Blackout

by Nance, John J. ;

  Freezing-cold air was flowing through the unsealed shutters on the bear-ravaged window, and she stopped for a second to look in that direction, wondering precisely what she’d do if the bear picked that moment to reappear.

  Graham had been holding on to the .30-.30 many hours earlier when she went to bed, and she moved quietly now to look in the large easy chair where he’d been. She found the physician asleep at his post, his legs covered with a quilt, the .30-.30 resting across his lap as he snored softly.

  Dallas tiptoed back to the kitchen and began assembling the necessary tools for making coffee, making enough small noises to mask the sound of creaking boards on the porch of the cabin.

  One loud creak, however, riveted her undivided attention.

  Dallas carefully put down the coffeemaker and glanced up at the small light she’d turned on under the Vent-A-Hood. It was still dark outside, and the sudden dousing of a light would be obvious.

  Best to leave it on, she decided.

  She dropped to the floor and crawled rapidly and silently around the counter and across the throw rug to the big chair.

  Another loud, sustained creaking of boards from the porch confirmed that someone, or something, was moving just beyond the wall.

  Dallas slid alongside the chair and put a hand over Graham’s mouth as she shook his arm with her other hand. Predictably, he came awake with a wide-eyed start and a muffled yelp. She leaned over him with a finger over her mouth for quiet, and pointed at the door as another set of creaking footsteps moved from left to right. The intruder was moving cautiously but steadily toward the door. Graham checked the .30-.30 and carefully got out of the chair, moving behind it with Dallas.

  The door handle rattled suddenly, and whoever was on the other side pulled at it a few times before accepting the fact that it was securely locked.

  So it’s not the bear! Dallas almost wished it were.

  A beam of light was being played around outside. A flashlight. The reflections of the beam were coming through the cracks in the shutters that had been pulled in place over the window.

  Suddenly, the intruder rattled the shutters, and boots crunched on the broken glass outside. The shutter opened abruptly and a bright beam of light stabbed inside the cabin as Graham and Dallas ducked behind the big chair.

  The beam was directed toward the kitchen, then to the bear rug in front of the fireplace, stopping at various points to illuminate the backpack, the computer case, and several other items foreign to the cabin.

  Graham and Dallas waited, unsure what to do, until the unmistakable sound of a handgun being cocked filled the room. Dallas felt Graham tense and readjust his hands on the stock and barrel of the .30-.30.

  The intruder pulled the other shutter open and kicked at the remaining shards of glass with his boot before climbing carefully into the cabin. Dallas saw he was wearing a heavy jacket and a hat with earflaps pulled down. As soon as he was inside, he turned his back to the interior to examine the broken window.

  Graham moved silently, with the speed of a striking snake, from the back of the chair, placing the muzzle of the .30-.30 on the back of the man’s neck.

  “FREEZE! Don’t move a muscle!” Graham commanded. “Raise your hands in the air, holding that gun by the barrel.”

  The man complied. Dallas plucked the revolver from his right hand and the flashlight from his left.

  “Whatever you say,” the man mumbled. “Just don’t hurt me.”

  “How many more of you are there?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Anyone else out there?” Graham asked.

  The man shook his head as he stood still, facing the window. “No. Just me.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “That’s what I need to ask you,” the man said. “I’m the caretaker for this place. Have been for thirty years.”

  Graham looked at Dallas, who was holding up an index finger. “And what’s your name, Sir?”

  “Don. Don Donohue.”

  Dallas shrugged and nodded. “That’s the right name, Graham.”

  “Is it?” Graham asked, looking back over his shoulder at Dallas.

  She turned on the ceiling light, and Graham lowered the .30-.30’s barrel and asked Donohue to turn around and show some identification. When they were satisfied, Dallas returned his wallet and motioned him to sit down.

  “Didn’t you get Kat Bronsky’s note?” Dallas asked.

  Donohue shook his head. “I didn’t get any—Kat’s here?”

  “Well, she’s been gone now for a few days, but she said she left a note at the dock for you. We’re her guests here.”

  He was shaking his head no and rolling his eyes. “Good grief. I stopped looking for notes at the dock last year when we got in our satellite phone. I guess she didn’t get the word. I’m sure sorry about that. I didn’t know anyone was here.”

  “We thought you’d gotten the note, and that you’d see the smoke from the chimney.”

  “Naw. The central heater’s on in this cabin all winter, and it kicks out one hell of a plume of steam, so I wouldn’t have noticed. How long are you folks staying?”

  Dallas glanced at Graham to make sure he knew that she was planning to answer the question. “About five days, maybe six. There are four of us, plus Kat and another man.” She pointed to the broken window and related the bear story.

  “Yep,” Donohue said, looking at the window. “We’ve been having trouble with that bear for the last few months, which is one reason I came by to check the cabin. Sorry about the hour. I get up early.”

  “You know that bear?” Dallas asked.

  “Unfortunately, we all know that critter. I’m afraid the rangers are going to have to relocate it.” He paused and looked carefully at Graham. “Uh, was one of you folks outside late last night, down by the river?”

  “Why do you ask?” Dallas replied, hoping to hear the right response.

  “Well, I came down to check on our little hydroelectric mill in the river, and I found some footprints in the snow. They looked lighter than you, though,” Donohue said, gesturing to Graham.

  Dallas shook her head and sighed loudly. “Thank heavens! That was one of us. I found your footprints over his and thought someone was stalking us.”

  Don Donohue laughed. “No, not much stalking going on around here, although we got a group in last night I’m not too sure about.” He turned toward the window. “Say, let me get a hammer and some plastic from the shed, and I’ll seal that pneumonia hole for you.”

  “Ah, what do you mean about a group last night?” Graham asked, sitting down with a tired thunk in a smaller chair.

  “Oh, down at the dock. Four men came in on a rented cabin cruiser from Chelan, asking a bunch of odd questions about who was up here and who wasn’t this time of year, pretending to know nothing about the area.”

  “Pretending?” Dallas asked.

  He nodded. “Yeah. See, we get these fellows from the government coming every now and then disguised as mild-mannered civilians trying to catch us locals violating Park Service rules.”

  “I’m not following you,” Dallas said.

  “Back in the late seventies, a bunch of hunting buddies of Senator Jackson wanted to run us locals out of here so they could have it as their private hunting preserve. Some of us, like the Cavanaughs, been here since the late eighteen hundreds. We fought ’em and compromised on a brand-new animal called a National Recreation Area, sort of a national park with squatters. Ever since, we and the Park Service have had a love-hate relationship.”

  “So, you think the men you saw are plainclothes Park Service?”

  “Well, they don’t fit the mold. Cold eyes, you know? Really bothered me.”

  “We’re …” Dallas began, “… uh … did you talk to them?”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Donohue said quickly. “I said nothing about this place, and I didn’t know anyone was here anyway.”

  “They weren’t armed, were they?”

  �
��I didn’t see any guns, but you never know. They looked more like FBI agents than anything else.”

  FBI HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Jake Rhoades thanked the agents in the conference room and hurried out into the hall and back to his office. He shut the door behind him and stood for a moment, trying to imagine what was going through Kat Bronsky’s mind.

  There was a tapping on the door and Jake turned to yank it open, irritated that someone was failing to honor his request for a few minutes of uninterrupted quiet.

  “Yes?” he said, pulling it open, somewhat taken aback to find the director of the FBI standing on the other side.

  “Jake, got a minute?”

  “Sure. Come in.”

  The director moved to a plush leather chair on the other side of Jake’s desk and sat down. “Give me a quick update, Jake.”

  “On the Bronsky situation?”

  The director nodded and listened intently as Jake explained the latest developments, and the near brush with capture by the other group at the Seattle-area motel.

  The director leaned forward. “The political pressure on this has passed critical mass. The FAA administrator and I, plus the Secretary of Transportation, think it’s only a matter of days before we have enough terrorist warnings shutting down enough airports to cause a general explosion of public opinion that we can’t do our job and that airline flying is tantamount to suicide. The economic damage to the airline industry is already incredible, and the fact—as you know—that we have no formal ransom or extortion demand from this group means they’re going to zap someone else out of the sky before they communicate again.”

  Jake sighed. “Director, I don’t know what else we can do but what we’re doing.”

  “How close is she, Jake?”

  Jake Rhoades cocked his head and came forward slightly in his chair. “I’m sorry?”

  “Kat Bronsky. She’s gone autonomous, we’re trying to capture her before the other side does and all that, but she’s out there trying to solve this riddle. You relayed that yourself.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “So how close is she?”

  Jake shook his head slowly. “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Well, she believes she’s chasing down a solid lead, and frankly—unless you can tell me otherwise—that’s about the best this entire Bureau has at this point, right?”

  “Well, Sir, we’ve tasked a large part of the Bureau and the investigation is roaring away on numerous fronts—”

  “But,” the director interrupted, “the only one who thinks he or she’s got a lead is Bronsky, am I right?”

  “As far as I know, yes.”

  “All right. So my orders are changing. When you find her, form up the entire Bureau around her to help, but don’t get in her way. Give her every resource we have and, in essence, put her in charge of a special team effort. But if she wants to work solo, let her.”

  Jake’s jaw had dropped. “Ah, very well. But first we have to find her.”

  “The prime directive here is don’t crowd her, don’t suspend her, don’t threaten her, just support her.”

  The director got up to leave and Jake stopped him with a question. “May I ask what precipitated this rather abrupt change, Sir?”

  The director turned. “Sure. You can ask, and I probably shouldn’t answer, but I will, since this is the opposite of my wishes yesterday.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “With the understanding that this doesn’t get passed to anyone, including her.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I received a very unusual call a while ago from the acting Secretary of State, Jordan James, who’s known Agent Bronsky all her life. He was CIA director for a long time, you may recall, so he knows his way around the intelligence community, and I’m half convinced he’s still on their payroll.”

  “Really?” Jake interrupted. “He called me two days ago saying he suspected we had a leak and that he was setting up a relay through Langley.”

  The director nodded, unsurprised. “Well, Jordan severely twisted my arm to call off our dogs and leave Bronsky alone. He said we were going to get her killed.”

  “What?”

  “I know. On its face, it makes no sense to me, either, since we’re trying to bring her and those survivors in to keep them alive, first, and extract any information they have, second.”

  Jake was shaking his head. “He wants us to back off from trying to find her? She just missed being killed in Seattle! The next time she may not be as lucky.”

  “Jake, what James’s call tells me, between the lines—since I suspect she’s talking to him more than she’s talking to us—is that she’s working the right leads. I think his network of spooks is still feeding him good information, and I think his loyalty to her is greater than to the Company.”

  “I’m just not following this, Sir.”

  “In a nutshell, I believe James’s old friends at the Company want us to find and take Agent Bronsky out of this investigation because she’s getting too close to something they want to solve. The same old rivalry. But I think, if I’m reading this right, that James wants Bronsky to succeed, and the only way to let that happen is to get us off her back.”

  “He’s selling out the Company to let Kat make the collar?”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  The director shrugged. “Then we’ve lost nothing, as I see it.”

  “How about Kat herself?”

  “As I say, Jake. Find her, offer help, and let her decide what she needs. Frankly, I don’t give a rat’s ass whether the Company solves this one or we do. The stakes are too high for internal gamesmanship. But … it would still be nice to see a Bureau win on this.”

  chapter 42

  PORTLAND INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, OREGEN

  NOVEMBER 16—DAY FIVE

  11:10 A.M. LOCAL/1910 ZULU

  With carry-on bags flying and a loud “oomph,” a businessman in his late forties tumbled over another passenger as he strained to keep his eyes on the miniskirted blond he’d just passed at the terminal entrance.

  Robert rolled his eyes, and Kat suppressed a laugh. Both of them were approaching security after she waited on the sidelines for Robert to check her bag and buy the tickets at the front counter. The 9mm pistol, unloaded and declared, was inside her checked bag, which left her feeling more exposed than the costume she was wearing.

  The two of them moved through the inspection portal and walked to the head of the long, carpeted ramp to the Horizon departure lounge, where Kat came to a halt.

  “I can’t do this, Robert,” she said. She was amused by the confused look on his face.

  “What? Take the flight?”

  “NO,” she said, lifting her right foot to remove one of the high platform shoes. “These are too much.”

  “You wanted trash-flash.”

  “Oh, you got the right stuff, but … I can wear the micro-mini and the attitude, but these are just over the top. That’s why,” she said, struggling to take off the other one and plop them in a cloth carry-on bag, “I brought some standbys.”

  Robert shook his head disapprovingly as she slipped on the other pair of shoes.

  “Sensible. Far too sensible.”

  “Yeah, but somewhere in this getup I’ve got to have a little dignity, not to mention the ability to move. I’ve almost fallen a dozen times.”

  “Well, I like the rest of the outfit.”

  “Yeah. I could learn to like this,” she whispered. “Watching you boys fall all over yourselves is perverse fun.”

  He was shaking his head as she resumed walking and he kept pace with her, keeping his voice low enough for her ears only. “Bimbos rule!”

  “I heard that. I are not a bimbo.”

  “Could fool me,” he chuckled.

  “Cad.”

  “Cad? Cad?” Robert turned slightly toward her, keeping his voice low. “Kat, no one’s used that term in thirty years.”


  “Would you prefer ‘male chauvinist piglet’?”

  “No.”

  They emerged in the departure lounge, and Robert pulled the tickets out of his inside jacket pocket. “Who does the honors?” he asked.

  “It’s a male agent. Me,” she said, taking the tickets and inclining her head toward a seat. “I shall return. We want to minimize your facial exposure.”

  “Okay. I’ll wait here,” Robert said, “but would you pick up a copy of my paper or The New York Times if you can find it?” He indicated a newsstand in the distance and she nodded.

  “After I check us in,” she said.

  The gate agent was a well-groomed male in his thirties whose eyes brightened the second he saw Kat approaching. Predictably, his focus fell about twelve inches below her eyes, then quickly returned as he made a supreme effort to keep from looking at her considerable superbra cleavage.

  Good! He’s straight. He’s putty, Kat thought.

  Manipulating him into a cursory check of her driver’s license was simple; Robert’s ID check had been easily handled at the front ticket counter. She rewarded the agent with a wink and a bright smile and moved quickly toward the newsstand, carefully scanning the crowd and acutely aware of the stares of interested males and irritated women alike as she sashayed her way across the terrazzo, letting her hips swing a bit more than normal.

  Under different circumstances, this could be fun, Kat thought, as she returned to Robert and handed him the tickets and boarding passes before heading for the newsstand. She looked through the newspapers and selected a Washington Post containing a banner headline about the airport shutdowns. There would be at least one picture of her inside, she figured, but she was beginning to feel truly invisible, hiding Kat Bronsky beneath the flashy façade.

  “Excuse me!” a well-dressed man to her right said, withdrawing his hand from in front of her where he’d been reaching for the same paper.

  “No problem,” Kat said, smiling at him. She noticed his left arm was in a sling, and his face was bandaged on one side.