Super Chief (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 3)

by Joseph Flynn

  She agreed to table her resignation and help him.

  Not everyone was fully on board, though. Maj joined him in the passenger car with some news. The station master, Jack Stanton, had to deal with a family emergency that was worse than first thought. He wouldn’t be available for an interview that day. Maybe not even tomorrow. Stanton would get back to John as soon as he could.

  Not a good way for the investigation to start, John thought. Especially with the No. 2 at the White House cracking the whip. Never one to fret, though, John decided to be philosophical.

  “Okay,” he said, “I’ll spend my time talking to the local fat-wallet railroad aficionados.”

  “The ones who came in from out of town, too,” Maj reminded him.

  “Them, too,” he agreed.

  John said goodbye to his new colleague.

  He stood on the platform and watched her train pull out of the station.

  Hoping he wouldn’t have to go looking for her, too.

  Chapter 11

  Washington, D.C.

  FBI Deputy Director Byron DeWitt met with the vice president in her office at the White House, just down the hall from the Oval Office. He wondered if he’d have been dealing directly with the president if her time wasn’t being taken up by a possible impeachment being brought ever closer to reality by the Republicans in the House of Representatives. A long-time student of China, its culture and languages, DeWitt remembered a favored curse from that land: May you live in interesting times.

  Things were fascinating all right. A two-car train was missing. None of the dispatchers in the nation’s rail system had been able to locate it in the fifteen hours since it had failed to arrive at its scheduled stop in Las Vegas. That meant its transponder, radio and even the cab crew’s cell phones had been shut down.

  Still, DeWitt thought, the damn thing ran on rails. The locomotive weighed a hundred tons. To lift it off the tracks, you’d need a crane with a boom over a hundred and fifty feet long. Such an exercise wouldn’t exactly be inconspicuous. Even if somebody managed to lift the Super Chief off the tracks, where the hell would he put it?

  And what would the point of that be?

  So far neither DeWitt nor anyone else at the FBI had managed to answer those questions.

  What seemed far more likely in their surmises was the stolen locomotive was going to be the delivery vehicle for a terrorist payload. At the moment of the train’s departure from L.A., they knew that the engine was pulling only one passenger car. But that didn’t mean whoever was behind the theft couldn’t also have helped himself to any number of empty freight or tanker cars.

  The old Super Chief trains used tandem locomotives to pull a dozen passenger cars. DeWitt’s research people were working on seeing what one engine could pull. Even if it were only three or four cars, their capacity to carry fertilizer or fuel bombs would be —

  “Bad news?” The vice president looked up at DeWitt from behind her West Wing desk.

  She’d just put down her phone after speaking with the president. DeWitt hadn’t been listening overtly or had even given the conversation much of his attention. Still, he’d heard what sounded like the decision to begin the impeachment proceedings was now on the House calendar.

  DeWitt responded, “In this case, I’m afraid no news is bad news, and the lack of information only makes imagining what might be going on worse.”

  “Nothing on your end or from Tall Wolf or Special Agent Olson?”

  “We’ve done background checks on the cab crew in the Super Chief. None of them has a criminal record or known association with any radical group. Two of them aren’t even registered to vote. All of them according to co-workers and neighbors are good guys. All of them are married with at least one kid and said to be good husbands and fathers.”

  “What about the station master or other people working at Union Station in L.A.?”

  DeWitt sighed.

  “What?” the vice president asked.

  “Jack Stanton, the station master, checks out clean, too, but his older son, Patrick, a high school athlete, collapsed today after running a track practice. They thought he’d be okay because he revived quickly. Then in the school nurse’s office he lost consciousness again. The last I heard he was in an ambulance on the way to the hospital. His prognosis is uncertain.”

  “Damn,” Jean Morrissey said. She had no children, but she definitely empathized with athletes. The possible loss of the station master’s son prompted a thought. “Even if the crew and Mr. Stanton are all good guys, might anyone be threatening their families?”

  “We’re looking into that right now, Madam Vice President.”

  “Good. You have had contact with Tall Wolf and Olson, right?”

  DeWitt nodded. Said John had called him fifteen minutes ago. Told the vice president of the efforts Tall Wolf and Maj were making.

  “You’re the clearing house on all this, Byron. As soon as the FBI or your colleagues learn something of substance, you let me know immediately. Any time, day or night.”

  “I will,” DeWitt said.

  “You brought the list of scenarios, the ways terrorists might use a train?”

  “I did.” DeWitt took his laptop and a flash drive from his attaché case.

  He rose from his chair, placed the computer on the vice president’s desk and was about to start his presentation when she put a hand on his and said, “One thing before we begin.”

  “Yes?”

  “In speaking with the president just now I was given another assignment.”

  DeWitt felt a flash of empathy. Jean Morrissey’s burdens must be second only to the president’s. He supposed that was appropriate to her position. “Is there any way I might be of help, Madam Vice President?”

  “In fact, there is. There’s a state dinner at the White House tonight. Ordinarily, the president would not let politics, even the threat of impeachment, interfere with that. The visiting head of state, however, is not one of her favorites. The event is more of an obligation than a pleasure. She asked me to stand in for her.”

  DeWitt found that amusing but kept a straight face.

  “And the way I might be of help?” he asked.

  Jean Morrissey told the deputy director, “I need a date.”

  Chapter 12

  Los Angeles

  John Tall Wolf called Marlene Flower Moon and said, “This is not a quid pro quo for my helping you with the cabinet job, but I need a favor: the name of an L.A. restaurant with star power. The kind of place ordinary people would have to book a table months in advance and big shots get in just by showing up.”

  “What makes you think I’d know of any place like that?”

  John stroked his former boss’s ego. “Come on, Marlene. Is there a restaurant anywhere that wouldn’t let you waltz in just on your looks alone?”

  She laughed. “How long have you been avoiding my advances, Tall Wolf?”

  “I’m different. Has anyone else ever turned you down?”

  “No.” A note of anger singed the margins of the reply.

  “Of course not,” John said. “So where did Clay Steadman take you out to eat when you were here working on the post-production of ‘Texas Mean’?”

  “Gio.”

  “As in Giovanni? Italian?”

  “Tuscan cuisine.” Marlene told John the name of the A-list movie star who was the money behind the place. “That’s an open secret, but you’re not supposed to mention his name there or you’ll never be allowed to come back.”

  “No problem,” John told her.

  “You’re supposed to come for the food.”

  “Is the food good?”

  “Excellent.”

  “Does the place have a private room, and if it does can you get it for me on short notice?”

  “You mean immediately?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because, despite what I just said, my heart will be more in it when I push for you to become the next
Secretary of the Interior.”

  Marlene laughed. “So you’re not a hundred percent altruistic, Tall Wolf.”

  “We all have our flaws.”

  Marlene understood he was implicitly criticizing her as well as himself.

  The favor Tall Wolf was asking for was trivial. No more than picking up a phone.

  Even so, she hesitated before agreeing.

  She was supposed to be the one who twisted people around her finger, but with Tall Wolf it more often worked the other way.

  He added, “If we wrap up this grand-theft locomotive quickly, you’ll like the way I’ll campaign for you, give you a big share of the credit.”

  She didn’t doubt it. He’d done it often enough in the past. Tall Wolf never worried about covering himself with glory — he even went out of his way to hide his achievements — and the bastard still managed to get ahead in the world. He’d already stolen half her job-title.

  Still, Marlene knew she’d have no chance of landing the cabinet post without Tall Wolf’s help. Bowing to pragmatism and repressing a growl, she said, “All right, Tall Wolf, I’ll make a call.”

  “I’ll need the address, too.”

  She gave it to him and John relayed it to the driver of the cab he hailed.

  John felt a Q&A session with the local people who’d seen the Super Chief depart Union Station would go much better if he could give them a little good food and drink. That and provide them with a story of being treated to hors d’oeuvres where the glitterati dined. From everything he’d ever learned of Los Angeles, status was the true drug of choice.

  He also thought if he overreached with his new government credit cards maybe he’d get knocked back down a peg. His plan was not only to help Marlene climb the bureaucratic ladder. He wanted to scoot back down a couple of rungs.

  Put enough space between the two of them, maybe she’d obsess less about him.

  Chapter 13

  Southwest U.S.

  Alan White River stood with three other Native American tribal elders — chiefs when they were talking amongst themselves — and half-a-dozen younger men. Included in the latter group was White River’s great-grandson, Bodaway, also known as Thomas Bilbray in the white man’s world. The men gathered under a canopy of broadleaf trees. The foliage shading them was far thicker than what nature had provided.

  Bodaway was a structural engineer, an honors graduate of Georgia Tech. He’d learned many interesting things about drone technology from his classmates who’d gone into aeronautical work. An example being the amazing resolution of their cameras. The army had one that could resolve fine detail in an object as small as six inches from an altitude of twenty thousand feet.

  Spotting a Super Chief would be duck soup.

  At Bodaway’s direction, layers of pruned branches in leaf had been entwined with the living limbs of the trees overhanging the area. The supplements would soon wither and their dead leaves would fall, but the camouflage and concealment would last long enough for White River’s purposes.The prize they had stolen would not be seen from above by either drones or satellites.

  The classic Super Chief locomotive and its elaborate passenger car stood motionless before the onlookers, resting on a length of track no longer than the two cars. No rails connected them to any other line. To Bodaway, the rail cars looked like a train enthusiast’s ultimate Christmas gift. Something Neiman Marcus might dream up for a billionaire.

  Horace Black Bear, one of the chiefs, saw things differently.

  “If it was up to me, I would destroy this iron beast. Beat it to death with my own hands and a good war club.”

  The old chief turned to Bodaway, his eyes asking if such a thing would be possible.

  “You could destroy the electronics in the cab” Bodaway said. “Keep it from moving. But it’s not going anywhere right now.”

  Black Bear frowned, as if it was impertinent of Bodaway to dash his hopes.

  White River came to his great-grandson’s aid. He said, “I have promised that the train would be returned, once we are done with it.”

  Bodaway said, “Grandfather, we could take the locomotive apart. Return it one piece at a time. Take a century or so to do it.”

  Black Bear and the others looked at Bodaway, some of them clearly intrigued.

  Then Bodaway grinned and said, “But where would the fun be in that? All of us would have gone to our ancestors by then.”

  White River, who had other plans for the locomotive, clapped his great-grandson on the shoulder and laughed. The others joined in.

  Their amusement grew when Bodaway added, “Besides, if we drag things out that long, even the government people might be able to find us.”

  Chapter 14

  Los Angeles

  John Tall Wolf watched the waiters in the private dining room at Gio make sure everyone had the appetizers and wines of their choice and then leave. John got by with a bottle of San Pellegrino. Marlene had not only come through with access to the restaurant and its largest private dining area, a favored venue for show biz after-parties, she also got Clay Steadman’s production company to foot the bill.

  Suspecting that Marlene was trying to set a trap for him, John almost called the whole thing off. Accept the fact he’d have to do a great many individual interviews. In a very short time to accommodate the vice president’s sense of urgency.

  Then Marlene told him, “Look, Tall Wolf, you had a good idea, appealing to Angelenos’ love of celebrity, but you didn’t take it far enough. Some of the people you want to talk to might think of Gio as a restaurant they’ve already left behind. You attach the name of one of the biggest stars in town, though, you’ll get everyone on your list.”

  John had read about attaching the right elements, e.g directors and actors, to get a movie greenlighted in Hollywood. So he could understand Marlene’s logic. But he disliked losing the chance to overspend his government budget. Not that he knew what that was.

  Marlene turned out to be absolutely right. Eating at Gio on Clay Steadman’s tab? Everybody John wanted to see showed up. Now, they’d all have a good story to tell their friends.

  John gave his guests their fifteen minutes of fame by association. Then he stood up and said, “My name is John Tall Wolf. I’m your host for the evening and also the co-director of the Office of Justice Services of the Bureau of Indian Affairs.”

  The illumination in the room was artfully moderate. The food looked great and the diners looked as good as they ever would. John didn’t need the Ray-Ban sunglasses he wore outdoors on all but the most overcast days. He kept them on anyway. With his height and wearing the shades his presence was imposing. He had everyone’s attention.

  “I asked all of you here this evening because you are the people who saw the Super Chief off at Union Station last night. ”

  Now he had them curious and leaning forward. Looking left and right, nodding in recognition. Same crowd all right — and they all had the same unspoken question: What was going on? News of the Super Chief’s disappearance had yet to be revealed.

  Byron DeWitt had intervened with cops in Las Vegas and Amtrak had told the train people to keep mum. The intended guests had been told there had been a breakdown on the rails. Americans had no trouble accepting the idea of trains being delayed or even canceled.

  John said, “All I can tell you at the moment is that a crime has been committed.”

  He’d called Byron DeWitt with the suggestion that they limit information to any third parties — such as the gathering at Gio — but tell no outright lies. At some point, the news would come out and the investigation might depend on public cooperation.

  The deputy director was an easy sell on that point. Adding to John’s growing appreciation of the woman, Vice President Morrissey agreed. They’d tell the story, most of it anyway, when they could.

  A man to John’s left raised his hand.

  “Yes?”

  “Can you tell us if this is some sort of hate crime?”

  “What woul
d make you think that?” John asked.

  “Well, the train was the Super Chief; you’re from the Bureau of Indian Affairs.”

  “You think there’s some slight against Native Americans here?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’m asking.”

  “Without going any further into the details of what happened, I don’t think that’s the case.”

  “Maybe it has to do with another kind of hate,” a woman on the other side of the room said.

  “What other kind?” John asked.

  “People who hate rail travel. They might vandalize the Super Chief, if that’s what happened.”

  John didn’t affirm or deny the woman’s speculation.

  He asked, “Who hates rail travel?”

  A second man said, “The airlines.”

  “Auto makers,” said a second woman.

  “Highway contractors,” came another voice.

  “Oil companies,” offered a third woman.

  John held up his hand like a traffic cop. Clearly, a gathering of rail fanciers felt they had enemies.

  “As I’ve said,” he told the gathering, “I can’t comment further on speculation right now. What I can assure you of, though, is that as soon as the matter is resolved, the substance of it will become public knowledge.”

  “Unless Washington decides to cover it up,” a new speaker asserted.

  John lowered his glasses to the tip of his nose. He looked at the man and then at every corner of the room. “You help me, I’ll help you. You’ll get at least the basics of the story from me, if not from anyone else.”

  He raised his Ray-Bans and said, “What I’d like to know now is if anyone here saw anything suspicious or even just out of place either at the farewell party or as the train pulled out of the station.”

  People looked around at each other, shook their heads or shrugged.

  The man who asked the initial question about a hate crime told John, “If something bad happened to that beautiful old train, you could do worse than to look at competing economic interests.”