“What do you wish to speak to him about?” Catrina Welsh said. “Oh, there’s that damned phone again.” She answered the call, said a few curt words, “No. No. All right.” And then returned to the Ukrainian. “You were about to tell me why you wish to speak with Mr. Cantwell.”
The Ukrainian forged his best disarming smile and said, “Nearly one-third of my beautiful country is forested, and fire is an ever-present danger. I’m preparing an article for my news agency on the latest firefighting methods in Europe and the United States.” He smiled again. “The Polish Department of Forestry and Nature Conservation is rather antiquated and set in its ways. I’m hoping that Superintendent Cantwell can help me write an article that will help bring it up to date.”
The phone rang again. Catrina Welsh answered, spoke for a couple of minutes and then said into the receiver, “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”
She returned to the Ukrainian, looking harried, and snapped, “Mr. Cantwell isn’t here. He’s in Portland, Oregon.” She dashed away and picked up the phone again. “Yes, I’m back.”
The Ukrainian smiled and spoke into dead air. “Thank you, I’ll find him in Portland,” he said.
* * *
Catrina Welsh hung up the phone, her face pale under her California tan. Why was the Secret Service investigating members of the National Wildfire Service? What did they suspect? Whom did they suspect? She could come up with answers, but they’d be guesses, all of them troubling.
Her face pensive and slightly fearful, she picked up her cell phone and dialed a number.
CHAPTER 29
Fire Chief John Ferguson eyed the three young men standing to attention in front of his desk at the National Wildfire Service depot with considerable distaste. All looked rumpled after a night in the drunk tank, and one of them sported a magnificent black eye. Their battered bugout bags were piled at their feet.
“Identify yourselves,” Ferguson said. “And age, please.”
The men looked at one another and then the one in the middle spoke up. “Nigel Brown, twenty-five, sir!” He was tall, well-built, and rather handsome in a coarse, ill-bred way.
“Frank West, twenty-three, sir!” Short, stocky, black eye, with the battered features of a bar brawler.
“Daniel Grant, thirty, sir!” Tall, dark and slim, with the pencil mustache of a 1930s matinee idol.
Ferguson, a middle-aged man with close-cropped iron-gray hair, said, “Brown, your Special Air Service rank before you joined the British anti-pyroterrorism unit?”
“Lance Corporal, sir!”
“West?”
“Lance Corporal, sir!”
“Grant?”
“Corporal, sir!”
“Why did you assault the policeman?” Ferguson said, frowning. “That was a damned stupid thing to do. And a major crime in this city.”
Grant, belligerent and angry said, “Sir, he was a bloody detective. How was I to know he was a copper? He didn’t show us a badge or anything, and when he started asking us a lot of cheeky questions, I clocked him one.”
“Did he give you the black eye?” Ferguson said.
“No, sir, his bloody mates did. But they were in uniform. One of them hit me with a stick.”
“And me as well,” West said. “A big, bloody club. We all got pounded, and then they dragged us into a cage with a lot of drunks and drug addicts and left us there. The place smelled like piss and vomit.”
“Were you drunk?”
The men exchanged glances, then West said, “Tipsy.”
“Merry,” Grant said. “I’d say we were merry.”
Ferguson was silent for a few moments, his gaze scalding the three miscreants. Then he said, “For reasons that are beyond my understanding, you men have been assigned to Superintendent Cory Cantwell’s anti-terrorism team, called . . . and again I have no idea why . . . the Regulators.”
“And we’re honored to be a part of it,” Grant said. “And honored to be standing in front of you, sir.”
“We won’t fail your fine fire service again,” West said. “Never in a million years.”
“You can depend on that, sir,” Brown said.
Ferguson shook his head. “Then God help us,” he said. “Now, when you leave my office, make a right, and two doors down on your left, you’ll find the temporary office of squad leader Pete Kennedy, another Regulator. Introduce yourselves, and he’ll fix you up with uniforms and a place to bunk until Superintendent Cantwell gets back. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly, sir,” Grant said.
“One last thing,” Ferguson said. “Who do you boys know?”
All three Brits seemed puzzled and remained silent.
“Somebody called the LA police on your behalf and made them an offer they couldn’t refuse,” Ferguson said. “Hell, the cops even drove you here. Any idea who that somebody was?”
“No, sir,” Grant said.
“The Queen?” West said, but he sounded doubtful.
“I doubt you’d be released by the LAPD even for the Queen. Then it’s a mystery,” Ferguson said. He sighed. “That’s it, you may leave. You’re Pete Kennedy’s problem now.”
* * *
Pete Kennedy was more receptive to the three Brits since he’d been in an action alongside the SAS in Iraq and liked them. “There was one more Regulator here, a firefighter called Merinda Barker, but she’s already left for jump training. So I’m afraid you’re stuck with me until Superintendent Cantwell gets back from ... wherever he is.”
“The pleasure is all ours, sir,” Grant said.
“We’re honored, sir,” Brown said.
Kennedy smiled. “You don’t call me ‘sir.’ I’m a smoke jumper just like you are.”
Grant said, “Begging your pardon, Mr. Kennedy—”
“Call me Pete.”
“Begging your pardon, Pete,” Dan Grant said, “But we could use a shower and then something to eat. The police didn’t feed us.”
“Yes, I’ll take you to your quarters, and then we’ll take care of the rest,” Kennedy said. “Later I’ll see if I can fix you up with uniforms. Did you bring sidearms?”
“No, we weren’t allowed to carry them from Britain,” Grant said.
“Browning Hi-Powers?” Kennedy said.
“We used the Hi-Power in the SAS,” Grant said. “But for anti-pyroterrorism actions we were equipped with the SIG Sauer P226.”
“You’re familiar with Glock 19?”
“Yes,” the three said in unison.
“Good. That will be your duty pistol in the Regulators,” Kennedy said. He rose from his desk. “Now I’ll show you to your quarters. They’re not very fancy, a bunk and a storage chest.”
“A bunk will suit us just fine,” Grant said. “We’ve slept on a lot worse.”
“I know all about that,” Pete Kennedy said.
CHAPTER 30
That afternoon, Catrina Welsh rang Cory Cantwell and caught him just before he was about to step in the shower. Without preamble, she said, “All right, Cory, Pete Kennedy’s left me with quite a problem.”
“What kind of problem? And good afternoon to you.”
“Yes, yes, good afternoon,” the woman said. She sounded annoyed. “I’ve got three Brits here, one with a black eye, claiming to work for you. Are you aware of this?”
“Yes, I knew they were coming,” Cantwell said. “I don’t know anything about the black eye, though.”
“Who are they? What are they? They won’t tell me.”
“Who they are, I don’t know. At least not yet.”
“What are they?”
“They’re smoke jumpers on loan from a British anti-pyroterrorism unit. I don’t know what it’s called.”
“What do I do with them?” Catrina said.
“I want them here in Portland,” Cantwell said. “And I want Pete Kennedy with them.”
“When?”
“On the first available flight out of LAX.”
“Cory, who’ll pay for all that?�
��
Cantwell put a smile in his voice. “Spoken like an accountant. Sarah Milano will arrange the financing. Oh, and I want them all armed. Pete Kennedy can organize that, huh?”
“I’m sure he can,” Catrina said. “Cory, are you expecting trouble?”
“It’s already started and yes, I believe something big is going to go down here soon.”
“In Portland?”
“Yeah. In Portland. Call it a gut feeling.”
Behind him in the kitchen Cantwell heard Sarah say, “Yes. Yes, I’ll tell him.” He turned his head. “Tell me what?”
“That was the FBI. Agent Tom D’eth died of his wounds twenty minutes ago,” Sarah said.
The news hit Cantwell like a blow. He’d admired the man for his sand. D’eth would be a big loss to the FBI and to law enforcement in general.
“Catrina, I’ve got to go,” Cantwell said. “Keep me posted.”
“What was that all about?” Sarah said.
“The three Brits are in L.A. Catrina Welsh didn’t know what to do with them, so she’s sending them here.”
“With Pete Kennedy. Our gang is growing.”
“But not fast enough.”
“What’s going to happen, Cory?” Sarah said.
“I think there will be a major arson attack on the Willamette and the terrorists’ aim will be to kill as many people as possible,” Cantwell said. “Cause a panicked stampede for the exits, and God alone knows what will happen.”
“It would be a good time to coordinate a second suicide attack,” Sarah said. “Terrorists with automatic weapons and grenades could kill hundreds.”
Cantwell grabbed the towel around his waist as it started to slip. “I don’t even want to think about that,” he said. “Sarah, fire coupled with bullets and grenades is a nightmare scenario.”
“Might it happen?” Sarah said. “What’s your gut feeling?”
“My gut feeling is that damn right it might happen,” Cantwell said.
* * *
After his shower, Cory Cantwell dressed in a T-shirt and jeans and said to Sarah Milano, “Want to take a ride with me?”
“To where?”
“To Mike Norris’s place. He’s here in Portland, and I still have his address . . . somewhere.” Cantwell searched in his bag and found a small notebook where he kept contact information. “Yeah, here it is, 112 Hillock Place.”
“Why Mike Norris?” Sarah said.
“He might have heard something.”
“About a terrorist plot?”
“Unlikely. But he could have other information. He’s out of the fire service, but he still keeps tabs on things.” Cantwell made a face. “Mike can be a major pain in the ass, but if there are any rumors going around about a threat to the Willamette, he’s probably heard them.”
“It’s a long shot, Cory,” Sarah said.
“I know, but we have to start somewhere. I’m clutching at straws here.”
* * *
“Not the best of neighborhoods, is it?” Sarah Milano said.
“Quiet though,” Cory Cantwell said.
“Poverty Row, if you ask me,” Sarah said.
Cantwell smiled. “Snob.” He parked the RAV outside number 112, a run-down three-story apartment block, its dust-filmed windows looking out at the street like cataracted eyes. The hallway that led into the building smelled of boiled cabbage and ancient urine and only at the entrance was there a few feet of angled sunlight. The rest lay in shadow.
“Does Mike Norris live here or Edgar Allan Poe?” Sarah said. Her nose was wrinkled against the smell.
“Ah, here’s Mike’s place,” Cantwell said. He used his knuckles to do a rap-rap-rap-rap-rap . . . rap, rap on the door. And waited. And waited.
“He’s not at home,” Sarah said.
“Seems like,” Cantwell said.
The door opposite opened and a gray-haired woman stuck her head out and said, “He ain’t there. I haven’t seen him in days.”
“Did you know him well?” Cantwell said.
“I didn’t know him at all,” the woman said. “Who’d want to know anyone in this neighborhood?”
“Can you tell me anything about him?” Cantwell said.
“Quiet. Paid his rent, I guess.”
“Is he—” Cantwell began, but the slamming door cut him off.
“Friendly neighbors,” Sarah said.
“I hope Mike’s all right,” Cantwell said.
“Why shouldn’t he be?” Sarah said.
“He drinks . . . recently a lot.”
“You mean he could be lying in there drunk?” Sarah said. “Well, we’re not standing out here all day.”
She leaned in front of Cantwell and tried the door handle. It turned and she pushed. The door swung open. “Unlocked,” she said, stating the obvious.
Cantwell stuck his head inside. “Mike, are you in there?”
No answer. The air inside the apartment smelled stale of booze and cigarette smoke.
“Mike?” Cantwell said.
Silence. Outside a roaring motorcycle racketed along the street. Cantwell stepped inside.
The door opened into a short hallway, a room at the end, another to the left. Both doors hung ajar. Far from reassuring, the profound quiet left in the wake of the motorcycle was menacing, and behind Cantwell, Sarah’s breathing came in short little bursts.
Cantwell walked into the room on his left and then stopped in his tracks. It was obviously Norris’s living room, and it had been thoroughly ransacked and trashed. Books and papers covered the floor, the bookshelf itself tipped over. Drawers had been opened and their contents flung everywhere, and a couple of prints of forest scenes had been torn from the walls.
“Oh, my,” Sarah said.
“Let’s try the bedroom,” Cantwell said.
It told the same story. Even the mattress was pulled from the bed and tumbled. More poignantly, Norris’s smoke jumper gear had been torn from a closet, and his jumpsuit, helmet, boots, Pulaski ax, and firefighter pack were piled on the floor.
“Who did this?” Sarah said, knowing it was a rhetorical question.
“I don’t know,” Cantwell said. “Somebody who wanted to find . . .”
“What?”
“I have no idea,” Cantwell said. Then he remembered that day at the base camp in Arizona when Jacob Sensor casually, perhaps too casually, asked him if he knew a man named Mike Norris. Could this be Sensor’s doing, trying to dig up dirt on Norris? He instantly dismissed the idea. Mike was a damned nuisance, a thorn in the side of the new National Wildfire Service, but nothing he said could merit Sensor’s attention. But still the thought rankled. “Do you know a man named Mike Norris?” Now, why would Sensor say a thing like that?
“Cory, you’re thinking, I can tell,” Sarah said. “A penny for them.”
“You’ll think me crazy.”
“Probably. But tell me anyway.”
Cantwell waved a hand around the wreckage of Norris’s bedroom. “All this . . . could Jacob Sensor be behind it?”
Cantwell expected Sarah to smile, laugh, scoff . . . anything but look pensive, and that surprised him.
“Sensor can do anything he wants,” Sarah said. “Could he see Norris as a danger?”
“To what?”
“The Regulators?”
“How, a danger?”
“If he suspects Norris could go over to the other side.”
“You mean join up with the Islamic terrorists?”
“Yes. That’s what I mean.”
Cantwell shook his head. “Mike is a patriot, a red-blooded American. He’d never take the side of Islamic terrorists . . . never, not a chance in hell.”
CHAPTER 31
How many times had he watched High Noon ? Probably at least twenty times over the years, maybe more. Gary Cooper, tall and grim and years too old for the part, filled the screen of the TV on the wall, and Mike Norris thought that for once it would be really great to see Lee Van Cleef shoot him in the back. Bu
t that wasn’t going to happen.
He turned his attention to the bottle of Wild Turkey that the damned Arab, Nasim Azar, had left him. It was now two-thirds empty. He poured himself a glass, picked up the remote, and thumbed the TV into darkness. It matched his mood. He was a prisoner, and he didn’t know how much more of it he could take. Lie to Azar, promise him anything that would get him the hell out of there. That was his only recourse. There was no other option.
Norris forced himself to think. How long had it been since he’d done real, smoke-in-his-lungs firefighting work? It had been a long time, so long he didn’t want to think about it. He couldn’t do that kind of work now. He was out of shape, probably prediabetic, and he often felt breathless, maybe the booze taking its toll on his ticker. Damn it, he had to get out of here, get fit again, and work for one of the private firefighting companies. Maybe meet a nice woman and get into a steady relationship. Quit the booze . . .
The bourbon a smoky fire in his throat, he turned his head as the door opened and Azar stepped inside, a tray in his hand.
“And how are we this fine afternoon?” the man said.
“Go to hell,” Norris said. “I hate the sight of you.”
“Scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee,” Azar said. “I’ll just put the tray on the bed, shall I?”
“A plastic fork?” Norris said.
“A steel one could be a weapon,” Azar said. “We can’t be too careful, can we?”
“Let me out of here,” Norris said. “I need to get the hell out of here.”
“You’re not ready. You’re not ready mentally, Mr. Norris. I think you need therapy, a few sessions with a shrink.”
“When will I be ready?”
“Soon, I hope.”
“What do you want from me, Azar?”
“It’s simple . . . join the jihad. Burn the infidels.”
“You’re out of your cotton-pickin’ mind,” Norris said, scowling.
“Then, as I told you, you’re not ready.”
“How long will you keep me here?”
“As long as it takes.”
Norris thought for a few moments, then said. “Not that it’s ever likely to happen, but if I joined you what would my payoff be?”
“If the attack on the Willamette . . .”
The Scorching Page 17