Prey

Chapter Five

The ritualistic killing of the fearsome Bengal by Gerd Maas turned out to be a pivotal event in the life of Lisa Abercombie and Dr. Reston Wolfe, although neither of them had any sense of that at the time.

It was only six months later, in an isolated cedar log cabin several hundred miles west of Tom Frank's hunting ranch, that the emotional aftereffect of that terrifying day finally began to surface.

There, Lisa Abercombie-a thirty-six-year-old woman with icy political savvy, visceral determination, and very special connections to a White House advisory team-did something that was completely out of character.

Without warning or hesitation, Abercombie suddenly reached under the massive six-sided wooden table, rubbed Dr. Reston Wolfe's upper thigh, and smiled.

"I'm very impressed, Reston," she whispered in a voice that was both firmly authoritative and discreetly enticing, giving his thigh a little extra squeeze before bringing her discernibly warm hand back to her lap. "You've made incredible progress since I was here last."

Wolfe started to say something-anything at all-but discovered that his mind had gone completely blank. For a long, embarrassing moment, Dr. Reston Wolfe could only blink his eyes and stare.

Then, mercifully, Abercombie reached over and patted his hand in a more traditional bureaucratic greeting that finally got Wolfe's mind back in gear.

"That's all right," she whispered, the warmth of her words reflected in her smoldering dark eyes. "You look like you could use a long vacation far away from here."

Wolfe, feeling very much like a love-struck fool, decided then and there that Lisa Abercombie was the most provocative woman he had ever met.

"It's been a long eight months," he nodded, feeling his entire body surge with barely controlled lust as he forced himself to concentrate. "But getting off by myself is the last thing I want right now."

"You're eager to get started, aren't you?"

Wolfe desperately wanted to believe that Lisa Abercombie was aware that her words were loaded with double meaning.

"To tell you the truth," he said honestly, remembering the press of her hand, "I can hardly wait."

"I assure you that the entire committee feels the same way," she said quietly.

Wolfe looked around the huge conference room that was filled with equipment, weapons, files, and the twelve men and women he had brought together as a team.

His team.

His operation.

Reston Wolfe envisioned himself leading Gerd Maas and the rest of the ICER assault group into action while Lisa Abercombie looked on with… what?

Admiration?

Affection?

Desire?

Or maybe even… passion?

"You know what you've done, don't you?" Abercombie asked, snapping Wolfe back to the present.

"What's that?" He blinked away the images that were too absurd to even think about. Especially not now. Not here.

"You've made ICER a reality," Lisa Abercombie said, her eyes glowing with an emotion that Wolfe had never seen before. "These people," she gestured out across the room, "that you selected and brought together are going to have an impact far beyond anything we have ever imagined. They are going to realign the industrial revolution, literally change the course of history. And all because of your efforts. You should be incredibly proud of what you've done here."

Dr. Wolfe nodded and smiled, shamelessly basking in the warm glow of Lisa Abercombie's praise.

"It's been a team effort all the way. You and I both know that," he said, deliberately making direct eye contact. He remembered the expression on her face when she had knelt down and stroked the hot, sweaty fur of the Bengal, her dark eyes glazed as she stared at the glistening broadhead sticking through the back of the Bengal's bloodied skull.

He'd seen the blood-lust in her eyes, and he knew now just how he'd…

One of the resident caretaker staff walked up to the table and whispered something in Lisa Abercombie's ear.

"I have a phone call," Abercombie said as she got up from the table. "I'll be right back."

"I'll be here."

He watched her walk across the room, her snug jeans providing a thoroughly distracting view of her well-toned torso.

Reston Wolfe knew full well the inherent dangers of trying to establish a relationship with a driven woman like Lisa Abercombie. Yet he simply could not resist the temptation. And it wasn't just the fact that Lisa Abercombie was a beautiful and alluring woman, like so many others who were readily available in Washington.

What he couldn't overlook was the political and bureaucratic clout that Lisa Abercombie possessed and exercised in a manner that belied her youth and overwhelming physical charms.

What it all boiled down to were two very distinct and separate possibilities.

If Operation Counter Wrench was successful, then he and Abercombie would become wealthy, powerful, and influential beyond comprehension. If it all failed, he would be either a hunted felon or, more likely, dead, buried, and forgotten.

All in all, Wolfe, told himself as he remembered again Lisa Abercombie's hand on his thigh, it was worth the risk.

Lisa Abercombie followed a staffer into a small office, where he pointed out a complex-looking console phone sitting on a small wooden desk. There were three rows of yellow-tabbed buttons in the center of the console, one row of blue tabs above them, and a single red-tabbed button in the upper right corner. The red tab was blinking.

"Line one," the staffer said.

"Fine, thank you," Lisa Abercombie nodded. She pointedly waited until the staffer had exited the room and closed the door before reaching for the phone.

"Abercombie," she responded in a gruff, neutral voice.

"Lisa?"

"Al, how are you?" Lisa Abercombie smiled, her voice softening with genuine pleasure as she sat down in the thickly padded chair. She pressed a tab on the console marked "Secure" and watched as a small green light began to blink, confirming that the two-point link was secure from taps or traces.

"I'm fine. How are you doing? I understand that you're had some adventures these last few weeks."

"Nothing as exciting as crewing for a deranged skipper in the Gulf Stream," Abercombie replied, referring to the sailing trip that she had taken with Albert Bloom during the previous summer. Intent on consummating their intricate political relationship in the luxurious suite of a Freeport hotel, they had sailed straight into the teeth of a sudden and unexpected tropical storm that nearly sank the thirty-six-foot skiff. They had fought the storm for almost sixteen hours, losing the engine and trying to stay afloat with sea anchor, rudder, and torn sails, when suddenly the surging winds and waves and dark clouds had given way to an unlikely calm that left them collapsed in their safety harnesses, soaking wet, shivering and exhausted.

Somehow they had been able to maneuver the boat into the shelter of a small cove, where they dropped anchor and staggered down into the shambles of the main stateroom ready to collapse. Instead, they had found themselves caught up in a frenzy of survival-enhanced sexual passion that continued on intermittently through the night and well into the next morning.

They had never made it to their luxurious hotel suite, and had never regretted it for a moment.

A1 Bloom laughed easily. "I'm sitting here in my office, getting ready for a one o'clock appointment on the Hill, and now I won't be able to concentrate on a damn thing."

"I have a similar problem," Lisa Abercombie said. "Perhaps we should get together to discuss it."

"Unfortunately," Bloom said, "Senator Talkins has expressed an interest in doubling the budget for ICER."

"You mean our official budget?"

"A seven-and-a-half-million-dollar increase. Isn't that nice?"

"No, it's not," Abercombie said fervently, all thoughts of sex immediately forgotten. "For God's sake, Al, we've got commitments for at least five billion from the private sector. And more on top of that if we need it. At this stage, any kind of add-on from Congress, no matter how small, will just attract attention. And that's the last thing we need right now."

"Yes, exactly," Bloom agreed. "But one thing we do need is more contingency support, and Talkins is just the man to handle some of the more sensitive inside maneuvers."

"In exchange for a good-sized contribution to his campaign fund?"

"Precisely," Bloom said.

Lisa Abercombie hesitated, and the finally said: "I hate to say it, but I think it's worth it."

"So do I, but not if it means taking on one of his people."

"He's asking for that?"

"Yes."

"No way," Abercombie said firmly. "This one's too touchy to be run by committee. You know that. And besides, it's ours."

"I'm glad you feel that way, because that's exactly what I planned to tell him," Bloom said. "But that's not really why I called. We may need to advance the start date for Counter Wrench."

Lisa Abercombie blinked in surprise. "But I-"

Bloom interrupted her. "We just received an interesting report from one of our internal sources. It seems that there may be an alliance forming among the primary opposition groups."

"Earth First! and Greenpeace are linking up?" Lisa Abercombie whispered in a quiet, shocked voice.

"As well as Headwaters, Wind/Rain/Storm, and Le Natur. It seems that the environmental terrorists are finally getting some professional advice."

"We expected that," Lisa Abercombie said, forcing her voice to remain calm as her analytical mind raced.

"Yes, of course we did," Bloom agreed. "But not this quickly. How soon can you be ready?"

"The entire assault group is here now. It's just a matter of completing the briefing and determining the priority of the assignments," Abercombie said. "I would say two days at the outside."

"Give yourself three, just to be sure. We are dealing with very emotional people who are suspicious of everyone. I think that a few judiciously placed rumors should keep them from forming their alliances too quickly."

"Albert, you're malicious," Abercombie laughed. "Just my kind of guy-"

Bloom chuckled. "What about the training situation?"

"Training won't be a factor. Not with these people. All we have to do is get them coordinated, aim them at a target, and then turn them loose."

"Intelligent, self-guided, counterterrorizing missiles. The ultimate weapon." Blood nodded in satisfaction. "They will go through those self-righteous bastards like a hot knife through butter."

Lisa Abercombie shivered at the vivid memory of the bloodied and horribly sharp triangular blade sticking out of the back of the Bengal tiger's massive head.

"And they won't even know they've been cut until it's much too late," she whispered.

"No, they won't," Bloom agreed. "Tell me, does Wolfe still think that he made the final selections?"

"I'm sure he does," Abercombie said confidently. "We spent several hours going over the lists, but the choices were pretty obvious since I yellow-highlighted the relevant points. I only had to make a couple of gentle suggestions to keep him on track."

"Does he still think he's in charge?"

"That was what you wanted, wasn't it?"

"Reston Wolfe's a good man," Bloom said. "Right family background, good contacts, good political instincts, willing to be a hard ass when he has to be."

"But not very smart, and therefore expendable as far as this project is concerned," Lisa Abercombie finished.

"You must never forget, my dear, that we are all very expendable as far as this project is concerned," Bloom said. "But I think everyone on the committee agrees that Reston is a special case. If it weren't for his extremely useful connections… speaking of which, how is your, uh, side project coming along?"

"It's progressing nicely. Do you want a full report?" Abercombie teased.

"Good Lord, no," Bloom chuckled. "I don't think that I could stand to hear about it right now. Tell me later."

"I'll do better than that," Abercombie promised.

"Yes, I'm sure you will," Albert Bloom sighed, and then turned serious. "Listen, my dear young friend, please make sure that you never forget one thing. What we're doing is extremely dangerous. You must be firm in maintaining absolute control, but above all else, you must be careful. Do not make any mistakes."

"Don't worry, Skipper," Lisa Abercombie said in a soft, seductive voice. "You taught me what to do. Anybody gets in our way, we go right over the top of them."

"That's my girl. I'll call you soon," Bloom said, then hung up the phone.

Dr. Reston Wolfe, newly appointed executive director of ICER, had thought long and hard about where the all- important first meeting of Operation Counter Wrench should be held. There could hardly have been a more ironic choice than the very jewel of protected lands, a site whose very name was synonymous with care and trust and hope for the future.

Yellowstone National Park.

Because the potential risks were enormous and the potential rewards beyond imagination, enemy surveillance had to be avoided at all costs. In this respect, Whitehorse Cabin was a good bet. Set off by itself on a high, wooded hillside, surrounded by huge clearings, the cabin was supposed to be impossible to approach in the daytime without being observed. It was further isolated within a two-and-a-quarter-million acres of federally protected wilderness. Dr. Wolfe was not one to take chances, however. He had the authority and the means to clear the grizzly bear range of any campers, hikers, biologists, and the like who mistakenly believed that they had a right to go out and enjoy their wilderness whenever they chose to do so.

The means were simple. He designed a crucial scientific experiment that would investigate and resolve, once and for all, the potentially lethal conflicts between bears and tourists.

As announced by ICER, the project was to be directed by a blue-ribbon task force of twelve internationally recognized experts who would clear the bear range of all non- participants for a period of no less than six months.

Government biologists who chose to grumble or question the expertise of these unknown experts were notified that they had suddenly become eligible for long-sought-after foreign travel, with all of the per-diem perks allowed by law. In effect, they were bought off in style.

To confirm that Whitehorse Cabin was absolutely secure, Dr. Wolfe asked Lisa Abercombie to use her White House connections to obtain the temporary services of a crack Special Forces reconnaissance team. Seven men arrived by helicopter the next morning and quickly demonstrated their professionalism by managing to sit through a one-hour briefing without once cracking a smile.

In fact, the only time that any member of the reconnaissance team ever did smile was when the team leader, a clean-cut lieutenant who looked more like an eighteen-year-old high-school quarterback than a twenty- four-year-old professional killer, walked up to Wolfe after the briefing, shook Wolfe's hand, grinned, and said: "Piece of cake, sir."

Eight hours later, after six failed attempts with varying types of electronic sweepers and camouflage gear, the frustrated recon team members were forced to admit that they couldn't get within a half-mile of the cabin without tripping at least a dozen of the five hundred and twelve computer-monitored sensors that dotted the hillside and clearings.

It was then that Wolfe explained to the soldiers that the detection system in question had been installed by another team of military experts, this one from the National Security Agency. He went on to describe the sensors as being so sensitive and discriminatory that the computers receiving the data could instantly trace the pathway and determine the biomass of any animal with a heartbeat greater than a field mouse's.

Although initially irritated by Wolfe's game-playing, the members of the Special Forces team felt better when they were shown blueprints that described the extent and sophistication of the intrusion system. And when questioned further, they quickly agreed that a covert approach on Whitehorse Cabin in the daytime was out of the question.

It just wasn't going to happen.

They did suggest, however, that they would like to try a night approach, despite the fact that they were in the middle of the largest wild grizzly bear habitat in the lower forty- eight states. If anything, the idea of having a real, live enemy out there seemed to give the aggressive young soldiers a heightened sense of purpose.

Five hours later, at precisely 0200 hours, the recon team made its first and only night attempt on the Whitehorse Cabin, using light assault weapons, third-generation night- vision goggles, and a considerable array of electronic sensing gear.

Aided by a predicted cloud cover, an unexpected fog, and the incredible sensitivity of some of their latest gadgets, the highly motivated reconnaissance team managed to get within a respectable quarter-mile of the cabin before one of them activated the biological sensors of a twelve-hundred- pound grizzly that happened to be both territorial and grouchy when disturbed.

The end result was the expenditure of fifty-seven rounds of. 223 military hardball; one dead female grizzly; one very large, slightly wounded and extremely annoyed male grizzly; two severely mauled soldiers; and one thoroughly shaken team leader, who politely but firmly declined to make a second attempt at night.

As a result of that trial run, Whitehorse Cabin was judged to be secure. All involved were quick to agree that Dr. Reston Wolfe, director of ICER and primary architect of Counter Wrench, had chosen well.