Killer Mountain

by Peter Pinkham

  “Yes! That’s it! At least I think so.”

  With this somewhat less than positive identification, Cilla went back to Krestinski, who called Washington. Ten minutes later the FBI man produced the first smile of the day.

  “Got him! Grecco Cabral. Forty-two, five foot ten, one-eighty. Was in the U.S. Army. Retired four years ago as a sergeant. Home address when he enlisted was Fall River, Massachusetts.”

  “Do they know where Cabral is now?”

  “No, but we have photos, fingerprints, the works. I’m flying back to Boston.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  The agent looked at her curiously. “Why do you want to come back east? Hudson is...”

  “Here someplace,” she finished. “But the only one who knows where he is, is Frank, and Frank is headed back there. You find Cabral, you find Frank.” Then in a soft voice, “And I find Hudson.”

  “I can’t let you fly with me, Cilla. It’s a military plane.”

  “So I’ll enlist. John, you owe me. Us. Hudson and myself.”

  “Cilla, I...”

  “If you had gotten this information from Loni earlier, Hudson wouldn’t...be missing. He did, and now you’ve a chance to help him and avert a crisis Don’t you think that’s worth a plane ride?”

  “If it were up to me, Cilla. But it isn’t. I...”

  “Where’s the phone?”

  “In the lieutenant’s office. Who...?”

  “A man I met at Great Haystack. He told me to call him if I ever needed anything. He’s only the governor of a small state, but I’m told he’s on friendly terms with the White House.”

  “Governor Ducharme? You’re going to call him for a plane ride...?”

  “I think he may also have an interest in having his problem removed.”

  She left, heading for the lieutenant’s office. Krestinski shook his head, counting the sentences he hadn’t been able to complete. If you could call a man who was missing and perhaps dead `lucky’, it would be Hudson. This girl will move heaven and earth until he’s found. And God help the one who stands in her way; anyone lower on the ladder won’t stand a chance.

  She’d disappeared by the time he’d finished stuffing paperwork into his briefcase, but he wasn’t surprised to find her at the airport when he arrived. Or to have the pilot tell him she had been authorized to fly with them. Wally was with her. He would stay in Sedona to continue the search for Hudson and to act on whatever information Cilla turned up. She had a question of Krestinski, one foot in the plane. “How long can a man last in the desert this time of year?”

  “A lot longer than mid summer.”

  Her eyes held his.

  “I know that’s no answer. Days if he found water.”

  “And wasn’t too badly hurt.”

  “Yes.”

  “Three days?”

  “It’s certainly possible.”

  “That’s the same amount of time you have, John.”

  He nodded wearily, and followed her on.

  Krestinski spent the flight on the telephone. Cilla, her mind obviously satisfied she was doing all she could, was asleep before the plane left the ground.

  Chapter 31

  It was dark when they landed in Boston. They dropped the FBI man there and continued on to Manchester, New Hampshire where they were met by the Governor’s car, which drove Cilla to a Concord hotel, arriving a little after midnight. At 8 AM Cilla was sitting in a state house office in conversation with New Hampshire’s chief executive. It was March 15.

  “There aren’t that many towns in New Hampshire that take drinking water from rivers and streams.” Norman Ducharme was reading from a report furnished him by the State Department of Water Supply Engineering. “Some are backup systems, but they all have a chlorination or filtration system.”

  “How about the bigger cities like Concord and Manchester?”

  “Neither of them are on the list, though Manchester has approval to take water from the Merrimac if population growth continues...Nashua’s here though, our second largest...This isn’t a field I know much about. I’m going to get some more expert advice.” He left the room. Cilla walked to the window. It was almost spring, but here in New Hampshire there wouldn’t be buds on the trees for another month. Concord looked like an old dog that’s had a good roll in the dirt. Most of the snow had melted, but patches left by the plows browned on sidewalks. The dregs of a season ending, she thought. Like the crumpled brown leaves of late fall before they’re covered by winter snows. But fall had something this time of year had not. A sweet sadness, yes, for the departure of the long grass of August with the wind high in leafy trees. But for her: a joy, a celebration.

  How could Hudson believe she’d leave him for the ashram way of life? Yet those were the last words they’d spoken together. Not together, apart. In separate roles. With a clear mind, unfettered by fear of once again losing the person he loved most, he’d never have been taken in by her playacting. Cilla loved him more for not abandoning Sylvia’s memory. She didn’t want to replace her and knew she never would. For a chilling moment the unthinkable crept in. Of replacing Hudson in her life. No! Don’t think of elephants, elephants, elephants!

  “What?” asked Ducharme, coming through the door.

  She realized with embarrassment she’d said it aloud. Shouted it in fact.

  “Sorry.” Discipline reasserted itself. “What did you learn?”

  “We’re losing company fast. Connecticut and Rhode Island are out. In fact they’re the only two states in the country that won’t permit drinking water to be taken from streams used for waste disposal. That includes all the big rivers.” He leaned back on the desk. Half to himself, “I can’t believe we’re not in that group, too.”

  “So rivers are out?”

  Stafford entered the room. “Call for you, Governor. A Mr. Krestinski.”

  Ducharme glanced at Cilla. “I’ll take it here.” He picked up the telephone and waited. The call clicked through. “Norman Ducharme.”

  He listened. “May I put this on speaker, Mr. Krestinski? Cilla is here with me...” He lifted his head. “Close the door behind you, Stafford.”

  His aide went quietly.

  The FBI agent’s voice came through clearly. “Cilla, I just told the Governor it’s bad news, good news. We found the ambulance at Phoenix airport.”

  “Blood?” The word came flatly from Cilla.

  “None. The bad news is we got a print and know more about who Frank is.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Franklin Scoggins was a guard at a US biological weapons disposal facility. You may remember that in nineteen sixty-nine President Nixon shut down all American research on biological warfare weapons. If you can believe it, the disposal is still going on today. In the meantime, what hasn’t been deactivated, or whatever you do to get rid of the stuff they made, the material is kept closely guarded in a number of secret sites.”

  “What happened to Scoggins?”

  “He was let go. `Missing supplies’ is the reason given by the Army.”

  “What supplies?” asked the Governor.

  “So far the Army doesn’t consider the FBI has sufficient clearance to be told.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Ducharme, who had on occasion had similar difficulty getting information out of his own departments.

  “It’s what’s worrying. If whatever it is he took is so bad they won’t tell us...” There was no need to finish the sentence. “Look, you know how these things work, Governor. They’ll tell us sooner or later. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Haven’t they been getting our reports? Or even listening to the damn TV? It’s been out all day!” Ducharme had started to pace. “My God, don’t they realize how little time we’ve got?”

  “I have two men outside General Crosby’s door waiting on the conference they’ve been in since seven this morning.”

  “You’ll call us when they come out?”

  “Couldn’t we call them?�
� asked Cilla. “Let them know how important it is?”

  “They know, Cilla.” Krestinski sighed at her naiveté. “People don’t just telephone the Pentagon like calling a plumber. It sounds like these people are sweating. They know they’re going to take a tumble, be demoted or worse. Even the President of the United States would have trouble getting their attention right now.”

  “I bet the Commander-In-Chief wouldn’t,” said Ducharme.

  The phone was silent for a moment. “Can you open that door?”

  “You’d be surprised what people in New Hampshire can do.”

  He hung up.

  Cilla looked the question.

  “Payback time. John Montego wouldn’t be President if he hadn’t won the New Hampshire primary. He considered it little short of a miracle that in his big, first-in-the-nation test, a northern New England state would come out so strongly for a Hispanic from New Mexico. He had trouble getting the New Mexicans’ vote at the convention.”

  “How did he win?”

  “In all modesty, me. I ran his campaign here. You must have watched it. With his mustache shaved, some gray in his hair and his tie off he could have been a...selectman from Bartlett.”

  “I doubt it, he looks too Indian. Call him. I’ll wait outside.”

  It isn’t quite as easy as that to get the President of the United States on the telephone, even for the governor of a state who’s owed a big one, but the nation’s Chief Executive was being updated hourly on the New England crisis. So Norm Ducharme of Bedford, New Hampshire spoke privately for five minutes with Jack Montego of Roswell, New Mexico, was on hold for another ten and listened for five more. When the receiver was replaced in Concord it was by Governor Ducharme. He buzzed for his aide, who hurried into the office.

  “Get Colonel Grafton of the National Guard,” he ordered. “Call my wife and cancel lunch. Have Cindy and Lois come in for emails. Call the Council for a four o’clock meeting and have Mark Phillips of the State Police here on the double.”

  “Who first?” Stafford was scribbling furiously.

  Ducharme stopped in the middle of dialing. “What?”

  “You want me to get Colonel Grafton on the phone first or have Cindy and Lois come in?”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake! Whichever! Never mind I’ll call Grafton, you get Phillips.”

  Cilla, waiting in the Council Chambers that abutted the governor’s office, saw Stafford coming out on the dead run. She stood and made as if to go in. The aide grabbed her shoulders.

  “You can’t go in there now,” he cried, not realizing how close he came to writhing on the floor in agony. “All hell must have broken loose! I’ve never seen him like this.”

  Cilla, showing great restraint, merely knocked his hands aside and asked, “Did he reach the President?”

  “Yes! That’s what set him off!” And off was the aide, running down the State House corridor.

  Cilla opened the Governor’s door. He was on the telephone. He waved her to come in and sit.

  “Far and away the most important. Then the Connecticut, though that will be a major part of Arthur’s job...Look, George, we better get it laid out on a map...I know, not near enough. Do your best and get back to me no later than three o’clock.”

  He hung up and turned to Cilla. “It’s bad, Cilla. I’ve just two minutes to talk. And nothing I say can be repeated outside this room. You were right on rivers, but not for drinking. The Army came up with a bug that is deadly but leaves no trace in an autopsy. So, provided no one was caught during transmittal, the target country would have no one to blame, would probably be wiped out thinking it was a homegrown disease. Not wanting to create something that could injure its own troops or civilian population back home, the Army scientists engineered a bug that only lasts a few days when exposed to the open air. The problem was the delivery system: how to inject it without being caught. Winds were considered, and they were still studying this possibility when they came up with the idea of freezing it in tiny capsules or pods, that could be dropped into rivers upstream of population centers. Water above freezing would defrost the protective coating as they drifted downstream, releasing the bugs to the air, presumably just as they arrived at the city.”

  “That’s what Frank stole?”

  “They hadn’t finished researching the pods and weren’t sure how long they would take to defrost and release the bugs. If the temperature of the water wasn’t just right, the frozen bugs could be fifty miles downstream of a target zone before they opened.”

  “How much of this stuff did Frank get?”

  “If he actually has it, six tanks.”

  “What does that mean? They aren’t sure he took them?”

  Ducharme shook his head. “Oh, he took them. They felt the frozen pods could have melted on him, and what was left in the tanks had become benign. They’re man-size tanks that require cold storage rooms the Army had built specially for them. They say Frank likely wouldn’t have had access to a comparable facility for long-term holding. The Town of Stewart says he found a way.”

  There was a knock at the door. When Ducharme responded, two women came in carrying notebooks.

  “That’s it, Cilla. It’s my job from here in. My God, New Hampshire has hundreds of miles of rivers, and we’ve got to search every one! Go back to Bartlett. There aren’t enough people up there for them to be interested in it any more.” He turned to the women and began dictating instructions.

  Cilla stood for a moment, watching. Then she went out, closing the door.

  “You’re not giving up?” asked Wallace Carver.

  “In the ashram we spent long hours every day meditating. It’s time I got back to it.”

  “You’re going back to the ashram?” Wally’s voice was incredulous.

  “There’s a cabin in the woods north of Bartlett that belonged to my father. My cousin, Kabir, and I called it Niagara cause it’s on a brook with a little waterfall. I’ll be there.”

  “Call me tonight at eight.”

  “It doesn’t have a telephone.”

  Wally was momentarily speechless. “Cilla we have only two more days.”

  “I know.”

  “So we’ve got to stay in touch! At least take your cell phone!”

  “Why? You’ve found nothing so far. If you do find him, my knowing it a few minutes sooner won’t make a difference.”

  “But we...”

  She hung up, oblivious to the change in their relationship that had just occurred.

  Chapter 32

  “Do you realize how many people were guarding an empty house?” Frances Ingalls was about a six on a scale of ten between unhappy and furious. She and the others stationed around the Carver house felt foolish, she particularly, since she was the one assigned to protect Cilla. “First, Mr. Carver didn’t return from Boston. Then I found you weren’t even in Germany, you were both on the West Coast.”

  Cilla liked the FBI woman. She knew Great Haystack was running like clockwork in her absence, mostly due to Kurt, but perhaps a little to Frances. “It wasn’t your fault, and I’ve told John Krestinski he isn’t to blame you. Short of tying me up, what could you or he have done differently?”

  “I don’t think even he understands how I feel.”

  “I know you aren’t married now, have you been?”

  “Don’t change the subject.” Cilla waited, watching Ingalls’ chest rise and fall more rapidly. Finally, “For a short time.”

  “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. Hudson is just about everything to me. When he didn’t return from Boston I knew he was in trouble. He would have at least called Carver.”

  “So you went after him. He must be quite a guy, to create that kind of love. But you made me look bad to my superiors, Cilla. Working for the FBI isn’t like working in a department store or a ski area. Anything you do goes into your record, and is re-examined when you’re up for promotion.”

  “John knows, and after this is over...”

  “If we’re still here.
” Both were silent a moment. Frances wasn’t done. “But what John Krestinski may or may not know is unimportant. He has to report what happens.” She took a breath. “My Dad wanted to be an agent; didn’t have the right color. Or the degree. I was supposed to have an `i’ in my first name. Mom couldn’t have any more after me, so I had to live his dream. Everything in my life has been geared to making me the first woman to run the Bureau.”

  “You can’t live someone else’s life for them. It’s not fair to ask it of you.”

  “It started out that way...maybe Dad’s a good salesman, but it’s my dream now.”

  “And I’ve screwed it up for you. Frances, I can’t go back in time. Even if I could, I wouldn’t change what I did.”

  There was silence, as the two wrestled with mingled feelings of determination, understanding and resignation. It was Frances who ended it. “I guess I’m just feeling left out of things.”

  “Won’t John let you go back to Boston?”

  “He wants me here to help at Great Haystack, so you’re free to...do what ever it is you’re doing.”

  Cilla could hear the hurt, but didn’t let it penetrate. “How are you getting along with Kurt?”

  “Fine. He’s very well organized.”

  That speaks volumes, thought Cilla. “Is Bob out of the hospital?”

  “Tomorrow. Cilla...do you suppose Mr. Carver would mind if I brought him back to the house. Just so someone can keep an eye on him, and...”

  “I’m sure he’d be delighted.” And so will she, to fill one of those empty rooms.

  She left her car at the bottom of the hill and climbed to the cabin on skis. No one had been there since last fall, and the snow on and around it was smooth and unmarked except for the ripples caused by the wind. More shanty than cabin, it was old and weathered, bare boards with only a fireplace to warm them. This time of year it would be warmer outside than in, and she’d brought a toasty sleeping bag. She paused, absorbing the serenity.

  Sitting on the rickety porch in the fading twilight, she unwrapped a sandwich and looked out at the cliffs on the other side of the valley of the Saco River. When she finished eating, she took her sleeping bag and thin, foam mattress to the edge of the brook in a little flat area just under the falls, which she cleared enough to fit. She threw a blanket over her shoulders and sat on the other two, folding her legs in a lotus position.