Private Rogue

Chapter 79

We hadn’t needed to worry about the cops in Denville. I set the chopper down on the baseball field next to the police department and three officers emerged from the building. I powered down the engine and Justine, Floyd and I climbed out to meet the officers. The leader of the trio, a gruff middle-aged sergeant, said they’d been waiting for us after receiving a call from the Pentagon. They’d been instructed to hold a man who was about to be delivered to them.

“We’ve been trying to guess what kind of perp gets the royal treatment,” the sergeant asked. “You got bin Laden’s brother in there or something?”

“We’ve got a traitor,” I replied. “A man who sold out this country. Make sure you lock him up tight.”

The sergeant’s eyes narrowed and his mood soured. “Ain’t nothing lower than treason.”

The officers dragged Rick Ferguson from the chopper and watched as we took to the sky.

I flew north for thirty minutes, heading deep into the Catskill Mountains. Below us, the bumps in the snow-covered terrain became large distinct folds, and the mountains soared as we flew deeper into the remote wilderness. Narrow roads and tracks criss-crossed the landscape. Floyd knew every landmark and directed me farther and farther into the mountains. Finally, a few miles north of Rondout Reservoir and Sundown Forest, he pointed to a clearing that I could just about make out in the faint moonlight.

“Set us down there,” he said.

I circled round and began my descent.

“What’s down there?” I asked.

Floyd had been cagey about our destination so far.

“Beth and I had a go-to place in case she and the kids ever needed to lie low,” he replied. “Somewhere they’d be safe if I was ever captured. At least, it was supposed to be.”

“But you have another one?” I guessed.

And when I looked down, to the north of the clearing I saw hints of a structure through the snow-covered trees.

Floyd nodded. “Like you said, it isn’t paranoia. It’s about being careful.”

The clearing wasn’t much bigger than a baseball diamond. I took us down slowly. When we were on the ground, I powered down the H125 and we stepped out into the brutal chill of a Catskill winter’s night.

“I bought this place using a dummy corporation a few years back,” Floyd said as we trudged through the snow. “Land here is cheap. Picked up most of this side of the mountain and the cabin. It’s somewhere we can come if things ever go real bad.”

He took us through a gap in the trees and we followed a trail north of the clearing. I saw a small cabin ahead, tucked almost out of sight. It was the kind of place someone could disappear.

“What do you think they’re after?” Justine asked.

“Three months ago, I flew a team into Belarus. We were tasked with stealing data and documents from the home of Konstantin Roslov, a Russian SVR operative who was believed to be coordinating operations across Europe.”

“And?” I asked, the word hanging before me in a cloud as I exhaled.

“I went in with the team, probably shouldn’t have,” Floyd replied. “But Roslov wasn’t there and the place was empty, so it was a safe target. We were under orders to make it look like a random burglary. So I took something.”

“Spoils of war,” I remarked.

Floyd nodded. “It’s in this cabin,” he said, pointing toward the tiny building.

Trees towered over it, with trunks like the legs of giants tightly packed as far as the eye could see. Shutters covered the cabin windows. Floyd pulled back a panel by the front door to reveal a key safe. He rolled the tumblers, opened the safe and pulled out two keys. He used them to unlock the front door and let us in.

He picked up a battery-operated lamp and switched it on. We walked through a small hallway into a rustic living room. A couple of couches covered in blankets faced a large fireplace, and historical military paintings hung on the wood-paneled walls. Floyd went to a sideboard that was covered in trophies and mementos and picked up a brass statue, a small bronze replica of the Charging Bull that graces Wall Street. About ten inches long and six high, the figure was a perfect scale copy of the famous original, which symbolizes a strong financial market on the rise. The original figure, by Arturo Di Modica, is known the world over.

“This was on Roslov’s desk,” Floyd said. “I thought he was having a pop at American capitalism, so I liked the idea of taking it away from him.”

He handed it to me, and I turned it over and examined it closely. “You take anything else?”

Floyd shook his head. “The other guys did, but not me. I didn’t have a gear bag. I was just the pilot. There must have been hidden cameras in the place. They must have filmed us to know that it was me who took the Bull.”

There was nothing unusual about the bronze figure. Not as far as I could see. “What about the documents and data?”

“I think they got something,” Floyd said. “But I don’t get told that kind of information.”

“We need to get this into the lab,” I said to Justine. “Find out why people are prepared to murder for it.”