by Helin, Don
Sam turned his head toward the window. He could see her reflection looking at him.
“He wants you relieved and charges brought against you for endangering the life of his daughter.” She reached down and turned up the defroster. “Sorry, Sam, I know this is a bitch for you.”
“I’ve had about enough of McCarthy.”
“Gerber told McCarthy that you were on a classified assignment and that he wasn’t able to share any more. Told him all of the team felt bad about what happened. But, he added that Jackie knew the risks, and as a team member, willing to assume those risks.”
“How’s she doing?”
“I talked to her yesterday. She’s getting a bad case of claustrophobia from being stuck inside our safe house, but she’s taking it like a trooper.”
Sam didn’t say anything. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do about the senator but push him to the back of his mind.
“Which way?”
Alex’s voice snapped Sam back to the present. She had stopped at an intersection.
Sam looked around for a moment to get his bearings. “Left.”
Alex slipped the gearshift into four-wheel drive, the vehicle slipping slightly as she turned onto Route 35.
“How much farther?”
“About a mile before you turn right into the lane. Follow it up to the barn on the left.”
“I’m so sorry, Sam. Wish there was something I could do.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Sergeant Bacher opened the door to Oliver’s study. Dressed in a black version of the Army green uniform decorated with ribbons Sam didn’t recognize, Bacher stepped back and froze at attention.
The conference table had been set with a white tablecloth, sterling silver, and china dishes. It reminded Sam of the general’s mess at Fort Steward that he’d been able to crash periodically as a guest of General Gerber.
The fingerprint scanner Sam would be trying to get past later that evening seemed to leer at him from the corner of the room. Sam calculated about twenty feet from the study door to the scanner—no furniture in between to trip over in the dark.
Quentin Oliver stood at the head of the table, arms on the back of his chair, resplendent in his black dress uniform with a red sash across his chest, and the one-star insignia displayed prominently on his shoulders.
“Holy shit.” Alex stepped back. One hand reached up to touch her tousled hair, the other patted down her worn jeans. She slugged Sam in the shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me? I shoulda dressed for dinner.”
“I didn’t know.” He looked down at his jeans. “Look at me.”
She turned, brushed past Sergeant Bacher, and pulled on the doorknob. “I’m outta here.”
Oliver called after her. “It’s all right, my dear. I wanted to welcome you in style. Please come back.”
Alex turned.
He stepped around the table to shake her hand. “Quentin Oliver. I’m terribly sorry. I should have provided a dress code to preclude any confusion.”
Alex hesitated, then took Oliver’s extended hand. “Alex Prescott.”
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, and thanks to Sam for finding a lovely lady like yourself in the wilds of central Pennsylvania.”
Alex didn’t reply.
“May I offer you a drink?”
“Scotch on the rocks.”
“Ah, a woman after my own heart. How about you, Sam?”
“I’ll take a beer, please.”
Sergeant Bacher walked over to the bar and poured a scotch for Alex, then reached down and pulled a beer out of the refrigerator for Sam. He glanced back toward Sam. “Glass, sir?”
Sam nodded.
“Please be seated.” Oliver pulled out a chair for Alex and pointed to a chair across the table for Sam.
The door opened, and Kaminsky walked in. Even in a sport coat and tie, he looked like a walrus on a pile of rocks by the shore.
Oliver motioned with his arm toward Kaminsky. “This is my associate, Professor Sean Kaminsky.”
Kaminsky bent over, took Alex’s hand, and kissed it.
Alex’s face stayed a mask, but Sam suspected it was all she could do to not bust out laughing or, more likely, to pop Kaminsky in the nose.
Oliver motioned for all of them to sit; then he held up his glass. “To the New Kingdom.”
Sam and Alex held their glasses in the air and drank. Kaminsky did likewise.
Sam felt as if he were part of an orchestrated ballet.
“We’ll be dining on roast duck with wild rice and mixed vegetables,” Oliver said. “I trust that meets everyone’s expectations.”
Sam and Alex nodded.
“Benson,” Oliver called.
The young man Sam had seen cooking the omelets opened the door and came into the room. Dressed in a white coat and black pants, he had on wraparound sunglasses. Sam could see that his nose was red and swollen. A bruise crept down his left cheek.
He refused to look at Sam, keeping his eyes on the tray of clam dip and crackers he offered to Alex.
Sam suspected he knew what had happened to Benson’s nose, but why? Why had he jumped Sam? And who else had been with him? Rose?
“I understand you are from Minnesota, my dear.”
“Yes.”
Sam glanced over toward the door to Oliver’s private room. How long would it take him to get inside? He’d have about an hour.
“What caused you to leave Minnesota?” Oliver asked.
Sam’s attention moved back to the conversation.
“I’d rather not go into that.” Alex sipped her scotch. “Call it poor decision making.”
“I understand.”
“Benson, you may serve dinner.”
Benson walked over to a glass and gold serving cart pushed up against the wall and plucked a salad off a tray for each of them, all the time keeping his face turned away from Sam. He poured white wine and began serving the duck and wild rice from silver serving dishes next to the table.
Sam memorized the placement of furniture and the exact location of the scanner. There was no desk in this room, so all the valuable information must be in the secure room.
Throughout dinner, they made small talk. After finishing, Oliver pulled out his cigar and ordered brandy all around. “I understand you can handle yourself well in an altercation.”
Alex sipped her brandy. “Guess I do okay when I need to.”
“Where did you learn that skill, my dear?” Oliver asked.
“Girl’s got to be able to take care of herself.”
Oliver patted his mouth with his napkin. “I’m sorry to hear that your mother is sick.”
“Where did you hear about my mother?”
“I mentioned it,” Sam replied.
Alex nodded.
“Do you expect to be in the area long?” Oliver asked.
“I don’t have any other pressing plans at the moment.”
Benson walked over to Oliver with the brandy. “More brandy, sir?”
“Please.” Oliver motioned with his hands and Benson moved around to fill all the glasses.
“Did Sam tell you about our group?”
Alex shook her head.
“How do you feel about our government?”
She took another sip of brandy. “Never thought much about it.”
Oliver straightened in his chair. “We believe our job is to be prepared to save our fellow citizens from the shadow elements that have taken over the government.”
“What do you mean?” Alex squinted up her face.
“Throughout my career in the Marines, I’ve seen examples time and time again of how the government machine tromps on the rights of the common person. We have exported all of our good jobs to other countries, so the local farmers who have been pushed off their land by the big corporate farms can’t find work to support their families. The white man has been shuffled off to one side. The Jews and other minorities are in charge. It is my calling to lead a movement so that whites ca
n once again assume their rightful place of leadership. A new day is coming, and I want you to be a part of it.”
Alex didn’t reply.
“You don’t say much, do you?”
She smiled at him. “I’d like to think about what you’ve said.”
“Of course, my dear.”
Alex stood and brushed off her jeans. “Now it’s time for me to leave. I appreciate your hospitality and thank you so much for a pleasant evening.”
Quentin Oliver stood and moved around the table to shake her hand. “Please let me know if you’d be interested in joining our movement. You’d be a distinct asset.”
She reached out and took his hand. “I’ll give your offer some thought. Maybe we can talk more later.”
Sam stood and moved toward the door. “I’ll walk you out to your truck.”
“What the fuck? Don’t you think I can find it myself?” She walked out and slammed the door, leaving Sam standing there with his mouth hanging open.
“An interesting woman.” Quentin Oliver swirled the brandy in his glass and stared into the fire.
Kaminsky started coughing up phlegm and had to spit into his handkerchief. “What would you do with her?”
“The possibilities are endless. She’s smart, quick thinking, and an experienced fighter. From what I heard, the way she took down Buster reminds me of one of the best karate experts I knew in the Marines.”
Kaminsky wore a sneer on his face. “Plus, she’s got big knockers.”
“She is attractive. That’s true. I wonder how far Thorpe has gotten with her …” Oliver had become lonely in his command. At first he’d thought his wife would be his partner in his new kingdom, but she had become disillusioned. She’d had the nerve to tell him he was crazy! He’d been forced to get rid of her. But this Alex—now she was different. She could be his queen. The two could rule together.
“Did I hear that Marcel is driving down from Montreal?” Kaminsky jarred Oliver from his thoughts.
“Initially I was against his crossing into the United States prior to the mission,” Oliver replied. “I’m sure he’s on the Canadian watch list. I didn’t want to do anything to alert the authorities. But the more I thought about it, I realized he could be of assistance. Plus, Aly wants him here. Apparently his company is looking to increase its presence in Canada and wants Marcel to be more actively involved in our operation.”
Kaminsky’s eyes lit up. “Is Elizabeth coming down? I miss her.”
“This isn’t a party, Sidney … ah, Sean.”
Kaminsky’s face fell, and he looked down at the floor.
“Marcel asked me about the skinheads since he knows there’s a good-sized group here in central Pennsylvania. I’m working on setting up a cooperative arrangement with them. They have a number of interesting ideas we can perhaps use to support our attacks. Popeye has been meeting with them.”
“How is their movement coming?” Kaminsky asked.
“It’s getting stronger all the time. They’re selling material on the Internet from their headquarters in Minneapolis and have been successful in recruiting high school students into the movement. Popeye almost got caught in a raid by the feds when he visited them in Minneapolis.”
“When?”
Oliver thought for a moment. “I believe over a month ago. It would have been very bad for Popeye if he had been captured. And disastrous for us.”
“Is there a militia movement in Minnesota to support those activities?” Kaminsky asked.
“That’s the bad part,” Oliver said. “They’re not the easiest group to get along with. Many of their racist statements have deterred large groups of people. Their heart is in the right place, but they have to tone down the rhetoric until after we take over.”
“When does Marcel arrive?” Kaminsky asked.
“Tomorrow. He wants to use our experience as a road map for his own movement in Quebec. Also, he can help publicize our triumphs on his Web site. I can feel everything we’ve been planning coming together.” Oliver reached down to wipe a blemish off the toe of his boot. He had almost slipped and told Kaminsky that Marcel was coming to pick up the materials for the dirty bombs. “I wonder how he and Ms. Prescott would get along.”
“You know the French.” Kaminsky laughed. “Why don’t we invite her back tomorrow, maybe for lunch?”
“Yes,” Oliver’s gloved hand played with his hearing aid, “why don’t we? In the meantime, I’ll get the film developed from dinner.”
Oliver brushed his boot again. “I’ll talk to Thorpe in the morning.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Sam lay on his cot, running options through his mind. He had set his alarm for 2:30 a.m. in case he fell asleep, but the tension coursing through him precluded sleep. He looked at the dark ceiling and waited.
He must have dozed a little, because the alarm tinkled in his ear. It took him a moment to center himself; then he swung his feet off the cot, pulled on slippers, wanting to be as silent as possible, and slipped on a pair of latex gloves. He picked up the tiny flashlight on his desk and made sure the envelope with the tape was in his pants pocket.
Silently, he opened his door and peeked into the open room. All quiet. He figured he had about an hour before security came through.
Using the light to guide him, Sam slipped past Popeye’s door and across the large room, arriving at the door to Oliver’s study. He looked around, then swept his ID through the scanner. The lock on the door clicked. He listened again. Silence.
His hand rested on the knob for a moment; then he turned it. Blackness greeted him. He switched on the flashlight and stepped across the threshold. Reaching behind him, he pushed the study door shut as quietly as possible—but, to him, the click sounded like the chimes of Big Ben in London.
Sam waited a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. Then he started counting steps as he walked forward toward his right.
After nineteen steps, his foot touched the hearth of the fireplace. The fire had gone out, but there were a few coals left. He could smell the soot.
Now, he thought, turn right. Walk ten steps to the door. There shouldn’t be anything in your path—nothing to knock over with a crash. Sam felt his way along the wall until he got to nine. He reached out and felt the doorframe—wiped sweat from his eyes with his other hand.
Sam shined his light on the scanner. He reached into his pocket. Pulled out the envelope. Placing the tape on top of the fingerprint ID, he took a deep breath and waited. Nothing happened. What the hell was wrong? O’Brien had said this should open the door. Was there some other code to punch in?
Sam’s heart pounded. He looked at his watch. About another thirty minutes before security would come through again, making their checks.
Sam moved the tape closer to his light and stared at it. He had the right side up. It should work. His hand trembled a little as he held the tape over the ID scanner again. Click. His heart jumped. The door moved an inch. He took a deep breath and pushed, The door swung open.
Sam swung his flashlight beam around the room. Were there security cameras inside the room? Too late to worry about that now.
He stepped inside to a small room, only about fifteen by twenty feet with a conference table, a desk, and what looked like a portable bar.
Brushing sweat from his forehead, he moved to the desk. His light played across a stack of papers neatly centered in the middle. Next to the papers was a phone with what looked like a fax machine attached, a desk lamp, and a short vase packed with pencils and pens.
He pulled his digital camera out of his pocket, then stopped. Did he hear a noise? Sam held his breath, listening. Silence. Keep moving, Thorpe. Keep moving.
Starting with the top paper, a drawing of a building, he snapped a picture. He set it aside and snapped a picture of a message form. As quickly as he could, he snapped a picture of each paper, then turned it over and moved to the next paper, not taking time to read any of them. His hands shook slightly, but he forced himself t
o hold them steady. His heart beat at a savage rate in his chest.
Sam finished taking pictures, stacked the papers in the same order he’d found them, then tried the center desk drawer. Shit! Locked.
The top drawer on the right contained a phone book and a series of maps. He glanced again at his watch. Ten minutes after three. No time to search for a key. Security would arrive in twenty minutes, if not less. He had to get out of there.
Once more, he flashed his light across the desktop. Did Oliver have some system to determine if his papers had been disturbed? Sam couldn’t worry about that. Not now. He made his way back across the room, careful to skirt the conference table. For God’s sake, he thought, don’t knock something over. He forced himself to move slowly.”
Just to be on the safe side, Sam listened. Hearing nothing, he pulled open the door and peeked out. Still dark. He stepped out of the high security area. Pulled the door shut behind him. Heard the click. Tested the door to be sure. Locked.
He wiped sweat from his forehead again. When he stepped across the room, he bumped an end table. Heard the noise and caught the lamp before it fell to the floor. Too close.
Sam reached the study door, turned, and swung his light around the office again. Nothing out of place. No announcement that anyone had visited.
He took a deep breath. Almost out. Don’t screw it up now.
Sam turned the doorknob and peeked out. All quiet. He’d made it.
He opened the door, ready to step out, when the outside door to the barn slammed shut. Sam’s heart jumped. A security guard shuffled across the room directly toward him, the guard’s flashlight bobbing in the darkness.
Sam willed himself to stay calm, pushing the door shut and making sure it locked. He hoped the guard hadn’t heard the click.
Focused on his breathing, Sam stood completely still. In a minute he heard the door rattle as the guard tried the knob. Sam held his breath, sure the security guard could hear his ragged breathing. In a minute he’d be gone, wouldn’t he?
The knob turned, and the door swung open. If the guard turned the light on and came into the room, he’d see Sam. Sam would have no choice but to knock out the guard. Oliver would know someone had been in his study, but at least he wouldn’t know who. No way would he know that anyone had been in the restricted area.