Prey sahl-1

by Ken Goddard

  "That quote I read." Wolfe flipped through to the second clipping. "Ah, yes, here it is: 'He was always talking about using bombs as a last resort, but we never took him seriously because nobody ever thought he'd really be stupid enough to do it.'" Wolfe shook his head in admiration. "God, that's beautiful!"

  "We were able to get some preliminary reports from the Justice Department," Abercombie smiled. "Apparently they found enough evidence in the basement-including some buried explosives and a couple of crude timing devices-to tentatively conclude that the victims were probably examining a completed bomb when something set it off."

  "What if they try to track all of that stuff back to a source?" Wolfe asked.

  Abercombie smiled. "It seems that our tough-talking victim really did have a thing for explosives. What little he did have-just a few sticks of dynamite and the timers-was carefully stored away at a warehouse in Connecticut. So all Maas and Asai had to do was relocate his pathetic little armory to the basement of the Long Island meeting site and then see to it that the Radio Shack receipts and the sketches in his handwriting would survive the blast."

  "Sounds perfect," Wolfe murmured.

  "That's what I thought," Lisa Abercombie said with a curious edge to her voice. "Until I discovered the problem." She opened her desk drawer and removed another set of clippings, which she tossed over to Wolfe.

  "A Bozeman newspaper?" he asked with a quizzical expression as he glanced at the first header.

  "Would you believe that one of the victims who was killed in the explosion just happened to live in Bozeman, Montana?" Abercombie asked as the executive director of ICER started to scan through the small type.

  "Oh, for Christ's sake," Wolfe winced. "Didn't anybody know that?"

  "No." Abercombie shook her head. "Other than our mad bomber, who was also the primary coordinator for the meeting, we had no idea of who the other representatives might be. It was simply an unexpected opportunity, and we took advantage of it."

  Wolfe sat for a moment in contemplative silence.

  "These are just local papers," he said finally. "They run an article one day and by the next day, it's forgotten."

  "Yes, that probably would have been the case if the local NBC affiliate hadn't stopped by the victim's home to interview his parents," Abercombie nodded. "Do you know what those people gave him?"

  "No, what?" Wolfe asked uneasily.

  "A homemade video tape showing what a wonderful person their son was because he had always spent his summers working as an outdoor naturalist at-you'll never guess-Yellowstone National Park. Naturally, Brokaw picked it up immediately for his Nightly News show."

  "Christ Almighty!" Wolfe whispered.

  "Do you know what that means?" Lisa Abercombie asked in a quiet, chilling voice. "It's a link. Something that we can't afford right now."

  "But I don't see how anyone could make the connection between a Bozeman naturalist who died in an accident on Long Island and three illegal hunting guides at Yellowstone, one of whom happened to be arrested in Bozeman," Wolfe said. "The two incidents seem completely unrelated."

  "The only problem is that they are not separate and they are not unrelated," Abercombie reminded. "Dr. Morito Asai was involved in both. So were you and I, to a lesser degree. And keep in mind," she added, "that if we start talking investigations, we're talking the

  FBI."

  "But no one can link us to Asai or Bozeman-" Wolfe started to protest.

  "Except for Alex and Butch Chareaux, and the covert agents who were investigating them," Abercombie responded quietly.

  "How could the FBI possibly make that connection?"

  "Perhaps because we directed them to investigate the activities of a certain Fish and Wildlife Service Special Operations team. A team that was coincidentally dismantled after investigating the Chareaux brothers, who were arrested in the Yellowstone National Park area." Abercombie's voice was tinged with sarcasm.

  Wolfe shook his head slowly. "I think you're reaching," he said, trying to remain calm. But he was tapping his fingers nervously on his leg and he could feel his heart starting to pound.

  "The committee and I would like nothing better than to believe that," Abercombie said.

  "But we bought them all off," Wolfe protested. "It's all history. The Chareauxs are going to be relocated to South Africa, and all the agents got their dream duty stations. Why would they even care about this case any longer?"

  "Because they lost, and people like that don't like to lose."

  "But they lost against each other," Wolfe said, desperate to find some handle on the situation because he was starting to sense where all of this was heading. "I mean, at the very worst, why would they be interested in us?"

  "Precisely," Lisa Abercombie nodded as she reached into her desk drawer, brought out three more file folders and tossed them on top of the six that Wolfe had brought with him from Washington, D.C. "Which is why we are going to make certain that they are completely focused on each other before we take another step with Operation Counter Wrench."

  Then, as Wolfe stared at the pile of manila folders with growing dread, Abercombie reached over and pressed a button on her intercom.

  "Tracy," she said in a cold voice, "would you please have Mr. Maas report to my office, immediately."

  HUNTED…

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Sunday September 12th

  The Kenai Peninsula, a huge expanse of wilderness extending out from the south-central edge of Alaska, is a land of extremes. High mountain ranges, huge pondering glaciers, hundreds of lakes, and an unimaginable diversity of plants and animals make the Kenai a place where legends are born. It is a place where sun-drenched summers and crisp autumn winds can suddenly give way to a winter storm of incredible proportions; where ice and soil fight an age-old battle measured in inches, while the land itself is described in millions of acres.

  But more important, it is a place where predator and prey meet, where the strong and aggressive triumph, and the weak perish.

  It has always been that way, even on the two-million-acre Kenai National Wildlife Refuge, a huge area of wilderness set aside as a sanctuary from man-the most prolific and dangerous predator the earth has ever known.

  It was approaching mid-September, still early in terms of the winter calendar, but the mother Kodiak bear could sense the changes in the valley formed by the joining of Benjamin Creek and the Killey River. Changes that would spell certain doom for her two late-born cubs if she didn't act soon.

  She hadn't always lived here in this secure and hidden wilderness. There were vague memories. The thunderous crash of the rifle. Her mother's sudden death. The hunger that had grown worse and worse until she was found by a park ranger, who had stuffed her into his jacket and taken her back to his plane. Ultimately she had been introduced to a new life on the Kenai National Wildlife Refuge, where she had never again encountered a human being.

  She was the only true Kodiak living among hundreds of "lesser" brown bears, but it did not matter. She had found a mate, a huge brown male nearly equal to her in size and ferocity; and their union-a rare and unlikely event-had produced a pair of late-born cubs that were now, according to her deep-seated instincts, the primary reason for her existence.

  The other things that she understood were equally instinctive: her cubs were still small compared to the others, the weather was turning cold, the salmon run was almost finished, and the competition for the remaining fish was becoming increasingly fierce.

  That, and the knowledge that a hungry brown bear- especially the males, and even her mate-would eat anything available during those last desperate days before hibernation.

  Standing just over nine feet in height and weighing nearly seventeen hundred pounds, the mother Kodiak knew that she could take on and defeat any one of the males face-to-face. But she also sensed that a battle might leave her cubs undefended for a few precious moments, and she could not accept that kind of risk. She would have to move her cubs away from the K
illey River spawning beds.

  Thus, intent on finding the food, shelter, and isolation they would need in the coming months, she led them north along Benjamin Creek, slowly working toward the rocky southern shore of Skilak Lake, where her fate, and the fate of Operation Counter Wrench, would be irrevocably entwined.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Monday September 13th

  Henry Lightstone and Marie Pascalaura ended up with almost an hour and a half to kill before their long-awaited flight to Anchorage. They had been sitting quietly next to each other in the main concourse of the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, holding hands and lost in their own daydreams, when Lightstone suddenly felt a momentary wave of fear that seemed terrifying familiar.

  Jarred by the sensation, but too self-controlled to give in to panic, he remained absolutely still in his seat.

  "Henry, are you all right?" Marie asked in a calm and quiet voice. She had been startled by the sudden tension in Henry's arm. Her hand slid gently over to his wrist, casually feeling for his pulse. He started to tell her that he was fine, that there was nothing to worry about.

  "Henry? What is it?"

  "I don't know," he said softly, forcing himself to relax as his trained eyes began to scan the crowded concourse once again, searching for the one object, or entity, or thing that had jarred him to attention. He checked his watch, noting that it was eleven twenty-five, West Coast Time, and that they had forty-five minutes before it would be time to board another plane for the third time that morning.

  Forty-five minutes, he nodded in satisfaction. Plenty of time to get up and stretched his stiffened leg muscles, pick up a local newspaper, grab a cup of coffee, find a rest room, and spot a killer.

  Still willing himself to relax, Lightstone closed his eyes for a brief moment, taking in and releasing a deep breath. Then he forced himself to turn his head slowly and scan the immediate terminal area for one more time, continuing to search for the out-of-place element-a person, an article, whatever it was-that had jarred his mental alarms.

  There were a lot of factors to be considered, Lightstone reminded himself. The real bad ones were rarely stupid enough to try to take someone out in a public place. Especially if that someone was likely to be armed. Far better to run the tail, maintain a reasonable distance, and watch for the opportune moment.

  "Listen," he said quietly, "don't look around, but I think there may be somebody here in the concourse watching us."

  Marie Pascalaura's eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment, but she was alert and thoughtful enough not to move her head.

  "Watching us? Why?"

  "I don't know," Lightstone shrugged easily. "It happens occasionally. Somebody you worked on a few years back spots you in a public place, wants to make sure it really is you, and then maybe sticks around just to see what you're doing."

  That was one of the built-in hazards of working covert investigations, Lightstone thought as he continued to scan every adult male in the SEA-TAC main concourse, searching for a face out of his past. A face to justify that ever-present edge of self-serving paranoia that you never quite escaped when you worked undercover.

  "I thought you said you didn't have to worry about that sort of thing anymore," Marie Pascalaura said softly.

  "I didn't think I did. The U.S. of A. is a hell of a lot bigger than San Diego County."

  "Oh."

  Presumably a familiar face, Lightstone told himself reassuringly. Male, most likely, because through his entire law-enforcement career, he could remember working only two women sufficiently aggressive and dangerous to worry about. So figure twenty-five to forty, with a vindictive personality. And considering his current occupation, maybe even a hunter. Which would make it male, white, middle-aged, tough, and deadly.

  Wonderful, Lightstone thought as he continued to scan the sea of faces moving back and forth beneath the large, internally illuminated blue sign that directed people to the "C", "D" and "N" terminals.

  "Are we in danger?" Marie Pascalaura asked, trying not to react to the goose bumps crawling on her arms and the cold chill starting to travel down the back of her neck.

  "No, I don't think so." Lightstone shook his head. "An airport's too public, too many witnesses."

  "Too many witnesses for what?" she whispered, but Lightstone ignored her as he continued his scan of the concourse.

  Then it occurred to her. "Do you have your gun with you?" she whispered.

  "No."

  "Where is it?"

  "Packed away in one of the suitcases."

  "Oh, great."

  "It doesn't matter." Lightstone shrugged with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Nobody's going to be stupid enough to try something with a gun in a major airport like this."

  "So what are we supposed to do, just sit here and wait for this character to show his face?" she asked after a long minute went by.

  "Until I can get a better idea of who or what and where, that's exactly what we're going to do," Lightstone said emphatically.

  Which wasn't going to be easy, he thought to himself, because the huge main concourse of the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport was literally teeming with groups of energetic and self-assertive white males of every age and description.

  Lightstone's trained eyes had been categorizing them with almost monotonous ease during the half hour that he and Marie had been sitting there daydreaming. He'd done it mostly out of habit and amusement, because he'd been mildly bored then, even though he thoroughly enjoyed sitting next to Marie's warm body and holding her hand.

  But he wasn't bored now.

  "This is crazy," Marie Pascalaura said quietly.

  "Yeah, I know," Lightstone nodded as he absentmindedly stroked a relaxed hand along his girlfriend's tensed arm, vaguely aware that they had switched roles: he was starting to relax, while she was becoming increasingly nervous and uneasy.

  Eventually his eyes returned to the group of four men and one woman waiting in line to pass through one of the metal detectors that led into the "C" concourse, where he and Marie would be catching their Alaska Airlines flight. He realized that they were the ones who had caught his attention when he first felt that warning tug from his subconscious. He'd ignored them at first, because he was absolutely certain that he'd never seen any of them before. But this was the third time now that his attention had been drawn back to them. Two members of the group, the woman and one of the men, were Oriental-possibly Japanese, he guessed-and three were Caucasian, one of whom looked vaguely European, although Lightstone wasn't sure why he thought so. All of them were casually dressed in jeans and short- sleeved shirts. And all were carrying traveling bags that would easily fit in the overhead rack or under the seat in front.

  "Do you see anybody?"

  "I'm not sure," Lightstone said. "Maybe."

  He watched the group more closely as it moved forward in the long line. As far as Lightstone could tell, the only visual element that set these five apart from all the other nameless entities wandering around the airport terminal was a pair of hiking boots worn by one of the white males.

  From a distance of about twenty feet, the boots looked like they were made of a dark-gray leather with a rough, grainy texture that seemed vaguely familiar.

  "Listen," he said quietly, "I'm going to get up and walk around for a couple of minutes."

  "Why?"

  "Just to move around a little bit, see what happens."

  "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

  "Good as any," Lightstone shrugged as his eyes continued to scan the concourse.

  "Mind if I come with you?"

  Marie Pascalaura was not a timid or fearful woman. But she knew Henry Lightstone well enough by now to be thoroughly unnerved by the idea that someone or something in the concourse had spooked her certifiably crazy and seemingly fearless special-agent lover.

  "Probably better if you didn't." Lightstone shook his head. "You'll be a lot safer sitting right here, where I can keep an eye on you."

  "But wha
t about you?"

  "I'll be fine, too. I just want to check something out."

  Bothered and encouraged at the same time by the fact that there was something oddly familiar about those boots, Lightstone got up and walked over to a nearby row of newspaper boxes. There he fed a quarter and a dime into the slots, pulled out a paper, folded it under his arm, and began walking in a circuitous route that ultimately took him past the group of four men and a woman waiting in line.

  After pausing to look at an oddly twisted piece of sculpture, he wandered back to his seat with a relaxed smile on his face.

  "Ceratotherium simum," he said to Marie as he settled back into his chair, feeling more relaxed now.

  "Cera what?"

  "Ceratotherium simum," Lightstone repeated. "That's the scientific name for white rhino."

  "You think that we're being watched by a white rhino?" Marie Pascalaura asked suspiciously.

  "No, not watched. More like we just happened to cross paths." Lightstone winked. "No big deal."

  "I see," Marie nodded skeptically.

  Probably a felony because the boots looked brand new, Lightstone told himself, vaguely proud of his knowledge of wildlife parts and products. But even so, he wasn't about to arrest someone for wearing a pair of rhino-hide boots. Not today anyway, he smiled, watching casually as the group shuffled up to the baggage-screening area. They stood just under the split-view overhead TV monitor that showed the two X-ray scanner screens and the flow of people through the two rectangular metal detectors.

  Then, as Lightstone blinked in surprise, two of the men in the group did something completely unexpected.

  Walking around to the side of the hand-carry X-ray unit, they casually displayed small, black-leather badge cases to the security officer standing in front of the walk-through metal detector. Then, as Lightstone continued to watch, all five of them walked around the side of the X-ray machine, past the metal scanner, and proceeded to the desk of the "C"-concourse duty officer, where they presented their three-page forms.