“You attribute these disappearances to the wilderness?”
Earl laughed. “If I attributed them to the wilderness, I wouldn’t be down here. Some of them, yes, of course. The majority, even. I’ve lived here nearly my whole life, seen born-and-raised Alaskans, tough men and women, die from the elements right outside their front doors.”
“You said nearly three thousand people go missing up here a year? This should be a national emergency, the FBI should have a task force of fifty agents on this.”
“The FBI doesn’t care about people getting lost off the grid. It’s not illegal to intentionally go missing. They don’t have to contact friends or family if they don’t want to and we’re not going to make them.”
“But you’re doing something.”
Earl sighed. “Mr. Gale, my little brother Nicholas vanished near Nome twenty-five years ago. I have access to databases—records that require high-level security clearances—but at the end of the day it all comes back to nothing, a big fat goose egg.” Earl made a fist to prove his point. “Since 9/11 the FBI in Alaska, due to our proximity to China, Russia, and North Korea, pools most of its resources into antiterrorism operations: intel gathering and worst-case scenario prep. The remaining resources are focused on big-city crime.”
Earl leaned forward. “I’ve got to be clear with you, Mr. Gale. I’ve seen hundreds of family members walk through that door and stand right where you’re standing. Hundreds of families the troopers and the ABI were unable to help. The fact you had such an extensive search party looking for William French and your daughter is unheard of. The fact that an ABI investigator flew to Eagle was miraculous.”
“I keep hearing that. But I still need to find my daughter.”
Earl nodded. “Last night when the ABI sent over Cassandra’s and French’s MPRs, I spent a couple of hours going through them and noticed something.” He grabbed a stuffed folder and opened it, took out two pictures, and slapped them on his desk.
Gale moved forward and recognized the pictures Ross had taken of both Cassie’s and William French’s tents.
“I read the crime lab’s report, Mr. Gale. And they’re right—no bear or animal did that. These were done by a human, with a serrated blade.” Earl got slowly to his feet, walked to a filing cabinet, and pulled an orange folder from inside. He walked back to his desk, fished through the folder, and took out another picture, presenting it to Gale.
The picture showed a navy blue tent, strewn across a small rock bed. The blue fabric was ripped just like Cassie’s and French’s.
Earl said, “A little over a month ago, troopers photographed this on the Fortymile River just south of the town of Chicken. Did this ever come up in conversation with the AST or the ABI?”
“No,” Gale said, confused.
“I was afraid of that.”
“What do you mean?”
Earl opened the orange file. “In late May, a woman in California filed a missing person report after her ex-husband failed to touch base with either her or their children. Ex-husband’s name was Paul Brady, disappeared a few hundred miles as the crow flies from where your daughter went missing. Tent ripped the same way—”
“The troopers knew about this?”
“They did. What’s also interesting is that not only were the tents ripped in the same fashion, but Paul Brady was also ex-military like your daughter. Former Navy SEAL.” Earl read from the report: “Paul Brady, forty-one years old, divorced, two kids. He took 9/11 personally when his mother died in the second tower. Enlisted in the navy two days after. Graduated BUD/S then was selected to operate with SEAL Team Two out of Virginia. Nearly a half dozen deployments in the Middle East. Retired from the navy a couple years ago to spend some more time with his family in San Diego. Did contract work on the Mexi-Cali border. Wife filed for divorce couple years ago. Brady struggled with alcohol. Ex-wife took the house, the kids, and moved in with a high-end realtor in Los Angeles.”
“And Brady hasn’t been found?”
“Not a trace. But now I think we have a link.”
“The tents?”
“The tents and the fact that both Brady and Cassandra were military trained,” Earl said, pointing to a stack of more orange files on his desk. “There’s a pattern I’m seeing all over the place within the triangle. A pattern both Director Hughes and that dolt Special Agent Burke think is hogwash.” He pointed the laser pointer at Eagle. “There are various areas in the triangle where a large amount of the missing are ex-military men and women. Areas like Eagle.”
“Alaska’s a tough place, it attracts tough people.”
“Of course, but in the last decade my data has been showing anomalies. Hundreds of the missing are veterans. This wasn’t the case a decade before, or the one before that.”
“What do you attribute it to?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
Gale raised an eyebrow.
Earl said, “They’re being taken, scooped up. That’s my theory anyway. And until last night, I didn’t think it could be proven.”
“The ripped tents?”
“Not just the tents, Mr. Gale. It’s the authorities whose jurisdiction those tents were found in. The Alaska state trooper who photographed Paul Brady’s demolished campsite. The Alaska state trooper who aided in the search and subsequent investigation of your daughter.”
“Ross?”
“No.”
“Who then?”
“Trooper Elliot Vance.”
Chapter 35
ANCHORAGE, ALASKA
FBI BUILDING
“VANCE?”
“He was the lead investigator on the Paul Brady case. He’s been the officer in charge of nearly four hundred MPRs since being assigned to D-detachment in the town of Northway Junction. Just shy of one hundred of those missing were military trained. Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Gale. You said Elliot Vance never mentioned the Paul Brady case or his ripped tent?”
“Never.”
“And it was never brought to Meredith Plant’s attention?”
“Not that I know of.”
Vance had seen Paul Brady’s campsite, the ripped tents, and said nothing? Almost a hundred ex-military personnel had gone missing in his jurisdiction in four years? This whole time, Gale had been focused on the crew from the Northern Breeze.
The Northern Breeze!
Gale flashed on the scene he’d witnessed: Vance talking to Ned and the others in front of the Eagle Motel.
“The Northern Breeze—Ned and Darlene Voigt,” Gale said. “Have you heard of them?”
“Should I have?”
Gale detailed how Cassie and William French stayed at the Northern Breeze, detailed the bar fight. He told Earl how the Northern Breeze crew aided in the search, and how Gale had been suspicious of them from the get-go.
Earl squinted down at Cassie’s MPR. “They were cleared by the ABI and the Mounties?”
“Yes. Any way to tell if more of the missing stayed at the Northern Breeze?”
Earl ran a hand through his white beard. “I can check. I’ll cross-reference with those missing in the area. See if I can pull credit card statements—it might be difficult. A lot of the paperwork isn’t digitized.”
“If Paul Brady stayed at the Northern Breeze—”
“That would be something. I’ll get on the horn with the RCMP after I go through Brady’s credit card records.”
“And if he paid cash?”
“Then we’re out of luck.”
Gale took his cell phone out, tried to find Sergeant Plant’s number.
“That won’t work down here, Mr. Gale. You’ll have to go upstairs.”
“I need to alert Sergeant Plant about Trooper Vance and Brady.”
Earl scrunched his face. “Hold up about Vance. It wouldn’t be wise to accuse a law enforcement officer about something like this until we have definitive proof. Tell her about the Paul Brady tent; tell her I’ll fax over the file immediately.”
Gale turned t
o leave, but then remembered something. “The metal canister that was found in Cassie’s campsite, have you seen anything like it before?”
Earl sifted through Cassie’s file and took out Ross’s picture of the canister. He squinted at the image, then frowned. “No, I can’t say that I have.”
“Not in any of the missing person cases?”
“Not that I recall. Why the interest?”
Gale didn’t really have a reply, other than the fact that the strange object didn’t sit right with him. He was about to tell the FBI man about the sharp odor that emanated from the canister when Earl got up from his seat and walked up to him.
Earl looked like he was struggling to say something. “I’ve been with the bureau for a long time, Mr. Gale. Last night when Plant sent me Cassie’s MPR and said you were coming, I did a little investigation of my own on you. I have access to some DoD and NSA servers as well as level-five clearance in the FBI databases”—Earl shifted uncomfortably—“I looked you up, Mr. Gale, after I looked up Cassandra.”
Gale kept his face impassive.
“I know a doctored identity when I see one. There’s only one organization that has the ability to do that. I don’t know who you really are, and frankly, I don’t care. But it looks like you have friends in high places, higher than the FBI. If things go south, if this turns into a shit show, I’d suggest you call those friends.”
Gale stared at the old man, his eyes never wavering, and said, “I need to call Plant.”
And left.
* * *
Gale tried getting reception in the elevator, and when that failed, the lobby, only to be disappointed again. He walked outside and stood in front of the building, holding his cell to the sky, trying to obtain enough service to make the call.
He finally got service on the sidewalk outside and dialed Plant. Straight to voice mail. He gave her a brief overview of his discussion with Earl Marks regarding Paul Brady’s tent. He said nothing about Vance, just to call him back immediately.
When he hung up, he dialed Emily; as he looked up the road, he nearly froze as he spotted a black van parked across from a Subway.
Maybe it had just been a coincidence. Maybe he was just being paranoid.
No.
Something was off. This was one of the vans from before—tailing his taxi from the hotel.
Holding his phone to his ear, Gale walked south down the street and stood in front of an insurance building, using its reflective windows to clock the black van to the north.
Emily’s phone went straight to voice mail.
So did Petit’s.
Why the hell weren’t they answering?
He’d just had that thought when he saw two telephone workers round the corner from the south. Alarm bells started chiming in Gale’s brain.
The van to the north started its engine. Using the window as a mirror, Gale estimated that he was a good two hundred yards from the front entrance of the FBI building.
There was no one else on the sidewalks, no cars driving up and down the road. Something was wrong, very wrong. Gale wished he had his pistol, but he’d left it in the hotel room.
He shot a furtive glance at the telephone workers, both in blue jumpsuits and white hard hats. Fifty yards away. They each held a toolbox, but their jumpsuits were too clean. Their hardhats too white. Their boots weren’t scuffed and dirty, they were pristine, shiny—
As Gale wondered if the FBI building had security cameras that would reach his side of the street, a motor roared and tires squealed. A second black van peeled around the street from the south and came to a screeching stop behind him. Gale turned around just in time to see Elliot Vance jump out of the van.
“Mr. Gale!” Vance said.
“You sonofabitch—”
The telephone workers had dropped their toolboxes, pistols now in their hands.
Five men spilled out behind Vance wearing black jumpsuits and ski masks. Gale put his weight on the balls of his feet and dropped his center of mass. The first man grabbed him by the elbow, Gale leaned forward, countered, and threw him down to the sidewalk. But the other men were already on him.
An aerosol canister was thrust into his face and orange mist exploded from the cap. Gale gasped as he breathed in the noxious chemical and immediately lost his footing, his balance, and all motor functions.
The last thing he remembered was being hoisted off his feet and into the back of the van.
Chapter 36
JACK WADE, ALASKA
Tuesday, July 2nd, 8:31 a.m.
SOMETHING WAS WRONG.
Ned Voigt could sense it like a deer could sense a predator. That’s what he felt like now as he stood in the Jack Wade airfield, holding the tablet, staring south into the deep blue morning sky. Darlene stood next to him, her face placid, but her slight fidgeting told him that she was inwardly worried. And she had every right to be. These were uncharted waters for both of them.
Jake and Curtis had helped them clear their little makeshift runway beyond the old slow-motion gold dredge—the runway they constructed to extract their victims to Anchorage before the long trip to Russia.
Ned still had no idea how Yermakova transported the victims to another continent. He’d wondered for years, but after a while he realized it was better he not know. It was better to drop it and just do his job. The KODIAK team was only responsible for getting the subjects to WHISKEY.
For nearly eleven years, Ned felt like he had been an expert trapeze artist doing a high-risk tightrope act. For eleven years, he’d never fallen. Never so much as faltered on the high line.
Now, he felt like he was taking a swan dive into the ground.
“How long are we supposed to wait?” Jake said.
“As long as we have to,” Ned growled, his attention still on the skyline.
“And who are these guys?” Curtis asked.
“Another team sent to help us.”
“Help us do what?”
“That is need to know. And you don’t need to know.”
Thing was, Ned didn’t really know what was going to happen, just that he was assisting another team in a supporting role. He honestly thought that when James Gale and Vance went to Anchorage he and his team would be in the clear. But Yermakova’s message the night before said otherwise.
This had prompted wild speculation between Ned and Darlene. If James Gale was gone, why would this new team still come to Eagle? Would they insist on taking Emily Gale and her husband? Would there be a kill team to take out Ned’s team? There was no way of knowing, so Ned and Darlene hoped for the best and prepared for the worst.
Their get-out bags were packed, their money secured, their new identities ready to go. If this new team insisted on taking Emily Gale and Peter Trask, both Ned and Darlene would assist them and then order this new team to extract them from the country.
At least that was the plan.
Now, if this new team was sent to take out Ned and his crew, they were ready for that, too.
Jake and Curtis both had semiautomatic rifles and backup weapons. Ned had his tactical shotgun and Darlene her rifle.
Plus, they had enough knockout gas loaded in the canisters at their feet to take out a pride of angry lions. If this team had the wrong intentions, they were going to be in for a bad time. Ned took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. He thought over every fuckup he had been responsible for.
Max Tobeluk was first on his list.
The little shit was still MIA.
He’d had Curtis and Jake out all night looking for him.
At this point it didn’t matter; Ned knew he was either going to be leaving the continent by the end of the day or be dead.
“I think I hear it,” Darlene said, breaking Ned from his thoughts.
Ned strained his ears and heard the light buzzing of an aircraft approaching.
“Should we smoke them as soon as they land?” Jake asked.
“You will do nothing unless I give the order, is that clear?”
The plane came into view, a 172 Cessna. A bigger plane than Vance flew. It came in low, landed smoothly in the tall grass, and taxied over to them.
Ned gripped his shotgun and raised his other hand. He could see the pilot raise a hand in acknowledgment, then the engine cut and the side doors opened.
Three men wearing black combat fatigues spilled out. They carried large duffels. Ned felt uneasy. They looked like soldiers. Hardened soldiers. The pilot got out and joined his men. The tallest man marched up to Ned.
“State your call sign,” the man asked in a thick accent.
Ned cleared his throat, then, trying to keep the fear from his voice, replied, “KODIAK.”
The man took in Ned and his group, then reached into his jacket and for a moment Ned thought he was taking out a gun. Instead, he came out with a tablet similar to Ned’s. The man fidgeted with the tablet, then turned it, showing a picture of Emily Gale.
Ned felt himself relax. These men weren’t here to kill them—they wanted the girl.
“You know her location?”
“We do.”
“Good, take us to her.”
* * *
EAGLE, ALASKA
Tuesday, July 2nd, 8:43 a.m.
Peter Trask felt worthless.
He’d been married to Emily Gale for less than a year, and in that time—while their relationship had never been stronger—the events of the last year had been the hardest he’d ever had to endure in his whole life.
He’d watched from what felt like the sidelines as his new brother-in-law took his own life. Watched how Cassie had lost the baby, and then how Cassie almost lost herself.
Now she was lost and would probably never be found again.
He looked over at Emily, the person he adored most in the world, and put his arm around her as they sat on the Yukon’s shoreline with Maverick.
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