Caine came back on the line.
“I’m sorry. I had to move my car. Andrea?”
“Yes, yes, I’m here,” Andrea said, in a distracted voice.
“Is everything okay?”
“It’s nothing. I think you’re starting to make me paranoid.”
“Humor me.”
Andrea didn’t like the insistence in his voice, but she let it go. “It’s no big deal. A man that I saw in the building yesterday just walked across the street and climbed into a van with a cup of coffee. Like I—”
“Does the man live in your building?”
“No. I think he was here to fix something.”
“Andrea, do you have a cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“Can you call me back using your cell? Do you have my number?”
“Yes, but why—”
“Please, just hang up and do it.”
Andrea heard the dial tone and stared at the phone. For a moment, she wasn’t going to call him back, but Richie’s death made the difference. She walked over to the kitchen counter, picked up her cell, and dialed Caine’s number.
“Hello, and thanks, Andrea.”
“Mr. Caine, I just called back to say that I can’t help you. I don’t know anything—”
“Yes, you do, or at least someone thinks you do.”
“What are you talking about?” Andrea said.
“If I’m right, there’s a transmitter in your landline and that’s a wire truck out front. That’s why I asked you to call me on your cell. If they’re already set up to pick up your cell transmission, it won’t help, but if we’re lucky, the transition may take them a little while.”
“What? This is crazy. No one has done anything to my phone, and that van is just … a van.”
“Andrea, staying on this line is not a good idea. I know you think I’m a nut, but think about this. Steinman’s message said I could be in danger, and he was right. Those men who broke into my cabin last night were trying to kill me. Steinman died after he made that call, the day before. You need to get out of that place, now.”
“Why? Why would I do that? This has nothing to do with—”
“Andrea, if I’m right, the people in that truck outside are either cops of one kind or another, or they’re very bad people. If you think they’re the cops, then walk out and offer them a donut. If you don’t think it’s the cops, then you need to get out of there. So grab your car keys and walk out the back door. Go visit some friends and call me from their place.”
For a second time, Andrea heard a dial tone.
Big Bear City, California
December 5, 1999 / Sunday / 1:30 p.m.
Paquin leaned back in the leather chair and looked out the window at the snow-covered mountains. The unmarked Gulfstream G200 was parked at the far edge of the Big Bear City Airport. Paquin had spent fifteen years hunting spies, criminals, and “subversives” for East Germany’s feared secret police, the Ministerium für Staatssicherheit, commonly known as the STASI in the West. People in trouble tended to seek refuge in familiar places, with familiar people: family, friends, and coworkers. That common thread generally made finding them a matter of persistence, resources, and time. Paquin had all three at his disposal.
One part of his team was running Caine’s name through a series of private information services that collected data for marketing purposes. Another, more select part of his team was working with rogue employees at the major credit card companies that sold information about cardholders under the table. If Caine had a credit card with one of these companies, they would know his location within hours, if he used the card.
A third group was pursuing a less high-tech route. They were contacting Caine’s neighbors seeking information using various false pretenses ranging from the need to advise Mr. Caine of the imminent death of a sick relative, to an inquiry by a concerned employer about their missing employee. Paquin knew from experience that the system worked. If Mr. Caine followed the typical pattern, they should be able to find him within twenty-four hours.
The problem was that Caine had proven to be anything but typical. He didn’t just escape from Severino’s team. He’d planned and executed two almost lethal counterattacks. This suggested professional training, either as a soldier, or as part of a law enforcement agency. Although it was possible that Caine was some kind of neo-survivalist who’d educated and trained himself, Paquin discounted the possibility based on Severino’s debrief.
Caine’s failure to contact the police was another atypical factor that concerned Paquin. If Caine was avoiding the police because he had a criminal background, that would be a stroke of luck. Most criminals were undisciplined, followed habitual behavior patterns, and returned to familiar places. On the other hand, if Caine had avoided the police for another reason, the situation could be more difficult. He might be operating under a different set of rules, making it harder to predict his movements. The bottom line was Paquin needed more information to anticipate Caine’s next move.
Paquin picked up his cell phone and dialed a number in Washington, D.C. A male voice with a southern accent answered the phone.
“Colonel James.”
“Hello, Don, Dick Williams.” There was a brief hesitation. Then Colonel Donald R. James, U.S. Army Intelligence, responded with feigned enthusiasm.
“Dick! Good to hear from you. It’s been a while. How are Cathy and the kids?”
“Great, Don, it’s good to hear your voice. Don, I hate to bother you on a weekend, but I need some information about an individual. His name is John Caine. He’s in his early forties and lives in California. I think he may be ex-military, but I can’t tell you what service he was with, or even if he was with an American outfit. So this is going to have to be a broad search. I need any information on this guy that you can find, and time is critical.”
“A round of golf next week sounds great. Let me see if I can schedule a time at the club. I’ll call you back in an hour, two at the most.”
“Thanks, Don,” Paquin said and ended the call.
Paquin’s arrangement with Colonel James was simple. The colonel was paid five thousand dollars cash for each search of the military’s extensive database. If the information was useful, the ante went up another two grand. Although the good colonel knew he was misusing a governmental resource, his conscience wasn’t overly troubled. James had been advised that Paquin’s employer, a large American multinational corporation, was using the requested information to assist the company in vetting employees, or getting a leg up on its foreign competition. What could be more American than that? The Commerce Department did that kind of thing full-time, on the taxpayer’s nickel.
The colonel called back within the hour.
“Hello?”
“Dick? Don James. You were right. Your friend does have an army jacket. He joined up in 1974, served with a Ranger Regiment, and received an honorable discharge in the summer of 1979. He didn’t see any action, but the file says he was a good soldier—hardworking, disciplined, and all that.”
“Anything else?” Paquin asked.
“Not much.”
“I see,” Paquin said.
So Caine had been a good soldier twenty years ago, who’d never been in combat. That wasn’t much help. It didn’t explain the exotic flare, or why Caine had failed to contact the police. Paquin sensed from the silence on the other side of the line that James was not telling him something.
“Colonel, is there anything else in the file that you … as a professional soldier, might consider important?” Paquin hoped his appeal to the soldier’s professional pride would induce James to disclose whatever he was withholding.
The colonel hesitated, and then spoke quietly. “There’s nothing more in the jacket, but there are some interesting … codes at the bottom of the file. The codes are just a bunch of numbers, letters, and slashes, but over time I’ve figured out what they mean. Each code refers to a different agency. There are three sets of codes on this file.
They refer to the DIA, NSA, and CIA.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, it could simply mean the file went to all three places and came back. Or the guy might have been vetted for an op that required special clearance. For all I know, he could be working for these folks. I just don’t have access to that kind of info here.”
Paquin could tell from James’s tone that the links to the intelligence services made him nervous. He suspected that if he pushed the colonel to dig further, James would do nothing and report back that his efforts were unsuccessful. If he wanted any more information, he needed to pique the colonel’s curiosity and then leave him alone for a while.
“Thanks, Don. That was very helpful. If you find anything else, we would really appreciate the information. The company is considering hiring this guy for a critical security detail, and we just want to make sure that we aren’t making a mistake.”
“I’ll do that. Hey, you have a great weekend there.”
“Thanks. You, too.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Austin, Texas
December 5, 1999 / Sunday / 1:00 p.m.
Andrea looked at the blank screen on the cell phone. She dropped the phone on the couch in frustration and walked over to the window. The van was still there. I need to talk to someone about this, someone who knows about this kind of thing. She picked up the cell phone and found Michael Bosmasian’s name on the speed dial menu. She hesitated momentarily and then pressed the dial button.
“Hello, this is Mike.”
“Mike, it’s Andrea.”
“Andrea. What a very pleasant surprise. What can I do for most stunning female lawyer in Austin?”
“Michael.”
“I know, now we’re just friends, but that doesn’t mean I have to stop telling the truth.”
“Mike.”
“Okay, what can I do for nicest lawyer in Austin?”
“Better, but totally false.”
“Now, Andrea, a Bosmasian never lies except to his own family.”
Andrea could hear Michael’s mother in the background yelling something at him in Armenian. She smiled in spite of the tension roiling her stomach. She remembered that Michael’s mother came over on Sunday mornings and cooked him breakfast.
“Michael, I have kind of an odd situation that I want run by you. If you think I’m losing my mind, let me know.”
“Love to, especially the last part.”
Andrea summarized the two phone calls with John Caine and the call to the Statesman, and she gave him a description of the van parked in her lot. Michael listened without interrupting and then was quiet.
“Michael?”
“You’re still working only civil cases, right? No criminal stuff?”
“That’s right.”
“And no flashy clients who might be walking on the edge?”
“None that I know of. We’re a pretty conservative firm. General business lit and transactional work for local businesses.”
“Well then, I wouldn’t worry about it. What did you say this guy’s name was?”
“John Caine.”
Although Michael’s response brought a wave of relief, when he asked for Caine’s name she realized that he was holding something back.
“Mike, what is it you’re not telling me?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Michael.”
“Well, the guy was right about changing phones. If someone was—”
“So the van outside could be someone other than the cable or phone guy?”
“Look, Andrea, monitoring phone calls is a law enforcement tool, and we’re both in agreement that there is no reason for either the police or the feds to take an interest in you. But just to make sure, I’ll have someone from Austin P.D. stop by and take a look at the phones and check out the van.”
“No, that’s okay, Michael. I shouldn’t have wasted your time.”
“Andrea, relax, it’s no big deal. I’ll call over and see who’s available and call you back with a time.”
Andrea was about to agree, but then she reconsidered. If a uniformed cop paid her a visit, her neighbors would be knocking on the door within minutes wanting to know what happened. What am I going to tell them—I thought someone bugged my phone? No way.
“Thanks, Mike, but that won’t work. I’m leaving for the next couple of days to get some rest. Maybe they can just check out the van.”
Andrea could hear Michael’s mother in the background telling him brunch was ready.
“Okay, the van it is. By the way, where are you going?”
“Just someplace local, for a change of scene.”
“Do you want—”
“No, but thanks.”
Andrea heard Michael’s mother calling him again in the background.
“Good-bye, Mike.”
“Take care, Andrea.”
She felt foolish after he hung up. What am I doing?
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
San Bernardino County, California
December 5, 1999 / Sunday / 1:00 p.m.
Caine sat in the parking lot listening to the local news on the car radio. The helicopter crash wasn’t mentioned. That surprised him, but it was only a matter of time before the Huey was found. It was too big hide. The shootout on Route 18 wasn’t mentioned either, but that was understandable. There were very few cars around when the actual shooting occurred, and all of the guns had been equipped with suppressors, except his P226. Although the P226 was loud, he’d fired his shots when GTO was still on the old access road and the only other cars in sight were the two SUVs.
Caine turned off the radio and mentally shifted gears. He had to put together some kind of plan. Whoever was after him obviously didn’t intend to call off the manhunt until he was dead, which meant that they were out there trying to find him right now. If he wanted to stay alive, he had stay outside their net, until he figured out who was after him.
Although Caine knew how to play the part of a fugitive, he also knew it would make his life a lot more difficult. The ranch and the cabin were now off limits, which meant he would need to find a place to stay, get another car, and buy clothes and other necessities. He would also have to try to make as little electronic noise as possible, until he figured out what he was up against. Cell phones, credit cards, Internet accounts, and ATM cards all generated traceable digital signatures. If his pursuers had access to this commercial data, through an illegal source, they could pinpoint his location every time he accessed one of these networks.
The problem was he needed these resources to live. His cash needs alone would force him to use his ATM card at least once or twice a week, and avoiding the use of credit cards would be difficult if he was living out of hotels and driving rental cars. As he struggled to come up with a solution to the problem, Caine realized that he might already have what he needed in his wallet.
More than half of his business involved overseas customers. Servicing this clientele required letters of credit and bills of lading arrangements. Rather than spend the time and money setting up these arrangements every time he shipped one of his projects, Caine employed the services of a Cayman Island firm called Briggs, Ltd., as an intermediary. For a percentage of each transaction, Briggs painlessly set up and executed the international payment arrangements, assuring payment and delivery for both sides of the transaction.
As a part of his contractual relationship with Briggs, Caine had been required to form a Cayman Island corporation and to post a cash deposit to secure any liability arising from a failed shipment. As a perk, Briggs issued a Visa card to the Cayman corporation, with Caine listed as an authorized signatory. The identifying number on the Visa card application was the Cayman Island corporation’s tax identification number, not Caine’s social security number. Although there was no guarantee, it was unlikely that a typical name/social security search would turn up this credit relationship.
The cell phone in his jacket pocket rang
, interrupting his thoughts. He looked at the phone number displayed on the screen. It was Andrea Marenna. Caine didn’t mention his name when he answered, because she could still be in range of the surveillance team.
“Hello.”
“Hello? John?”
The reception was bad, but Caine heard a turning signal in the background. She was in her car, which was good.
“Hello. Is everything okay?”
“Yes. I … I called a friend of mine, Michael Bosmasian. He’s a prosecutor for the City of Austin. He’s going to have the police look into this situation … informally.”
“Okay.”
“Mr. Caine, why do I get the sense that you’re less than enthusiastic about Michael’s help?”
Caine could hear the undercurrent of frustration and anger in the question. He didn’t want to say anything that would provoke an argument, but he also didn’t want to lie.
“Look, I hope Mr. Bosmasian can help. Believe me, I do. I just don’t think he’s going to find anything.”
“And why is that?”
“When we changed phones, the surveillance team would assume the worst. If they are even halfway competent, the bug was removed ten minutes after you left the house.”
“What? Look … I think you’re way off base. Like I told you before, I’m a business lawyer who works at a small firm in Austin. No one would have any reason to tap my phones, to watch my house, or to do anything else like that.”
Caine hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours and he was getting tired of this conversation. Why couldn’t she see the obvious?
“Andrea, all I am suggesting is that you should be careful until this is all sorted out.”
There was a brief silence. When she spoke again, her voice was apologetic.
“I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just have to get some help on this and the police are my only option. Look, I’m about to drive into a dead zone, so my phone is going to go out. I’ll let you know what Michael has to say.”
Helius Legacy Page 10