Bo stopped his Ford Explorer at the hut, and the uniformed guard stepped out. From the profile that McCall had compiled, he knew that Bo was a foreman at the plant. His manner was relaxed. After a little good-natured banter back and forth, Bo shrugged as if to say, What can I do? My friend wanted to see the plant. The guard raised the wooden barrier and waved Bo through.
McCall looked up and saw ominous storm clouds gathering. In half an hour it would be almost as if it were night.
McCall waited.
6:14 P.M. EDT
At 6:14 p.m. in New Jersey, Tom Coleman took out his cell phone from his Windbreaker. Kostmayer hadn’t heard it ring. Tom didn’t bother to look at the caller ID. He said something into the phone, listened for a moment, then added four more words and disconnected.
Kostmayer thought he had said, “Keep to the schedule,” but he wasn’t sure. Tom got to his feet, looking down at the marker for Cornelia Van Wagoner. From this angle Kostmayer could see that Tom had been crying. He strode through the cemetery toward the front gate. Kostmayer followed on a parallel course behind him. When Kostmayer got to the gate, Tom’s VW Beetle was pulling away. Kostmayer jogged to the Chrysler, slid into the driver’s side, and started it up. Gunner had the tracking device in his hand. The red light was flashing intermittently. Kostmayer pulled away from the Bergen cemetery.
Gunner said, “What was Tom doing for so long?”
“Visiting with his great-grandmother. He took a call on his cell. I couldn’t make out what he first said as the wind had kicked up. I think his last words were ‘Keep to the schedule.’ If there are three brothers in this conspiracy, Tom is calling the shots.”
“He would be the only one of them who has fought for the Insurgents. I can make one call and have Homeland Security pick him up when he reaches his next destination.”
“We don’t know where that will be. We’ve got to play this the way McCall wants us to. I’ve trusted him for a lot of years.”
Gunner lapsed into a terse silence as Kostmayer turned off Bergen Avenue onto Vroom Street, then onto Summit Avenue heading north.
5:24 P.M. CDT
Hayden Vallance met up with Gabriel Paul Dubois and Clive Ashley-Talbot in the bar of the Riverwalk Hotel, which was jammed even at this early hour. One bartender was on duty, a pretty brunette with a ready smile who mixed the drinks with aplomb.
Vallance had no attack plan. Gabriel Dubois stationed himself on the first-floor terrace, with its blue-striped umbrellas at the square tables. He could see down the gardens to where the last steps led to the River Walk level. Clive Ashley-Talbot leaned against the brass railing on the staircase overlooking the lobby. He watched everyone who came in and went out.
Vallance had made periodic passes through the lounges and the lobby. The rogue Company agent he’d seen had gone. But there were at least two others. The first one was a big guy who moved like a ghost through the crowds. Vallance had heard him asking directions at the reception desk to River Walk with a heavy Croatian inflection. Vallance thought he might actually be from Bosnia-Herzegovina, probably from Sarajevo. Vallance prided himself on his accuracy in placing accents. The Croatian was wearing the silver demon-claws skull on his right hand. Beside it was a silver ring with the inscription for memento mori. Vallance was also sure the man was carrying a firearm in a shoulder holster.
On Vallance’s next tour through the lounges he came upon the second rogue Company agent wearing the silver demon-claws skull. He was also from Croatia and small boned. His eyes were so dark they were almost black. His demeanor sent a chill through Vallance.
He knew that both of these men were stone-cold killers.
The two Croatians didn’t acknowledge each other. The big man stayed in the bar area while the small-boned man wandered around a little more. Vallance had called Control on his iPhone, but he hadn’t picked up. Vallance had tried to call McCall, but got the same result. Vallance now knew that whatever plan was unfolding, part of it was here at the Riverwalk Hotel.
He waited for the fireworks to start.
5:35 P.M. CDT
McCall stood outside the West Texas Regional Water Treatment Plant and looked up at the stormy sky. The rain hadn’t come yet, but it was threatening. The smell of thunder was in the air. About five minutes later Bo drove his Ford Explorer through the front entrance of the plant. He had his tinted windows up. The guard was dealing with the flow of workers out of the plant, ticking names off a clipboard. Bo threw the guard a wave through the windshield and headed down the road to pick up the I-10.
From his vantage point in the trees, McCall saw that Bo was alone in the vehicle.
He had left his brother inside the plant.
McCall worked his way around to the side of the facility that was shrouded by trees. He ran to the fence and climbed up just as the first heavy raindrops exploded down. Thunder cracked like an echoing gunshot. McCall climbed to a place where the barbed wire was intermittently coiled around the top. He climbed past it and jumped down to the ground. He was facing one of the main buildings, where pipes led to one of the circles. He ran to the building, keeping in the shadows. Rain drummed down onto the buildings and lawns. He would wait until the last of the workforce had passed through the front gate.
Then he would find Dr. Patrick Cross.
Behind him, at the loading dock at the third building, a shadow moved closer to him.
5:45 P.M. CDT
FBI agent Todd Blakemore had called off the surveillance on the compound, and Deaf Sutherland was packing up his equipment when Hank Fulton said that Bo Ellsworth was returning home. They picked him up on State Highway 46 where he turned off to Minutemen Ranch. Deaf put the drone back into the air. By the time Bo had pulled his Ford Explorer into the compound, the drone was sending pictures from a high angle. Blakemore looked at several monitors that the drone was feeding. Texas minutemen congregated around Bo. He was obviously giving them orders.
“Can you record any sound?” Control asked.
“The drone is only used for visual reconnoitering,” Blakemore said. “We’ve tried twice to bug Bo’s compound, but the judge threw out our motions. Not enough evidence gathered against Bo and his minutemen. Hell, around here, they’re heroes.”
Control watched Bo climb the porch steps of the main ranch house and go inside. Some of his minutemen entered with him.
Control took a flash drive out of his pocket and handed it to Deaf Sutherland. “All right to call you Deaf?”
“Might as well. Everyone else does.”
“Plug this flash drive into one of your laptops, Deaf.”
He did so. A blueprint came up on the screen.
Hank Fulton leaned in close. “Damn, that’s Bo’s main ranch house. Where’d you get your hands on that?”
“I’ve still got connections in Homeland Security.”
“It don’t matter a damn,” Blakemore said, pissed off. “I already told you we searched all of the ranch houses and didn’t find a goddamn thing.”
“But you didn’t have any blueprints with you when you searched,” Control said. “They’d be hard to come by. Bring it on to another monitor, Deaf, lay it out in sections.”
Deaf brought up large sections of the blueprint.
“You searched the main ranch house,” Control said, “but you didn’t smash in any walls.”
“Federal warrants don’t cover demolishing a man’s home,” Blakemore said acidly. “And Texas judges damn well want to know what you are going after.”
“Look at the blueprint,” Control said, undaunted. “Look there.”
Control nodded to Deaf Sutherland, who isolated a room in the house.
“We didn’t find that room,” Blakemore said grudgingly. “It simply wasn’t there.”
“I’d say it’s a hidden armaments room,” Control said. “See where it’s located? It’s really a closet that has been renovated and reinforced.”
“Even if we’d found armaments in there, I guarantee you Bo has permits for eve
ry single M4 rifle and nine-millimeter pistol.”
“Maybe not,” Control said. “You don’t go into a room like that unless you’re going to war.”
“We have no proof that Bo and his militia have a civilian target in mind,” Blakemore insisted.
“No, we don’t. But if he moves out with that kind of an arsenal, we’ll follow him.”
“We could just bottle him up on one of the arteries to the I-10,” Hank said.
“Then we won’t have any idea of the kind of civilian target he’s going to hit,” Control reasoned, exhaustion evident in his voice.
“He’s right,” Blakemore said, taking charge. “Let’s see where Bo is going to and who he takes along with him.”
7:02 P.M EDT
Tom Coleman parked outside his apartment building and disappeared inside. Kostmayer and Gunner pulled up across the street.
The red light flashing intermittently on Brahms’s receiver went out.
“He’s found the tracking device,” Kostmayer said.
“Either that or he decided it was time to take off the silver rings.”
In five minutes Tom was back out on the street. Kostmayer caught a quick glimpse of Tom’s right hand as he zipped up his Windbreaker a little higher. The memento mori silver skull ring and the plain silver band were no longer on his right hand.
Probably left them on his bedside table, Kostmayer thought.
Which meant he wasn’t going back for them.
“He changed jeans,” Gunner said. “He also put on a pair of Nike Air Ultra running shoes. They look brand-new.”
“He zipped up his jacket. He had it unzipped in the cemetery even though the wind was much stronger there.”
Tom climbed back into his red classic VW and drove southeast on Eighteenth Street. Kostmayer pulled out into the heavy traffic to follow.
“He’s heading for his final destination,” Gunner said.
“And we still don’t know where that is.”
“There’s some clue that your Control deciphered from Tom’s pages. I just don’t see it.”
“You need to figure it out fast. It’s just a little past seven. The day is waning.”
“You’re thinking zero hour is twenty hundred hours?” Gunner asked.
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
6:04 P.M. CDT
The rain swept across the circular water clarifiers and thickeners, driving the last of the workforce to their cars and pickup trucks. McCall ducked into the first building and crouched in the shadows. A hum of machinery that didn’t change permeated the cavernous room. McCall listened for footfalls on the three levels of catwalks that gleamed dully throughout the room. He heard nothing. But Dr. Cross was forty minutes ahead of him.
McCall headed through the first building.
Behind him, his shadower moved from the entrance without a sound.
6:12 P.M. CDT
In the panel truck, FBI agent Todd Blakemore got the call at 6:12 p.m. He said, “Yes, sir,” hung up his cell, and turned to Control. “I’ve got official authorization from Houston to raid Bo’s minutemen compound. Four cars filled with FBI agents are en route from San Antonio along with a SWAT truck. Homeland Security has been alerted and is sending agents to this location. Rendezvous in twenty-four minutes.”
“What happened to the plan to follow Bo?” Control demanded.
“My FBI director wants the Texas Minutemen Militia stopped right here.”
“The clock is ticking down!”
“Do you have an ETA for when this attack on a civilian location is going to take place?”
“No, I don’t!”
“No, sir, you don’t. You’re going to have stay out of this, Mr. Cameron.”
Frustrated, Control said, “Is there a way I can get back to San Antonio?”
“I’ll take him,” Willis Sutherland offered. Deaf packed up his laptop, briefcase, and minitapes from the quadcopter drone. He nodded curtly to Control. “Let’s go, sir.”
7:15 P.M. EDT
Kostmayer followed Tom Coleman down Eighteenth Street all the way to First Avenue, where he turned north. He took First Avenue until he was past Forty-Second Street, where he turned onto United Nations Plaza.
“He’s going to the UN,” Kostmayer said.
“Guernica,” Gunner said at once.
“What’s that?”
“One of Picasso’s most famous paintings. It depicts the Nazi bombing of the Basque town of Guernica during the Spanish Civil War. Picasso wanted to impart the tragedies of war and the suffering it inflicts upon individuals, particularly innocent civilians. It hangs right where you walk into the Security Council chamber.”
“Why would that be important to Tom Coleman?”
“There’s a wide-eyed bull standing over a woman with a child in her arms. The horse is dead, speared by a javelin, and under the horse is a dismembered soldier. For Picasso, the horse and bull represented brutality and darkness—part of Tom’s code.”
Ahead of them at the security gate, Tom Coleman powered his window down and handed the uniformed security guard a pass. Obviously Tom had been at the United Nations many times before, and the guard recognized him. He waved him through. Beyond the gate was the entrance to the underground parking facility.
Gunner dialed Helen Coleman’s cell phone, but shook his head. “She’s not answering.”
The next car pulled up at the security gate. Kostmayer was three cars behind. “We’re going to lose him.”
6:20 P.M. CDT
The first water-processing building was a maze of high steel cylinders, electrical panels, and pumps. McCall climbed up the skeletal stairs to one of the steel catwalks, where he could see down into the shadows beneath. There was no sign of Dr. Patrick Cross. McCall was surrounded by more machinery that rose three stories from the floor of the building. He noted flow charts every few feet in primary colors that said FILTER BACKWASH PUMP—GRAVITY FILTERS—TRANSFER PUMPS—SLUDGE DRYING POND. McCall passed more silver and metallic cylinders and electrical circuitry with newer charts that read CHEMICAL COAGULANTS—PRE-CHLORINATION SEDIMENTATION BASIN—FLOCCULATION—SAND INFILTRATION POST-CHLORINATION—CLEAR WELL.
A shadow moved on the ground level below him. McCall reached into his leather coat and brought out the Glock 19.
The bullet exploded against McCall’s left arm. It sent him down to the catwalk. The Glock flew out of his hand and plummeted down into the darkness.
6:30 P.M. CDT
Control sat beside Willis Deevers Sutherland in his Lincoln Town Car as they headed down I-10 toward San Antonio. Deaf picked up his radio when it squawked.
“This is Deaf.” He listened. “Copy that.” He hung up the radio. “FBI agent Blakemore is headed into Bo’s minutemen compound.” When Control didn’t respond, Deaf glanced at him. “Bo wasn’t expecting trouble. The agents are going to take that compound apart brick by brick. If there is a hidden armaments room, they’ll find it.”
“They may be too late.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I believe Bo Ellsworth and his Texas Minutemen Militia are long gone.”
CHAPTER 47
6:32 P.M. CDT
Bo had been driving down the back roads heading toward San Antonio for a good half an hour. Twelve of them were in two black Durango SXTs, seven including Bo in the first one and another five in the second. Bo regretted having to discard their TMM uniforms, but it couldn’t be helped. They all wore long coats, nondescript jeans, and sweatshirts with DuPont Kevlar ultralightweight bulletproof vests. They wore combat boots and black full-face ski masks. They carried their M4 assault rifles and Heckler & Koch .45-caliber semiautomatic pistols with twelve-round magazines. They also carried an RPG-7V2 reloadable launcher, a TGB-7V thermobaric rocket, and several OG-7V fragmentation grenades.
The Texas Minutemen Militia would be into and out of the hotel in under two minutes.
7:35 P.M. EDT
Kostmayer pulled up at the security gate. Gunner l
eaned across and handed a pass with his ID and photo to the security officer.
“Colonel Michael G. Ralston, US Army. Helen Coleman signed a pass for me and my associate to attend the Security Council meeting tonight.”
The officer checked Gunner’s ID and Helen’s signature, consulted the computer in the hut, then passed the pass back.
“Drive down the ramp to the underground parking facility, Colonel. Park on level G.”
“Appreciate it.”
The barrier lifted and Kostmayer drove down the ramp. Gunner dialed Helen on his iPhone again, to no avail.
“We’ll head down toward level G,” Kostmayer said. “If we haven’t spotted Tom’s VW by then, we’ll get out and split up.”
Gunner nodded tersely.
6:40 P.M. CDT
Todd Blakemore’s task force rolled into Bo Ellsworth’s compound in full force. FBI agents swarmed out of their cars. There were no armed guards, just wives and children. Some Mexican laborers were working on the grounds. Homeland Security started questioning the women. The FBI agents searched the other ranch houses. Todd Blakemore’s agents moved into the main ranch house and quickly ascertained it was deserted. Blakemore walked out onto the big porch and noted that several of the minutemen’s SUVs were parked where he had last seen them, including Bo Ellsworth’s Explorer. FBI agent Hank Fulton brought one of the Mexican groundskeepers up onto the porch with him. Blakemore asked him in Spanish where all of the men were. He shrugged.
“Any back roads out of this canyon?” Hank asked him.
“Many.”
“How long have Mr. Ellsworth and his men been gone?”
Another shrug. The man had been working at his chores.
Blakemore and Hank Fulton moved into the main ranch house. The SWAT team was tearing down the walls in Bo’s study with axes and sledgehammers. Hank Fulton pinpointed the hidden room on the blueprint on his laptop. It took another six minutes, but they finally broke through. The room had rifle racks for M4s and AR-15s, tables for the Shield 9mm pistols, and another rack that looked like it might have held an RPG launcher.
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