by J K Ellem
Ryder just nodded, appraising the man in front of her, waiting for him to reveal more.
There was a long, uncomfortable pause. You’re not going to tell me how many there are of you, you big German prick, she thought.
She held his gaze. It had now become a staring competition, a battle of wills. Hoost continued smiling. Ryder could tell the smile wasn’t genuine. Looked more like a grimace, like she was an annoying intrusion into his carefully planned and regimented day.
Ryder broke the silence. “German?”
“Dutch actually.”
Ryder felt herself shrink to half her size. There goes the battle of the wills. “Sorry,” she said slightly embarrassed.
“That’s okay, I get it all the time. As long as you didn’t say South African.”
Ryder laughed, the ice between them melting a little.
Hoost turned, beckoning her with his arm. “Shall we?”
Ryder followed him along a side passageway of polished timber. There was a large set of doors at the end of the passageway. Hoost knocked then opened the door for Ryder.
She entered the private study and Hoost closed the door behind her then stood outside.
Senator Adam Tanner of Utah stood up from his desk and came around to where Ryder stood. “Carolyn,” he said with a warm smile and open arms, “my God, it’s been so long.” He took her by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.
Ryder smiled and gave her uncle a hug. “I know. I’m sorry. That’s my fault.”
Tanner stood back and regarded his niece. “Goodness you have grown into a beautiful young woman, just like your mother. You look amazing; working for the FBI agrees with you.” He showed her to a chair and he sat back down.
Ryder looked around the room as she spoke. “I’m enjoying it.”
The study was large and masculine. A bronzed eagle, spread-winged, claws extended, eyed Ryder from atop a marble plinth. Stars and Stripes hung in the corner, a framed copy of the American Constitution. Everywhere Ryder looked were the symbols of power and influence. One wall of the study was adorned with gilt-framed photos: a young Adam Tanner shaking hands with Ronald Reagan, Tanner sitting alongside Bill Clinton in a golf cart, a photo of Tanner sharing a joke alongside George W. Bush at a black-tie charity event.
“Well, you must be,” Tanner said studying his niece intently, “I hear you’re a bit of a shooting star, burning bright and fast.”
“I see you’ve done some work to the place since I was last here,” Ryder said.
Tanner smiled. “You mean the stables and the riding ring?”
Ryder waved her hand in the air. “And the house and everything. Things must be going well.”
“I only have one daughter, and Cassie took a fancy to horse riding, so what was I to do?”
Ryder looked at her uncle. He never did anything in halves. Even as a child she could remember her father’s brother was always extremely ambitious, always wanting to win or be the best at everything he put his mind to. Always trying to out-do her father. Brotherly rivalry perhaps.
“You would have seen Cassie on the drive in,” Tanner said.
“Yes, I did. I can’t believe how much she’s grown.”
“We’ve all gotten a little older,” Tanner replied. “Time passes so fast.” His eyes scrutinized Ryder, the stare of a shrewd and calculating politician who had boundless ambition. “So, why do I have the pleasure of your company today, Carolyn?”
“No doubt you’ve heard about the downed jetliner?”
Tanner’s expression turned to one of grave concern. “Terrible times we live in. They are savages, these terrorists, killing innocent women and children.” He shook his head. “Received a briefing yesterday. I hope you find them, Carolyn. Bring them to justice.”
Ryder nodded.
“I see you found and killed one of the suspects yesterday,” he offered, fishing for more information. “Not too far from here I believe? In some motel?”
The briefing reports made available to politicians didn’t reveal the full and exact details of the investigation or how Rasul was found.
“We did. But he was the only one. As you would expect, there is an entire network behind this. It takes a lot of resources to pull off what they did.”
Tanner nodded thoughtfully. “And you believe this Abasi Rasul’s network is around here?”
“We’re in the preliminary phase at the moment,” Ryder replied. “I’m just heading up one part of the investigation. It’s a nationwide and international hunt, as you can imagine. But I’m here on another matter,” Ryder said. She explained the incident at the truck stop last night, leaving out most of the pertinent details.
“Anything I can do to help?” Tanner replied, his hands spread on the desk.
“I’m looking for a silver SUV.” Ryder unfolded a piece of paper and slid it across the polished desk. “With this license plate number.”
Tanner scrutinized the piece of paper.
“Have you seen this vehicle? Is it one of yours or your staffs?”
Tanner handed it back. “No, it’s not one of mine. Why? Was it involved?”
“I don’t think so,” Ryder lied. “It was spotted at the truck stop last night and we’re following up on all leads.”
“What makes you think it belongs to me?” Tanner’s eyes narrowed.
“The SUV looked special, modified, like it was equipped for surveillance. Something you would see with one of the government agencies.”
She took back the piece of paper. “What about your security staff? Since when have you needed them?”
Tanner shrugged. “You know how things have been lately with all the angst against the government and the anti-gun movement. I wanted to make sure Cassie was safe. You can’t be too cautious after what happened in Alexandria.” Tanner was referring to the incident where a man shot House Majority Whip Steve Scalise and four others during a congressional baseball practice in Virginia. The shooter was disgruntled with the government so he walked into a public ballpark armed with a semi-automatic rifle and several handguns and opened fire on Scalise and his staff.
“I agree,” Ryder said. “But nothing has happened? Have there been any threats on your life?”
“No, no,” Tanner replied. “Nothing like that. I just want to protect Cassie. She is my only child.” Tanner tilted his head. “But since when has the FBI been interested in traffic incidents or local crime?”
“We were just in the area when it happened. There may be a connection to Abasi Rasul and what happened at the truck stop. Like I said, we’re just following up on every lead.”
Tanner nodded thoughtfully. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Carolyn.” He rose; the meeting was over. “But let me assure you whatever resources you require, you will always have my full backing and support.”
Ryder stood up as well. Tanner came around the desk and embraced her again. “Anything you need, you just ask. I want to help in any way possible to make sure we apprehend these animals.”
The offer was sincere but Ryder felt a pang of apprehension. Politicians never really stopped acting. Every desk in Washington should have an Academy Award sitting on it. She had met enough of them to realize that. It was such hypocrisy to complain that an actor or TV celebrity should never take political office. They were all damn actors, some of the best in the land. Why would they bitch and moan about another actor or celebrity being added to their ranks?
“The present government hasn’t a clue about how to handle these terrorists,” Tanner continued. “I say bring our troops back home, stop trying to fight wars overseas, there’re bigger problems here on American soil, without having to shift focus overseas. The downed jetliner proves it.”
As Tanner ushered her toward the door, Ryder paused at the wall of photographs and looked at one in particular. Tanner paused alongside her and smiled fondly, his arm around her as he looked at the photograph. It had been taken some time back in the Florida Keys. The photo had yellowed with age but the memor
ies remained trapped and timeless behind the glass. Two men were in the photo, Ryder’s father and her uncle. Two brothers, born twelve months apart, stood on the gunwale of a deep sea fishing boat, arms around each other, grinning at the small fish, Jeremy Tanner, Ryder’s father, was holding up to the camera.
“Do you still have the boat?” Ryder asked, a slight pang in her heart as she looked at the photo of her father. He was young and brash, but always played second fiddle to his older brother. The photo reminded her of happier times when things seemed so simple. It had been three years since her father died of a massive heart attack. He’d been taken too early.
“Sure do,” Tanner replied proudly.
Carolyn Ryder had taken her mother’s maiden name, feeling closer to her than to her father, but she still missed her father terribly now that he was dead. That was always the way it worked.
Emily Ryder, her mother, was now in a long-term-care home in Salt Lake City. Soon after her father died, her mother seemed to deteriorate, then Alzheimer’s took hold of her, and quickly it became too much for Carolyn to cope with given the pressures and commitments of being a lead FBI agent.
“But I don’t get much of a chance these days to take her out on the water. How’s your mother?” Tanner asked.
“She’s coping,” Ryder said, her eyes still on the photograph. “I try and see her every few days if I’m not out of town.”
Ryder had been out on Tanner’s boat a few times with her father and uncle when she was younger. She remembered the boat well. It had made her so seasick that she’d spent most of the time hurling over the side whenever she was on it.
Just below the top edge of the gunwale, Ryder could make out the name of the boat in thick black lettering, a name chosen by Adam Tanner himself.
Prometheus.
44
While Ryder was out, the FBI team in Salt Lake City had uncovered Prometheus Mining, a subsidiary of the holding company Prometheus Investments, also registered through the same offshore trust that listed the Cayman Islands law firm as its registered office.
Further information had revealed that Prometheus Mining had leases on seven old coal mines in Utah, the closest was within a few miles of Cedar City, the farthest was to the east, just inside the county line Iron County shared with Garfield County.
They relayed this new information to Miller and he gave an update to Ryder as soon as she returned from her meeting with Adam Tanner. She didn’t say where she had been, but the visit to her uncle’s home had certainly escalated her interest in this new information. However, she had to keep it to herself until she knew more. She would be given a fast pass from the FBI headquarters in Salt Lake City to mall cop in Alaska if she started accusing a United States senator of somehow being involved in terrorist activity let alone on home soil.
Miller also gave her an update on the Pritchard investigation. DNA samples were being collected from the shed as well as the tanker truck. Several missing persons had already been matched from the personal possessions found in the trunk by Beth Rimes, with the help of Miller and his secondary team at the scene.
The Hostage Rescue Team was back at their makeshift base at the airport hanger, sulking because they didn’t get the chance to shoot someone or rescue someone. But Miller said they were primed and ready to go again.
Miller slipped a photo out of his folder and placed it in front of Ryder as she drank her fifth coffee of the morning. “We found this little cubbyhole when forensic techs were going over Pritchard’s tanker truck.” Miller was old -fashioned, preferring actual crime scene photos than looking at something on a tablet device.
Ryder pulled the photo closer. “What the hell is this?”
Miller gave an evil little smile. “Looks like Sam Pritchard has made some sneaky modifications to his rig. The techs almost didn’t find it. There was a secret release button and then this thing slid out from underneath the main chassis.”
The photo was of a large steel sliding tray, on steel arms with rollers, protruding out from underneath the truck.
Miller tapped the photo, “All nicely padded too, big enough to fit an adult-sized person inside.” Miller ran through a list of other items they had found carefully hidden under and around the truck’s chassis. “He’s burying them somewhere,” Miller said, spreading more photos in front of Ryder. They had found several shovels, knives, bottles of chloroform, handcuffs, cable ties, and spray bottles of alcohol and bleach that had been sent off for testing. Pritchard’s truck was an intricate, meticulously outfitted mobile abduction and body disposal vehicle. It was his roving workplace where he could pick up, subdue, then dispose of his victims.
“How’s Officer Rimes?” Ryder asked. She hadn’t seen her around this morning.
“She’s transferred all the material she had compiled on the victims and leads to us. She wants to catch the bastard more than anyone else, but she wants our help.”
Ryder nodded, “Give her whatever she needs, throw as many men and resources as we can afford at her.” Ryder looked up from the photos to emphasize the point. “But it’s still her case. Make sure of that, Pete.”
Miller agreed. He pulled out another photo, this time of the terrain around the shed. “Second set of tire tracks from Pritchard’s place. Smaller width and tread pattern than his tanker truck. The boys believe it’s a pickup truck of some kind, could be a GMC. But we couldn’t find any vehicle registered to him.”
“So he’s taken the woman and gone, driven off before we got there?”
“Blind luck I’d say on his part,” Miller replied. “Either that or he saw all the commotion in town and decide to run. Go underground.”
Underground, Ryder thought of Prometheus Mining. There was no link. These were two separate cases. Anything else would be pure coincidence. She looked at the face of Jessie Rae pinned to the board and wondered where she was, where Pritchard had taken her. But she left that to Miller’s sub-team to deal with. There were now two investigations, but Pritchard was secondary. Ryder needed to focus on the main reason she had come here, to follow a possible trail left by Rasul.
They hadn’t gone public yet about Sam Pritchard on Beth’s insistence. Ryder didn’t believe Pritchard got spooked and ran either. It was blind luck, as Miller said, that he wasn’t there when the FBI descended on his little shed of horrors. They didn’t have time to set up surveillance to make sure. They needed to act fast and gamble on catching him.
She just hoped for Beth’s sake Pritchard would return. They had set up surveillance on the only road leading in to the property just in case.
To release anything to the media now would spoil any chances of finding him. Pritchard was a sneaky bastard who had eluded the local police for so long. He would have back-up plans, a fallback position to go to. He seemed like the type of person to plan every possible contingency.
He could very well go underground, disappear only to reappear years later, in a new town, in a new state, to resume his murderous ways under a new name and identity.
Ryder broke her thoughts from Pritchard. “What else do we have on Rasul and Taylor?” Miller gave her an update on tracking down the terrorist network. But there were no new developments. That investigation had stalled and Ryder’s superiors were demanding progress. The entire country was demanding blood for those who had died. But it was a multifaceted investigation, with Ryder’s team playing only one part in the massive nationwide law enforcement hunt to find the terrorist network behind the plane crash. Nothing new on Taylor either.
“How’s Rimes holding up?” Ryder asked. She imagined the woman hadn’t slept much, just like she hadn’t in the last 24 hours.
Miller scooped up the photos and slid them back into his folder. “You can ask her yourself.” He nodded to the door. “She’s next door, crashed on the couch.”
They trussed him up again, cable ties on his hands but his feet were left unbound so he could walk. The hood was placed over his head then he was jostled and pushed between two guards. In the
darkness under the hood Shaw tried to memorize every feeling, every sound. The feel of the leather seats when they pushed him into the back of a car. The crunch of tires over dirt and gravel, the sway of the road before they hit a smooth stretch of asphalt. It was a luxury SUV, nice ride height, deep leather seats. Maybe a Navigator or Escalade.
In Shaw’s head, the seconds became minutes. He grouped the minutes into chunks of ten, set them aside and kept counting. From the tone of the engine, the slight nudge in the vehicle’s cadence as the automatic transmission shifted gear, he judged roughly how fast they were traveling. On the highway they would keep to the speed limit, not wanting to draw attention, not wanting some young eager kid fresh out of the police academy to pull them over or some cranky near-retired police officer with a speed gun bust their chops because his pension fund statement had arrived that morning.
Shaw counted the highway time and set that aside in his head next to the other groups. In his mind, he gave colors to the various blocks of time, casino chips of time. Shaw neatly stacked them in their various denominations like a professional poker player or accountant on vacation in Vegas.
They turned off the highway, back onto a dirt road, the pace slowed, the tires crunched. A new stack of time chips, a new color. Shaw parked the old stack of chips aside and kept counting, kept measuring, a new stack building in his mind.
It was in his training. At the time when they trained him, he thought the strategy was pointless, like learning high-school algebra. Who the hell would ever use this stuff again, he had asked himself back in his youth. But now he was thankful for that. In the off chance he would find himself hooded in the back of a car—like now—or thrown in the trunk and driven, he could calculate how far he had travelled.
The vehicle bumped and began to incline. They were driving up a hill or ridge. He parked the last stack of time chips and stared again.
The vehicle slowed, crested whatever it was driving up, drove some more, then pulled up.