Threat Level Black - Страница 42

Chapter 9

“I’m taking you at your word that it wasn’t you,” Fisher told Jack Hunter as they surveyed the bombed-out hulk of the car.

“I’m glad you can laugh at a time like this,” his boss told him. “I’m glad you can laugh.”

“I ain’t laughing,” said Fisher.

The bomb had obliterated the car and shattered the windows of the diner. Two people inside had been cut by the glass, one severely. Fisher had lost his entire cup of coffee and crushed a half package of cigarettes. Otherwise he’d suffered only a few nicks and bruises.

“This is government property they destroyed,” said Hunter. “This really pisses me off.”

FBI agents and the local police were scouring the woods across the street and checking the surrounding area looking for evidence. Fisher theorized that someone had watched and waited for him to come out before pressing a remote control to detonate the bomb. Because of that, he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure that the attempt was related to Howe or even the case he was working on: Too many people with access to explosives hated his guts.

But it seemed sensible to him to assume that it was related to Howe, and that the retired colonel was the real target; under that scenario he was a kind of consolation prize. Maybe the person watching thought he had spotted the bomb and worried that it might yield clues about his identity. Or maybe they just like to see things go boom.

“Look at this damage,” Hunter practically moaned.

“Shame,” said Fisher. “Less and less diners to go around.”

The crime scene people had already set up shop, and now two in their white baggy suits asked Fisher and Hunter to move off to the side so they could finish taking their samples.

“At least we know the E-bomb’s real,” said Fisher.

“How do you figure that?”

“Has to be.”

“Don’t give me that shit, Fisher. How do you figure that? Where’s your proof? This?”

“I have to prove one and one is two?”

“By your math, one and one is a hundred and twenty-seven.”

Fisher ignored the obvious reference to his expense chits.

“We have to get some security people on Howe,” he told Hunter. He’d already tried calling the colonel’s cell phone but it was apparently turned off.

“I’ll talk to the White House about it,” said Hunter.

“We don’t have anybody we can send?”

“Jeez, Fisher, what the hell do you think? I have an army of people working for me?”

“Better do it quick,” said Fisher. “If they were willing to blow me up, they must already have an idea where he is, or at least where he’ll go.”

Chapter 10

Howe started to drive back to his motel after lunch with McIntyre, but then realized that he was near the house Alice Kauss had called her dream home the night before. Recalling the conversation — and mostly recalling her — he turned down the street that led to it, turning to the right and then into the cul-de-sac where the house sat off to the side. He stopped the car and looked at it.

It wasn’t a spectacular house. Oh, it was big — much bigger than anything he’d ever lived in — but it wasn’t ostentatious: no elaborate drive, none of those really fancy pillars at the front, no copper on the roof. It was nice, definitely; the little porch at the front was just big enough for a small bench, a good place to read the paper on a Sunday morning, drinking a cup of coffee.

Not a bad life.

Over a million bucks, though? Sheeeesh.

Could he afford a place like this if he took the job?

Undoubtedly, but why would he want it? Alice had told him it was about 3,200 square feet. He’d be lost.

He drove around the cul-de-sac at the end of the block, then up and through the rest of the subdivision. Howe had grown up in a rural area, next to a farm. The word subdivision in his youth had a tinge to it; usually it meant a farmer had been forced to sell off his land to make ends meet. Things were changing now. The family farm was a thing of the past, even where he’d grown up. Soon it would all be subdivisions.

So, living in a condominium was better?

Howe hadn’t heard back from Blitz or his aide about his security clearance, and figured that he might not for a few days. His best bet, he thought, was to get his personal affairs straightened out: find a place to stay, then go back home for a few days, visit with his relatives and friends. Once the job got going, who knew when he’d get a chance to get away again?

It was only two o’clock, but Howe was near the real estate office and decided he’d take a chance that she might be there. Her car wasn’t in the lot, but he’d already driven up and decided he might as well go inside and see if she’d be back before four.

“I’m not sure,” said the receptionist, peering at him from over her eyeglasses. “She didn’t show up for work today, and she hasn’t answered her phone. It’s very unlike her.”

“Where does she live?” he asked.

* * *

He drove by the apartment twice. Alice ’s car was in the lot. As far as he could see, there was no one watching it. He went back out onto the street and drove to a gas station nearby before trying her again.

The answering machine picked up on the second ring.

“It’s Bill Howe again,” he said. “I was wondering if maybe you’d want to push up our appointment this afternoon? But I guess you’re not around.”

He hit End, then called over to the motel to check for messages. Someone from the FBI had called; it wasn’t Fisher but undoubtedly it was related to their talk. Howe took down the name and number but figured he’d talk to Fisher about it first. The only other call was from a newspaper reporter from his hometown, apparently referred by his mom.

He reached into his pocket for Fisher’s card to call him. He thought about mentioning Alice and the fact that she wasn’t around, then realized that would be silly.

Why did he think something had happened to her? More than likely she was inside sleeping, catching up after last night.

Or she was in there with someone else. But hadn’t she been giving him the impression she was unattached?

Howe remembered her walk. Truth was, he was infatuated with her. She wasn’t movie star beautiful but she was…

Beautiful.

And probably busy doing other stuff, attached, and interested in him only as a customer.

He put Fisher’s card back in his pocket. He really didn’t feel like talking to any more FBI agents today, not even Fisher. Howe glanced at the small notebook where he’d written the number of the journalist. The paper was a small weekly that occasionally ran man-in-the-news features on its front page. He wasn’t much interested in being the subject of a story, but it was only fair that he call the guy back and tell him so.

He punched in the number and got a message that it had been disconnected. Thinking the hotel clerk had made a mistake, he called information and got the newspaper’s number; it was nothing like the one that had been left.

The reporter who’d left the message didn’t exist.

Confused, Howe considered calling his mother to see if she knew anything about the story, but then decided not to bother her. It was nearly three o’clock. He could fit in a few calls to the NADT backers before it was time to hook up with Alice.

Chapter 11

Daylight made a big difference.

In the dark, viewed through the night goggles and even in the starlight, Pong Yan had seemed about half the size of a small rural airport in America. In the early-morning light, as Tyler approached the strip where Howe’s Berkut had landed and taken off, it looked more like a beat-up gas station with two sheds at the far side.

Tyler had found a team of Army Rangers as escorts, along with an Air Force officer he’d pressed into duty as a UAV expert. The man was actually a maintenance officer with a helicopter squadron who had only a passing knowledge of UAVs, but, as Tyler told him, just the fact that he could pick a UAV out of a lineup meant he had more experience than Tyler did. Tyler had also taken Somers along as a kind of all-around consultant; the old guy didn’t know much about UAVs, but Tyler liked him and thought he might come in handy. Their job was pretty straightforward: go to the field, inspect the hangar, find the UAVs. If they existed, Tyler was to have them shipped back to the States for study. This mission took priority over the situation report, which Moore could handle without them in any event.

The two Air Force Pave Lows carrying the team circled the area once, the pilots and crewmen getting a feel for the situation. The helicopters were big green brutes armed with machine guns and able to lift vehicles a decent distance; they’d brought gear to attach to the UAVs with the idea that they would carry them sling-style to a large airstrip about seventy-five miles south, where a C-17 could be brought in to ferry them away.

Tyler leaned over the door gunner as the helicopter took a turn. The mountains had a dusty haze over them, a dull shimmer of dirt as if the despair that had settled over North Korea under its Communist rulers was finally being shaken off. The landscape itself was beautiful; from the air the hills and mountains beyond gave no hint of the hardship the people here had withstood for decades.

The helicopters settled down and Tyler climbed out, choking back the dust. The Rangers moved out quickly, fanning across the field to take positions. Tyler walked toward the hangars, then remembered Somers, turned back, and waited for the historian. For the first time since they’d met, he realized that Somers was actually quite short, perhaps five feet six or seven. Something in the older man’s manner gave him a taller presence somehow — made him seem psychologically more commanding.