have to milk it a little.
There was a lot to unravel here, and I had no idea where this was going to go, or how high up the Project Green conspiracy reached. And, of course, neither Kate nor I would ever know.
At dawn, two FBI agents drove us back to our apartment and told us to get a good night’s sleep, even though it was morning.
Back in our apartment, we stood on the balcony and watched the sun rising over lower Manhattan, both remembering the morning of September 12, 2001, when we’d watched the black smoke blocking out the sun not only for us, and New York, but for the whole country.
I said to Kate, “As we know in this business, every act of violence, and every murder, is revenge for the murder before it, and the excuse for the murder after it.”
She nodded and said, “You know . . . I wanted to get out of this business . . . go someplace else . . . but now, after this, I want to stay here and do what I can . . .”
I looked at her, then back at lower Manhattan, where we could once see the Twin Towers rising into the sky. I said to her, or myself, “I wonder if we’ll see the alert level go to Green again in our lifetime.”
“I doubt it. But if we keep working at it, we can keep it from going Red.”
Bottom line, the FBI in Los Angeles and San Francisco found the pilots and co-pilots, and found the suitcase nukes in their hotel rooms. In fact, one of the co-pilots was sitting on one of them, watching TV, when the FBI opened the door to his room.
Bottom, bottom line, I got stuck with a three-thousand-dollar bill from The Point, and as Kate predicted, the accounting office didn’t want to hear any explanations, plus, Walsh wouldn’t go to bat for us, so Kate and I are eating out less often for a while.
We need to go to FBI Headquarters in D.C. to be fully, fully debriefed, give statements, and write reports.
Regarding the Executive Board of the Custer Hill Club, the only news so far—reported in small items in the print media—is that the deputy secretary of defense, Edward Wolffer, has taken a leave of absence; Paul Dunn, the presidential adviser on matters of national security, has resigned his position; and General James Hawkins has retired from the Air Force.
These three events, taken by themselves, did not seem remarkable, and caused no stir in the ever-vigilant news media. Meanwhile, Kate and I are waiting for more startling news about these guys, such as their arrests. But so far, Dunn, Wolffer, and Hawkins have not made the front page, or the 6:00 news, and I wouldn’t be surprised if we never heard another thing about them, despite what Kate and I told the FBI. Maybe they lost those notes.
As for the fourth member of Madox’s Board, CIA officer Scott Landsdale, no news is not necessarily good news. This guy is still out there somewhere, and Scott is either going to go scot-free or, if he’s in big trouble, no one is ever going to hear about it. I mean, should we trust an organization that gets paid to lie?
On another, perhaps related subject, the war with Iraq seems on track, and I’m taking Madox’s inside information and betting on the week of March 17, which my bookie says is a long sh
ot at three-to-one odds. If I can triple my thousand-dollar bet, I can cover The Point. As for oil futures, my broker says that post-war Iraqi oil will flood the market, and prices are going down—not up, as Madox said. I have to think about who to trust—my stockbroker or Bain Madox. That’s a tough call.
One thing we did not have to do in Washington was explain how or why Kate killed a CIA officer. On that subject, the head CIA guy in the ATTF told us that the dead man found in the Custer Hill lodge remained unidentified, and that the CIA officer named Ted Nash, whom we once knew, had died in the North Tower on September 11, 2001.
I wasn’t about to argue with them about that, and neither was Kate.
I do think about Madox’s Project Green a lot, and I’m pretty sure that what almost happened—an attack on an American city or cities with weapons of mass destruction—is going to happen, sooner or later. But now, I’d have to wonder where the attack actually came from.
And on that subject, without sounding too paranoid, I think that Kate and I probably saw and heard more than some people are comfortable with. I mean, I’m not suggesting that the CIA is planning to whack us because we know too much, or because we know about Scott Landsdale, or because Kate killed CIA officer Ted Nash. But you never know, so maybe we’ll buy a dog, and check under the hood before we start the car.
You can’t be too careful in this business, and you have to know who your friends are, and who your enemies are, and if you can’t figure that out, keep your gun oiled, loaded, and close.
Acknowledgments
As in past novels, I want to thank US Airways captain Thomas Block (retired), contributing editor and columnist to many aviation magazines, and co-author with me of Mayday, as well as being the author of six other novels. Tom’s assistance with technical details and editorial suggestions was, as always, invaluable, although he put a value on it and sent me a bill, which I was, of course, happy to pay. Tom and I met about fifty-five years ago, and the only person I’ve known longer is myself.
Thanks, too, to Sharon Block (Tom’s wife), former Braniff International and US Airways flight attendant, for her careful reading of the manuscript, and her excellent suggestions.
I wish to thank my good friends Roger and Lori Bahnik for keeping me company in the North Country wilderness and for being such excellent guides through the bear-infested woods.
Once again, many thanks to my friend Kenny Hieb, retired NYPD Joint Terrorism Task Force detective, for his expert advice and assistance.
Also, thanks again to my longtime friend John Kennedy, deputy police commissioner, Nassau County Police Department (retired), labor arbitrator, and member of the New York State Bar, for his advice and suggestions.
When verisimilitude and literary license clash, license usually wins, so any errors regarding legal or police procedural details are mine alone.
Special thanks go to Bob Atiyeh, a private pilot with an instrument rating, who shared with me his knowledge of general aviation procedures, flight plans, SBOs, FBOs, and everything else I needed to know and had no clue about.
Thanks always to my excellent assistants, Dianne Francis and Patricia Chichester. There is a special place in Heaven for authors’ assistants, and truly Dianne and Patricia have earned it.
And last, but always first, my fiancée, Sandy Dillingham, whom I thank for giving me the gift of a new life. I love you.
There is a new trend among authors to thank very famous people for inspiration, non-existent assistance, and/or some casual reference to the author’s work. Authors do this to pump themselves up. So, on the off chance that this is helpful, I wish to thank the following people: the Emperor of Japan and the Queen of England for promoting literacy; William S. Cohen, former secretary of defense, for dropping me a note saying he liked my books, as did his boss, Bill Clinton; Bruce Willis, who called me one day and said, “Hey, you’re a good writer”; Albert Einstein, who inspired me to write about nuclear weapons; General George Armstrong Custer, whose brashness at the Little Bighorn taught me a lesson in judgment; Mikhail Gorbachev, whose courageous actions indirectly led to my books being translated into Russian; Don DeLillo and Joan Didion, whose books are always before and after mine on bookshelves, and whose names always appear before and after mine in almanacs and many lists of American writers—thanks for being there, guys; Julius Caesar, for showing the world that illiterate barbarians can be beaten; Paris Hilton, whose family hotel chain carries my books in their gift shops; and last but not least, Albert II, King of the Belgians, who once waved to me in Brussels as the Royal Procession moved from the Palace to the Parliament Building, screwing up traffic for half an hour, thereby forcing me to kill time by thinking of a great plot to dethrone the King of the Belgians.
There are many more people I could thank, but time, space, and modesty compel me to stop here.
On a more serious note, the following people have made generous contributions to charities in return for having their names used for some of the characters in this novel: James (Jim) R. Hawkins, who contributed to Canine Companions for Independence; Marion Fanelli and Paul Dunn—Cradle of Aviation Museum; Carol Ascrizzi and Patty Gleason—Make-A-Wish Foundation; Gary Melius, on behalf of his friend, John Nasseff, and Lori Bahnik—Boys & Girls Club of Oyster Bay–East Norwich; and Leslie Scheinthal—Variety Child Learning Center.
Many thanks to these caring and public-spirited men and women. I hope you’ve enjoyed your alter egos and that you continue to support worthwhile causes.
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