“I guess that’s good news, considering the alternative.”
“Amen to that. The Bridgestones left a note in the guard shack telling the FBI to expect more of the same.”
“Think they’re serious?”
“Hard to say. I told Henning it was probably a diversion to tie up resources.”
“Makes sense. A lot’s happened while you were gone. I’ve got our two techs checked into a room down the hall. They’ve got our secure fax line up and running. I took the liberty of contacting General Hawthorne when you were gone. He promised to fax us the visitation logs for Ernie Bridgestone by twenty-hundred tonight.”
“Good work. How’s old Thorny doing?”
“Busy. He asked about you, though.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“I told him I still needed to wake your ass up with a ten-foot pole.”
“That’s nice, Harv.”
“He’s also gonna get us that list of Leonard’s military contacts from the Gulf.”
Nathan sat up. “Director Lansing called. Gave us the go-ahead. I guess the bombing changed things. We even get an FBI Lear at our disposal. It’s being flown out from DC as we speak.”
“No kidding?”
“Everyone from the top down is strongly motivated to find the Bridgestones. Even Henning’s in our court.”
“Talk about a change from a few nights ago. This is a pretty strong statement of trust.”
“It’s not absolute. I fully expect Henning to be Lansing’s eyes and ears.”
“Lansing’s just covering his ass by having Henning tag along. I wouldn’t read too much into it. What’s your first stop, then?” Harv asked.
“The Castle.”
“We should have the visitation logs tonight. Why go there in person?”
“A hunch. I want an insight into Ernie Bridgestone’s head.”
“The prison shrink?”
“Yep.”
“You could do it by phone.”
“I’d rather have a face-to-face.”
“Understood. I’ll coordinate things from here. I need to follow up on Ernie’s contacts too. Like you said, maybe we get lucky and one of them will be working for a bank or financial institution.”
Nathan lay back on the bed. “Wake me up in three hours.”
“Will do. I’m going down the hall and check on our boys.”
* * *
Nathan’s eyes snapped open and for the second time that day he felt disoriented, unsure where he was. As the room came into focus, Harv stood a comfortable distance away, next to the small coffeemaker on the table near the window.
“How long?” Nathan asked.
“Three hours on the button. I took your phone. Henning called about an hour ago, said the Lear will be here by twenty-three hundred. He wants you to call him back.”
“You get the logs from the Castle?”
“Yep, and it seems Ernie had a frequent visitor, besides his brother Leonard. His ex-wife from Pensacola when he was a drill instructor at the naval air station. Her name’s Amber Mills Sheldon. It’s worth pursuing.”
“Definitely. You get an address? Phone number?”
“Just what she wrote in the log, but it’s old. Our guys are checking it out. We should see if she’s in the NCIC database. If she is, we’ll get the most current info.”
“I’ll ask Henning to run her. Anybody else visit him?”
“Not a soul.”
“Why am I not surprised. Did Thorny get you anything on Leonard’s Gulf contacts yet?”
“I don’t expect to hear from him until tomorrow morning.”
“I should be back from the Castle by midday.”
“With a little luck, we’ll have a starting place to hunt these guys down.”
“Agreed.” Nathan’s cell bleeped to life from a restricted number. “Hello?”
“Nathan?”
“Dad,” Nathan said. Harv gestured, asking if he should leave the room. Nathan shook his head.
“Am I calling at a bad time?”
“You’re working late tonight.”
“Goes with the territory. We need to talk.”
Nathan said nothing.
“I hear you’ve been busy out there.”
Was this an attempt at a thank-you? “Yes, I have. We have, Harv and me.”
“You saved a bunch of lives with that warning shot you fired at the compound. I’m glad you were there.”
“Frank Ortega asked us keep an eye on things.”
“I know, he told me. He also told me you want to speak to Director Lansing.”
“I’ve already spoken with him.” But you already know that, he silently added.
“May I ask what you talked about?”
“Harv and I are going after the Bridgestones.”
“I see.”
“Before murdering twenty-one federal employees today, they beat James Ortega to a bloody pulp, cut six of his fingers off, and then burned him alive.” Nathan waited through an uncomfortable silence. “You still there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Frank didn’t tell you that part?”
“No, Nathan, he didn’t tell me that part, and I didn’t ask.”
More silence. He knew his father was wondering why he hadn’t been told. In Washington, information was power. “Look, these guys have to be found and interrogated. You want every ounce of that Semtex accounted for, don’t you? Especially after today?”
“The FBI has its own people for that. They don’t need you.”
Nathan sighed.
“You need to back off and let the FBI handle things from here. I can’t—”
“You can’t what?”
“All right. I can’t protect you if you continue down this road of vengeance.”
“It’s not vengeance and I don’t need your protection.”
“You’re not in the CIA working on foreign soil anymore. This is the United States of America. You can’t just grab people off the street and interrogate them.”
“Watch me.”
“Damn it, Nathan. This isn’t Nazi Germany. Your brutal methods are illegal and insidious. Let it go. This isn’t your fight.”
“The hell it isn’t. One way or the other, the Bridgestones are going down. If the FBI finds them before I do, that’s fine with me. So you called to warn me off, is that it?”
“If you persist with this manhunt of yours, you could go to prison and I won’t be able to help you.”
“Like you helped me in Nicaragua?”
“That’s a hateful thing to say. I had no idea where you were being… held.”
“You can say it, Dad. It’s just a word. Tortured. You had no idea where I was being tortured. For three weeks.”
“They… I couldn’t find you.”
“Oh? Harv found me.”
No response.
“And guess how he did it? He grabbed people off the street and interrogated—”
“I know how he did it,” Stone interrupted.
“Yeah, well, there’s a big difference between you and Frank Ortega. Frank Ortega did everything possible to find his missing grandson, even bend the precious Constitutional rights of a couple of shit birds in the process. I don’t need you to lecture me on violating human rights, I’ve had firsthand experience with it.”
“Clearly it was a mistake to call.”
“Clearly. One last thing. I debated telling you, but what the hell. The Bridgestones know I was the shooter who killed their little brother. They also know you’re my father. That makes us both targets. So you watch yourself, Senator, because clearly, this isn’t over.”
Nathan ended the call and hurled his cell onto the bed. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and tilted his head back. He was vaguely aware of Harv shifting his weight in the chair near the window. After a good minute of silence, Nathan said, “I guess I didn’t handle that very well.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I let him get under my skin. I
should’ve known better.”
“Yes, you should’ve.”
“Well, aren’t you just overflowing with good advice.”
Harv grinned at him. “Did you know your ears turn red when you’re angry?”
“You know, I honestly didn’t.”
“Well, they do. Go take a look in the mirror and don’t break it, okay?”
“Cute, Harv.” Nathan walked into the bathroom and flipped the switch. He looked at himself in the newly replaced mirror, turning his head from side to side, getting a good look. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered. He splashed some water on his face and rested his weight on the counter.
“Make sure you wet your ears,” Harv called from the other room. “I wouldn’t want you to burst a blood vessel. Those damned cauliflowers are ugly enough.”
Chapter 14
Three thousand miles away, Stone McBride replaced the handset into its cradle and shook his head. How the hell did the Bridgestones know Nathan was the shooter and why hadn’t Frank told him what they’d done to James? Stone wondered what else he hadn’t been told. What a mess.… As if his life and this Semtex business weren’t complicated enough already. He hit the intercom button. “Heidi, I need to speak to FBI Director Lansing again right away. I also need Kevin Ramsland on the line.”
It was obvious his son still held bitter feelings about what had happened in Nicaragua, and rightfully so, but Stone knew those feelings were misdirected. Despite what Nathan said, he had made a genuine effort to find him. During Nathan’s captivity, he’d called CIA Director Kallstrom dozens of times, asking for updates, asking if there was anything he could do that wasn’t already being done, and he’d received the same answer every time. Stone was essentially told the situation was delicate in nature and that we’re doing everything possible to find your son.
To some degree, he’d understood Kallstrom’s position. The presence of a covert CIA sniper team working in Nicaragua would’ve been a major scandal, and sending a SEAL team in involved considerable risk of exposing that scandal. Besides, no one knew where Nathan was being held. Containment could’ve been lost. So why hadn’t it become a scandal? They had Nathan. Surely they must have known he was CIA. They’d had three weeks to wring it out of him. And they had tortured him to the brink of death. He didn’t like thinking about it.
Stone shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Now wasn’t the time to rattle this cage. If his son wanted to blame him for what happened, so be it, there was nothing he could do about it, but for now, he had more important things to worry about. If Nathan pursued this reckless manhunt of the Bridgestones and broke laws in the process, he was on his own. Impatient, he hit the intercom button again. Heidi informed him she was still waiting for return calls from Lansing and Ramsland.
“I also need you to call Commissioner Robert Price. I want the security patrolling all the Senate and House buildings tripled. If he gives you a hard time about it, put him through to me. And needless to say, no one talks to the media. I’ll personally skin anyone who even looks at a reporter.”
“Yes, Senator. I’ll see to everything right away.”
On impulse, Stone picked up the phone and called Frank Ortega.
“Hello.”
“Frank, it’s Stone.”
No answer.
“You okay?”
“No, I’m not okay. Why would I be okay?”
Stone didn’t respond. All he heard was the chime of Frank’s regulator clock in the background.
Finally Frank spoke. “Why didn’t your people know about the tunnel?”
The question caught Stone by surprise and he was shocked at the accusatory tone. They weren’t his people, the FBI had conducted all aspects of the operation. Maybe it was better if he ended this call as soon as possible. “Look, I just wanted see how you were doing. We’ll talk later, okay?”
The line went dead. Frank Ortega had hung up without saying good-bye. Stone felt sucker punched. Frank Ortega, a man he’d known for forty years, had just sounded like a complete stranger. For the first time in his life, he felt like an intruder, not a close friend. Maybe he just needed time, Stone reasoned. This was the second tragedy in his family. First his daughter, now his grandson. It had to be tearing him up.
Stone pivoted back to the muted television and shook his head at the endless parade of talking heads analyzing the bombing from every conceivable angle. The nation’s first big terrorist attack since 911wasn’t from Al Qaeda. Domestic terrorism now occupied center stage and the negative political fallout was going to land on his shoulders, especially after his press conference trumpeting the seizure of a huge stockpile of illegal Semtex. To make matters worse, his Committee on Domestic Terrorism had been created to prevent this very thing. Why hadn’t he seen this coming? In his defense, everything he’d read in the file about the Bridgestones hadn’t led him to believe they were capable of such a cold-blooded act. So why had they done it?
Deep down, part of him hoped his son would find them before the FBI did. They had it coming.
* * *
Nathan had been on a Lear before and he felt a little underdressed in his blue jeans and white Polo shirt. The sixty-foot Learjet 60 XR was spacious, offering stand-up head room. Two rows of single tan leather seats lined both sides of the fuselage, half of them opposing one another. The rear third of the jet was set up like a small office with a table and two opposing seats facing it. Near the back, a small door opened into the head, a little cramped for a man his size, but manageable. The pilot and copilot introduced themselves as Special Agents Jenkins and Williamson respectively. Jenkins wore captain’s shoulder boards with four chevrons while Williamson, the first officer, wore three. Nathan guessed they were both trained military, Navy or Air Force. As they studied their new VIP’s face, they both betrayed surprise at what they saw.
“I lost an argument with a chainsaw,” Nathan said, easing the tension.
“That was some argument,” Jenkins said. “Where are we going?”
“The airfield at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas.”
The two pilots exchanged a quick glance.
“I’ll check it out,” Williamson said. He disappeared into the cockpit and returned twenty seconds later with a black binder. He started thumbing through the pages. “Here we are… Sherman Army Airfield. Looks like… it’s a joint-use military and civilian airfield. Runway’s fifty-nine-hundred feet. We’re good to go, gives us five-hundred feet to spare for our takeoff roll.” He smiled. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Make yourselves comfortable.” Jenkins waved a hand around the interior. “As you can see, there’s no flight attendant so you’re on your own for beverage service. I trust you’ll be able to find what you need?”
“We’ll manage,” Nathan said. “What’s our flight time?”
“Around three hours, depending on the winds aloft.”
“Hell of a job you’ve got here,” Henning added.
“We like it. To be honest, it’s nice to ferry someone other than the director for a change.” He lowered his voice and looked around in fake secrecy. “He’s not real personable.”
“So I’ve heard,” Nathan said.
“We aren’t strict enforcers of seat-belt rules, but it’s best if you’re strapped in for takeoffs and landings.”
“Shouldn’t you at least brief us on emergency procedures?” Nathan asked. “You know, emergency exits, that kind of stuff?”
“Naw,” Jenkins said. “If we crash, there will be lots of exits.”
Nathan smiled. He liked these guys.
“Nathan’s a helicopter pilot,” Henning added. “He owns a Bell Jet Ranger.”
“No kidding?”
Nathan shrugged.
“I’ve always wanted to learn helicopters.”
“Is your father really Stone McBride?” Williamson asked.
Jenkins bumped him. “We aren’t supposed to know that.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. Can you… uh… forget I just asked that?”
These two were real characters. Nathan hoped they took their flying more seriously. “To answer the question, Yes, he’s my father.”
The first officer nudged his captain. “Shouldn’t we salute him or something?”
Shaking his head, Nathan took a seat facing forward and fastened his belt.
Jenkins mouthed the word sorry to Nathan and pivoted toward the cockpit, but before disappearing behind the cockpit door, he turned back, his expression serious. “Listen, it might seem like we’re indifferent about what happened today. We aren’t. We use humor to relieve stress. We’re as angry as the next man, but that anger doesn’t belong in here.”
“Understood,” Nathan said.
“We’ve got to file our flight plan into Fort Leavenworth, it’ll take a few minutes.” Jenkins studied him for a few seconds. “Did Lansing bring you in to find whoever bombed us?”
Nathan wasn’t sure how to respond, wasn’t sure how much he could share without violating Lansing’s or Holly’s trust. He hadn’t been introduced as Special Agent Nathan McBride, so they knew he wasn’t with the bureau. They probably figured him as some kind of VIP bounty hunter. He sensed Henning tense behind him. Walking a tightrope, he used only his eyes, moving them up and down in a nod.
Jenkins got the message. Definitely trained military.
Twenty minutes later, during the takeoff roll, Nathan let his head press against the seat as the Lear’s wings bit into the midnight air. Behind him, Henning was silent. He’d been rather subdued on the short drive to the airport. Perhaps the horror of today’s events had finally soaked in. Whatever the reason, Nathan welcomed the silence. Despite the catnaps he’d been taking over the last four days, a few hours here, a few hours there, a deep fatigue had crippled him. He was sluggish, both physically and mentally, and gauged his operational readiness at 50 percent. Not good. Unacceptable in military terms. Sooner or later, preferably sooner, he’d need an uninterrupted slumber of at least eight hours. But for now, another catnap would have to do. Sleep when you can. He reclined his seat, extended the leg rest, and closed his eyes. He hoped his personal demons would take the night off, especially in front of Henning.
* * *
First to Kill Page 17