I asked Sergeant Foley a few more questions and got a few more answers, but basically, that was it. Except that some FBI agents in Jacksonville were in deep shit, but they didn't know it yet. Asad Khalil sightings every fifteen minutes. But this one was real. I didn't know who Stacy Moll was, but I'd try to get her a few Federal bucks for good citizenship.
Deputy Foley asked me, "You closing in on this guy?"
"I think so."
"This is one bad motherfucker."
"Really."
"Hey, how's the weather in New York?"
"Perfect."
"Fucking hot here. By the way, the lady pilot said her customer would be back next week. Made a reservation to fly back to Spruce Creek."
"Don't hold your breath."
"Right. She also made a dinner date with him."
"Tell her she's lucky to be alive."
"Really."
"Thanks." I hung up and noted next to Paul Grey's name, "murdered," with the date and approximate time. That reunion just got smaller. In fact, maybe only Chip Wiggins would be there, unless Wiggins had moved east, and already had a visit from Asad Khalil. Bob Callum was still alive in Colorado, and I wondered if Khalil had left him alive because he knew the man was, according to Mrs. Hambrecht, very ill, or because Khalil simply hadn't gotten to Colorado yet. And where was Wiggins? If we could save Wiggins' life, that would be a small victory in a game where the score was Lion five, home team zip.
Kate came into the cubicle and sat at her desk. She said, "I stayed on the line with Mrs. Callum and held until she called the police and the Academy Provost Marshal on a second line. She said she has a gun and knows how to use it."
"Good."
"She said her husband was very ill. Cancer."
I nodded.
"Do you think Khalil knows that?"
"I'm trying to figure out what he doesn't know." I said to her, "I called the Daytona Beach police. Paul Grey was murdered Monday, about noon, maybe earlier."
"Oh, my God . . ."
I told her all of what Deputy Sheriff Foley told me, then said, "The way I figure it, Khalil got in Jabbar's taxi, did not go to McCoy's museum on Long Island, but got out of the area, which was smart, went directly to Perth Amboy, whacked Jabbar, got in a waiting car, drove to D.C., stayed someplace, went to Waycliff's house, whacked the General, his wife, and housekeeper, then somehow got to Jacksonville Municipal Airport, took a private plane to Spruce Creek, whacked Paul Grey and his cleaning lady, then flew back in the private plane to Jacksonville, then . . . I guess went to Moncks Corner . . . Satherwaite's business address is a charter flying service, so Khalil charters Satherwaite's plane with Satherwaite piloting, and they fly to Long Island for a reunion. Must have been an interesting flight. They get to Long Island, whack, whack, he does them both in the museum—in an F-111, no less, and also whacks the guard. Fucking incredible."
Kate nodded. "And where did he go next? How did he leave Long Island?"
"I guess he could have flown out of MacArthur. It's not international, so the security is not always tight. But maybe I see a pattern of private planes."
"I think that may be it. So he may be flying to Colorado Springs, or to California in a private plane." She added, "Most likely a jet."
"Maybe. But maybe he wants to quit while he's ahead, before he loses big-time, and he's now on his way to Sandland."
"We haven't given him much reason to lead him to believe he can't go for it all."
"Good point." I took a pencil and started adding up the known dead, not counting the gassed people on Flight 175. I said, "This guy is reducing the overpopulation on the East Coast." I put down my pencil and read, "Andy McGill, Nick, Nancy, and Meg Collins, Jabbar, Waycliff, wife, and housekeeper, Grey and cleaning lady, Satherwaite, McCoy, and a guard. That's unlucky thirteen."
"Don't forget Yusef Ffaddad."
"Right. Scumbag accomplice. Fourteen. And today's only Tuesday."
Kate didn't reply.
I handed her the fax sheets and said, "Except for Callum, who's covered, Wiggins is the last guy who is—or might be—alive and not covered."
She glanced at the fax sheets and asked me, "Did you try Wiggins?"
"Yeah. Phone disconnected. Let's try to get him through Burbank directory information."
She swiveled around and started banging away at her computer. "What's his real first name?"
"I don't know. See what you can do."
"Call Counterterrorism in D.C. while I play with this. Then call the L.A. field office. Then notify everyone here in the ICC by e-mail, or whatever you think is the quickest."
I didn't exactly jump to it. I was trying to think faster than Khalil was killing people. The knish, mustard, sauerkraut, and red wine were churning in my tummy.
I didn't see any immediate reason to alert my colleagues around me, or to alert Washington. I'd already established that four men were dead and didn't need cover. Callum was alive and covered. That left the problem of finding Wiggins, which Kate and I were more than equipped to handle. I said to her, "I'm going to call the FBI field office in Los Angeles. Or do you want to make that call?"
"I would if you knew how to use the computer better. I'll look for Wiggins." She added, "Ask for a man named Doug Sturgis. He's the Deputy Agent in Charge. Mention my name."
"Right." So I called the Los Angeles field office, identified myself as working with the New York Anti-Terrorist Task Force, which usually gets people's attention, and I asked for Doug Sturgis, who came on the line. He asked me, "What can I do for you?" I didn't want to confuse the guy with facts, nor did I want him on the horn with Washington, but I wanted him to help. I said, "Mr. Sturgis, we're looking for a male Caucasian named Chip Wiggins, first and middle name unknown, age about fifty, last known address is Burbank." I gave him the last known and added, "He's a possible witness in a high-profile case that might involve international terrorism."
"What case is that?"
Why is everyone so nosy? I replied, "The case is sensitive and under wraps at this time, and I'm sorry I'm not at liberty to identify it right now, but Wiggins may know something we need to know. All I need is for you to look for him and take him into protective custody, and call me ASAP." I gave him what little I had on Mr. Wiggins.
There was a silence, then Mr. Sturgis asked, "Who is targeting him? What group?"
"Let's say Mideast. And it's important that we find him before they find him. When I get more details, I'll call back."
Mr. Sturgis didn't seem inclined to do my bidding, so I said, "I'm working with Kate Mayfield on this."
"Oh."
"She said you were the man to call for help."
"All right. We'll do what we can." He repeated Wiggins' last known address and phone number, and said, "Give Kate my regards."
"Will do." I gave him my and Kate's direct dial numbers and said, "Thanks." I hung up and dialed LAPD Missing Persons. I ID'ed myself, asked for and got a supervisor, a Lieutenant Miles. I went through my slightly evasive rap and added, "You guys can do a lot better job than we can in locating a missing person."
Lieutenant Miles said, "This can't be the FBI I'm talking to."
I chuckled politely and informed him, "I used to be NYPD, Homicide. I'm here to teach basic law enforcement."
He laughed. "Okay. If we find him, we'll ask him to call you. That's all I can do if he's not a suspect in anything."
"I'd appreciate it if you'd escort him to your location. He's in some danger."
"Yeah? What kind of danger? Now we're talking danger."
"I'm talking national security, and that's all I can say at this time."
"Oh, now you're a Fed again."
"No, I'm a cop in a bind. I need this, and I can't say why."
"Okay. We'll put his picture on a milk carton. You have a photo?"
I took a deep breath and said, "It's not much of a photo, and it's very old, and I don't want posters in his old neighborhood either. We're trying to catch the guy who's tryi
ng to find him, not scare the guy off. Okay? By the way, I called the L.A. FBI office, an Agent Sturgis, and they're working on this, too. Whoever finds him first gets a gold medal."
"Wow. Why didn't you say so? We'll get right on it."
Cops can be pains in the ass. "But seriously, Lieutenant."
"Okay. I'll work this one and give you a call."
"Thanks." I gave him my and Kate's phone numbers.
"How's the weather in New York?"
"Snow and ice."
"Figures." He hung up.
Kate looked up from her computer and said to me, "You didn't have to be so secretive with our people, or with the LAPD."
"I wasn't secretive."
"Yes, you were."
"Well, it's not important that they know why, it's only important that they know who. Chip Wiggins is missing and needs to be found. That's all they need to know."
"They'd be more motivated if they knew why."
She was right, of course, but I was trying to think like a cop and act like a Fed, and all this national security crap was getting to me.
Kate went back to her computer and said, "I'm not finding anything in any of the Burbank or L.A. area directories."
"Tell the computer why you need to know."
"Fuck off, John." She added, "I am your boss. You'll keep me informed and listen to me."
Wow! I replied, in my I'm-outta-here tone, "If you don't like the way I'm handling this case, and you're not happy with my results so far—"
"Okay. Sorry. I'm just a little tense and tired. I was up all night." She smiled at me and winked.
I sort of smiled back. Ms. Mayfield had a tough side, too, and I'd be well advised to remember that. I said to her, "Sturgis says to say hello."
She didn't reply, but continued banging away at her computer and said, "This guy could have moved to Nome, Alaska, for all we know. I wish I had his Social Security number. Check your e-mail to see if we have any message from DoD or the Air Force regarding the personnel files of those eight guys."
"Yes, ma'am."
I punched up my e-mail, but aside from a lot of interoffice stuff, there was nothing there. I said to Kate, "Now that we have some names, we can specifically ask the Air Force for the Wiggins file."
"Right. I'll do that." She got on the phone, and I heard her making her way through some bureaucracy or another.
I said to no one in particular, "I hope Asad Khalil is having as much trouble finding Wiggins as we are." I got into my computer and tried a few avenues on the Information Highway, including the Air Force Web site. There was an MIA and a KIA section, and incredibly I found Steven Cox, killed in the Gulf War. But there was no section called "Guys on Secret Missions."
Kate put down her phone and announced, "It may take a while to get Wiggins' file. The Chip thing threw them. They want his service number or Social Security number. That's what we want."
"Right." I played with my computer, but aside from a good recipe for chocolate chip cookies, I wasn't getting much. I really prefer the telephone.
Kate kept bugging me to call the Counterterrorism office in D.C., and I kept putting it off because I knew it would be an hour conversation, followed by me on the shuttle to Washington. And in truth, with only one target still standing for Khalil, it was more important that I find Wiggins before Khalil did.
There are lots of ways to find a missing Joe Citizen in America—land of record-keeping, credit cards, driver's licenses, and all that. I've found people in less than an hour, though sometimes it can take a day or two. But sometimes you never find a person, even if that person was once Mr. Happy Homeowner with a wife and kids.
All I had on this guy was a nickname, a last name, a last known address, and the fact that he'd served in the Air Force.
I called the California Department of Motor Vehicles, and an unusually helpful civil servant gave me the name of an Elwood Wiggins in Burbank with the same last known address plus the date of birth. Voild! Now I had a name, and a DoB that fit. I was getting a picture of this guy Chip, and I pictured a jerk-off who was totally irresponsible about keeping the world informed as to his whereabouts. On the other hand, that might be keeping him alive.
I said to Kate, "Try Elwood from now on. That's on his driver's license." I added, "DoB for Elwood is right for Chip—nineteen sixty. Not a son, not a father."
"Okay." She banged away at her computer, scanning telephone directories.
I called the Los Angeles County Coroner's Office to see if a Mr. Elwood "Chip" Wiggins had done me the favor of dying naturally. A clerk there informed me that a number of Wigginses had passed on in the last year, but not Elwood.
I said to Kate, "Coroner's office doesn't have a record of him."
She said, "You know, he could be out of L.A. County, out of the state, and out of the country. Try the Social Security Administration."
"I'd rather look for him on foot." I added, "Anyway, they'll want his Social Security number."
"Try the Veterans Administration, John."
"You try. But I'll tell you, this character probably doesn't keep anyone informed. I wish we had a hometown for him. Notify Air Force Personnel that we have the name Elwood, and date of birth. That may help their computer."
So, we worked the phones and computers for the next half hour. I called LAPD Missing Persons again and gave them Elwood and the date of birth, and did the same with my colleagues at the FBI L.A. office. But I was running out of clueless people to call. Finally, I had a thought and called Mrs. Rose Hambrecht.
She answered the telephone, and I re-introduced myself.
She informed me, "I've given all the information I had to a General Anderson from Wright-Patterson." i
"Yes, ma'am. I don't have that information yet. But I have other information about the eight men on that Al Azziziyah mission, and I wanted to confirm some of it with you."
"Don't you people work in concert?"
No. "Yes, ma'am, but it takes a while, and I'm trying to do my job as quickly—"
"What do you want?"
"Well, I'm focusing on one person, a man named Chip Wiggins."
"Oh, Chip. He's a real character."
"Yes, ma'am. Would you know if his first name is Elwood?"
"I never knew his real first name. Only Chip."
"Okay, I have a Burbank, California, address for him." I read her the address and asked, "Is that what you have?"
"Let me get my phone book."
I held on while Mrs. Hambrecht went to find her phone book. I said to Kate, "How're we doing there?"
"Nothing. John, it's time we turned this problem over to the whole ICC. We've already delayed too long."
"I don't need fifty agents to call back the same people and agencies we've already called. If you need help, then you go ahead and put out an e-mail or however you alert all the troops. Meanwhile, I know how to find a fucking missing person."
"Excuse me?" said Mrs. Hambrecht, who was back on the line. "What did you say?"
"Uh . . . just clearing my throat." I cleared my throat. She said, "I have the same address you have." "Okay . . . would you know Mr. Wiggins' hometown?" "No. I don't know much about him. I only remember him from Lakenheath on our first tour of duty there in the nineteen eighties. He's a very irresponsible officer."
"Yes, ma'am. But did Colonel Hambrecht keep in touch with him?"
"Yes. But not often. I know that they spoke last April, on the anniversary of . . ." "Al Azziziyah." "Yes."
I asked her a few more questions, but she didn't know anything, or like most people, she didn't think she knew anything. But you had to ask the right question. Unfortunately, I didn't know the right question.
Kate was listening on the line now and discovered that I was starting to run out of even stupid questions, and she covered the phone and said to me, "Ask her if she knows if he's married?"
Who cares? But I asked, "Do you know if he was married?"
"I don't think so. But he could have been. I've really t
old you all I know about him." "Okay . . . well . . ."
Kate said, "What did he or does he do for a living?" I asked Mrs. Hambrecht, "What did he or does he do for a living?"
"I don't . . . well. Actually, I do recall that my husband said Chip took flying lessons and became a pilot."
"He took flying lessons after he went on the bombing raid? Isn't that a little late? I mean—"
"Chip Wiggins was not a pilot," Mrs. Hambrecht informed me coolly. "He was a weapons officer. He dropped the bombs. And he navigated."
"I see . . . so—"
"He took flying lessons after he left the Air Force and became a cargo pilot, I believe. Yes, he couldn't get a job with an airline, so he flew cargo. I remember that now."
"Do you know what company he flew for?"
"No."
"Like FedEx, or UPS, or one of the big ones?"
"I don't think so. That's all I know."
"Well, thank you again, Mrs. Hambrecht. You've been very helpful. If you think of anything else regarding Chip Wiggins, please call me immediately." I again gave her my phone number.
She asked me, "What is this all about?"
"What do you think?"
"I think someone is trying to kill the pilots who flew that mission, and they started with my husband."
"Yes, ma'am."
"My God . . ."
"I'm . . . well, again, my condolences."
I heard her say softly, "This isn't right . . . this isn't fair . . . oh, poor William . . ."
"Please be cautious yourself. Just in case. Call the police and the FBI office closest to you."
She didn't reply, but I could hear her crying. I didn't know what to say, so I hung up.
Kate was already on another line, and she said to me, "I'm on with the FAA. They'll have a record of his pilot's license."
"Right. I hope he updated that, at least."
"He'd better, or he'd be in trouble with them, too."
I was glad it was still civil service business hours all over America, or we'd be sitting there playing computer games.
Kate said into the phone, "Yes, I'm still here. Okay . . ." She picked up a pen, which was hopeful, and wrote on a pad. She said, "As of when? Okay. That's very helpful. Thank you."
She hung up and said, "Ventura. That's a little north of Burbank. He sent a change-of-address about four weeks ago, but no phone number." She got online and announced to me, "He's not in the Ventura directory. I'll try an operator for directory assistance."
Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2] Page 56