Wild Fire

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Our wake-up call came promptly at 6:00 A.M., making me wonder what I was thinking when I asked for it. Little Scotsmen were hurling stones in my head.

Kate rolled over, mumbled something, and buried her head under the pillow.

I found the bathroom in the dark and used the provided sundries, then stepped into the shower, which felt like a million dollars-or at least twelve hundred dollars.

I went back into the bedroom and got dressed in the dark, leaving sleeping beauty to rest.

Actually, we’d both spent a restless night after an overstimulated day. For the first time in a long time, I dreamed I was standing under the burning towers as people jumped from the windows. I also dreamed that Harry and I were at a funeral.

I opened the other entry door to our room and saw that it led to a short passageway, which opened into the Great Hall.

I went into the Hall, where two round tables were being set for breakfast, and a fire was blazing at each end of the room. If I wasn’t a cop, I think I’d like to be a Rockefeller.

The kitchen door was open, and I could hear the sounds of people banging around, preparing for breakfast.

I thought I heard a voice with a French accent saying, “Peegs in zee blanket?” followed by laughter. But maybe I imagined that.

On a side table were coffee and muffins. I poured a cup of black coffee, walked out through the French doors onto the terrace, and took a deep breath of the mountain air.

It was still dark, but I could see that the sky was clear, and it was going to be another nice day in God’s country.

There is a belief in law enforcement, reinforced by experience and statistics, that the first forty-eight hours of a criminal investigation are the most critical. Intelligence work and counter-terrorist operations, on the other hand, move at a slower pace. There are good reasons for this, but my instinct and experience as a cop told me that almost everything you need to know, and almost everything you’re going to discover, is going to happen in two days. Maybe three.

What you do with that time and information is the difference between a successfully concluded case or a muddled cluster-fuck of meddling bosses, brain-dead prosecutors, lawyered-up suspects, and half-witted arraignment judges. If you give all these people time to think, you're into paralysis by analysis.

As I was having my morning inspirational thoughts, Kate came out on the terrace wearing the guest bathrobe and slippers and carrying a cup of coffee. She yawned, smiled, and said, “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Rockefeller.” Married or not, the morning protocol apréès sex was a kiss, a compliment, and a reference to the lovemaking that was romantic without sounding wimpy, and explicit without sounding piggish.

I managed to pull all this off, and we stood on the terrace, arm in arm, sipping coffee, looking out at the pines and autumn leaves.

The sun was coming up, and there was a mist lying on the ground, sloping downward toward Upper Saranac Lake, which looked very tranquil. It was quiet, and the air smelled of damp earth and wood smoke. I could see why Harry liked it up here, and I pictured him waking up Saturday morning in his camper to a scene very much like this before he started out for the Custer Hill Club.

Kate said, “Maybe when we finish here, we’ll take a week off and rent a cabin on a lake. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

I thought that if this case ended badly, we wouldn’t have to take a week off; we’d have lots of free time.

Kate added, “I think that might be a fitting tribute to Harry.”

“That would be very nice.”

Kate was cold, so we went back into the Great Hall. Another couple was on a couch near the fireplace in the sitting area. We refilled our cups and sat on a couch opposite them. My body language clearly indicated that I had no intention of engaging them in conversation. The guy-a bearded, middle-aged gent-gave me the same signals. His wife or girlfriend, however, smiled and said, “Hi. I’m Cindy. This is my fiancé, Sonny.”

Sonny did not look sunny. In fact, he looked grumpy. Maybe he just got the bill. Cindy, on the other hand, was happy and friendly, and would probably talk to a goldfish in a bowl.

Kate and Cindy began to chat about The Point, the Adirondacks, and whatever. Grumpy and I stayed silent. The fire felt good.

Cindy and Grumpy were from Long Island, and he was, according to Cindy, “in the publishing business.” Cindy was in public relations and that’s how they met. Thank God she didn’t tell the story, but I was certain one of them must have been drunk.

Kate said she was an attorney, which was partly true, and she told them I was a certified social worker, working in the Muslim immigrant community, which was funny, but Grumpy made a little snorting sound of disapproval.

The subject somehow shifted to shopping, and Cindy informed Kate that there were good shops in the village of Lake Placid. My eyes glazed over, and I thought Grumpy’s eyes would do the same, but I noticed he was looking at Kate, whose robe had opened a little at the top. The man was clearly a pig.

On that subject, I couldn’t help noticing that Cindy was also very pretty, with long blond hair, hazel eyes, Nordic features, and really great… presence, and so forth. She looked about twenty years younger than her so-called fiancé, and I couldn’t imagine what she found attractive about him, except for maybe the bulge in his pants. I mean his wallet.

Grumpy broke his silence and said to me, “I have a good idea about immigration. Wherever you were born, stay there.” He stood, took a last look at Kate’s cleavage from a better angle, and said to her, not me, “Nice meeting you.”

Cindy, too, stood and said to us, “We’ll see you at dinner. The chef is doing woodcock tonight.”

Woodcock ? I got to my feet. “I hear that his woodcock is firm and moist.”

Cindy smiled tightly.

“John,” Kate said, then turned to our new friends. “Have a good day.”

Grumpy replied, “I’ve made other plans.”

And off they went.

Kate said to me, “A totally mismatched couple.”

“Us or them?”

Grumpy had left a New York Times on the couch, and I scanned the front page. One headline read: U.S./FRENCH SPLIT ON IRAQ DEEPENS. I said to Kate, “See? If these people ate real food like the Irish and the English, they’d have some balls. Who eats snails? Here’s another story-a fireworks display at Disneyland outside of Paris caused the nearby French Army garrison to drop their weapons and surrender to a busload of Swedish tourists.”

“John, it’s really too early for this.”

“Woodcock.” I read the main headline, which said: BUSH TIES BOMBING AT BALI NIGHTCLUB TO QAEDA NETWORK. I scanned the story and saw that “Some Islamic militants were pressing a theory that the United States had masterminded the Saturday attack as a means to manipulate the Indonesian government and to strengthen its argument for a war against Islam.”

The Islamic militants had said the same thing about the 9/11 attacks. It was an interesting theory, with just enough plausibility to make some people wonder. I mean, I’m not a conspiracy nut, but I could imagine that there were people in this country, in and out of the government, who wanted an excuse to widen the war against terrorism to include certain Islamic countries. Like Iraq. I thought of something that one of the spookier CIA guys at the ATTF once said: What we need is one more good attack.

I think I can do without that, thank you, but I got what he was saying.

Kate said to me, “I’m going to the room to shower. What are you doing?”

I looked at my cell phone and saw I had no service. “I need to call Schaeffer to set up an appointment to see the crime scene, so I’ll use the kitchen phone. See you in the room.”

“Be nice to Pierre.”

“Oui, oui.”

She left, and I went into the kitchen. The place was bustling, and no one seemed to notice or care that I was there, so I found the phone, which was on the wall, and dialed the state trooper headquarters. I got the desk sergeant, who put me on hold. The kitchen smelled of frying pork products, and my stomach grumbled.

I opened the Times to the obit page, but I didn’t see Harry Muller. It might be too soon for an obituary, or maybe it wouldn’t run in the Times. I scanned the Metro section to see if there was a story about Harry’s death, but I didn’t see anything. An upstate hunting accident wasn’t exactly news, but the murder of a Federal agent was.

Therefore, the FBI and local police would issue a joint statement saying the death was an apparent accident but was still under investigation. Any news organization that called for further information would be asked to hold the story so as not to upset the family and/or tip off a possible suspect. You could usually buy a few days with that.

A waitress walked by, and I said to her, “Do me a favor and check on the breakfast for Corey. Mohawk Room. I could really use a bacon sandwich on rye.”

“Now?”

“Please. With coffee.”

She hurried off, and Major Schaeffer came on the line. “Morning.”

I could barely hear him over the sounds of the kitchen noise, and I said loudly, “Good morning. What’s a good time to go out to the crime scene?”

“Be here at eight. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“Thanks. Anything new?”

“I spoke to Dr. Gleason last night.”

“Nice lady.”

“She said you went a little beyond identifying the body and paying last respects.”

“I told you, she showed us the signs of physical abuse.”

“Yeah? Did you handle any of the personal effects?”

“Absolutely not.” All of them.

He asked, “Find anything, Detective?”

“No.” Just the writing in Harry’s pocket and the cell-phone calls.

“Remove anything?”

“No.” Just the map of the Custer Hill property.

“My troopers say that you and your wife never signed in or out.”

“Tell you what, Major, why don’t you and I go to the morgue after the crime scene?”

“Too late. The Feds snatched the body last night.”

“I told you. You gotta act fast.”

“Thank you.”

The waitress put a tray on the counter and said, “Your breakfast will be delivered at seven.”

“Thanks. Add some of those biscuits that just came out of the oven.”

Schaeffer asked, “How’s The Point?”

“Great. All the booze is free. How are we doing with the search warrant and surveillance?” I took a big bite of the bacon sandwich. Heaven.

“Forget the search warrant for now. But I did begin the surveillance last night.”

“Anything?”

“Yeah. At eight-oh-three P.M., two vehicles left the subject property. One was a Ford van registered to the Custer Hill Club. The other was a Ford Taurus registered to Enterprise Rent-A-Car.”

I washed down the bacon with coffee and asked, “Where’d they go?”

“They went to Adirondack Regional Airport. The commercial terminal is closed at that hour, and they left the Taurus in an Enterprise spot and put the keys in a drop slot, then both drivers-two males-got in the van and returned to the Custer Hill Club.”

“What do you make of that?”

“Looks suspiciously like they were returning a rental car. What do you think?”

Major Schaeffer had a wry sense of humor. I said, “Check the trunk for a body. What was the plate number on the Taurus?”

“I don’t have it in front of me.” Which was his polite way of saying, “What have you done for me lately?”

I said, “I saw a blue Enterprise Taurus at the Custer Hill lodge when I was there.” I gave him the plate number from memory and asked, “Is that it?”

“Sounds like it. I’ll call Enterprise and find out who rented that car.”

I thought I probably had that information from Kate’s friend Larry at Enterprise, but I said, “Good. Anything else from the surveillance?”

“No. What are we looking for?”

“You never know. But I’d like to know that Madox is still on the property.”

“Okay.”

“So, someone needs to call me anytime you see any activity-hold on.” Some kid in a dopey psychedelic chef’s outfit was trying to get my attention. I asked him, “What do you need?”

“I need to use the phone. I have to place an order.”

“What do you have to order? Woodcock? I’m on top of the woodcocks. How many do you need?”

“I need the phone, sir.”

“Hey, I’m trying to save the world here, pal. Hold on.” I said to Schaeffer, “I’m using the kitchen phone. I’ll see you at eight.”

I hit the cradle and handed the phone to the chef. “If the world comes to an end, it’s your fault.”

A handsome guy in tailored whites, whom I just knew was the French chef, came up to me and extended his hand. “Good morning,” he said in an accent. We shook. “You are, of course, Mr. Corey.”

“Oui.”

“Ah, you speak French.”

“Oui.”

“Bon. I am Henri, the head chef, and I must apologize profusely for the pigs-in-the-blanket.”

He got the pronunciation right, if not the recipe. I said, “Hey, don’t worry about it, Henry.”

“But I do. So, for you, I have ordered the ingredients, and tonight, we serve the pigs for the cocktail hour.”

“Terrific. I like the crust a little brown.”

“Yes, of course.” He leaned toward me and whispered, “I, too, like these little things.”

I was sure by now that he was pulling my chain, and I said, “I won’t tell. Okay, don’t forget the mustard. See you later.”

“May I show you my kitchen?”

I looked around. “Looks good.”

“You are welcome to place any special order for any meal.”

“Great. I’ve been thinking about woodcock lately.”

“Ah, amazing. Tonight is woodcock.”

“You don’t say? Well, hell, I ought to play the lottery today.”

“Yes? Oh, I understand.”

I looked at my watch and said, “Well, I-”

“A moment…” He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and said, “Here is the menu for this evening.” He read, “We begin with a ragout of forest mushrooms, followed by a crisp filet of arctic char, served with peppernade and beurre rouge. I think, perhaps, a California chardonnay with that. Yes? Then, the woodcock, which I will serve with an étuvée of local vegetables, and a port wine jus. I am considering a French cabernet sauvignon with the woodcock. What do you think? Mr. Corey?”

“Uh… sounds like a crowd-pleaser.”

“Good. And we end with an exploration of chocolate.”

“Perfect ending.”

“With a sauterne, of course.”

“Goes without saying. Okay-”

“Will you and your wife be joining us for lunch?”

“No, we have to be at a chipmunk race. Thanks for-”

“Well, I must pack for you a picnic lunch. When are you leaving?”

“Twenty minutes. Don’t bother-”

“I insist. You will find a picnic hamper in your car.” He extended his hand, we shook, and he said, “We may have our differences, but we can remain amis. Yes?”

Well, jeez, I was really feeling bad now about my anti-French attitude, so I said, “Together, we can kick some Iraqi ass. Right?”

Henry wasn’t sure about that, but he smiled. “Perhaps.”

“Can do. See you later.”

As I made my way out of the kitchen, I heard Henry barking orders for a picnic lunch. Hold the snails, Henry.

I got back to the room and said to Kate, who was in front of the vanity fussing with makeup, “We have to move fast. State police H.Q. at eight.”

“Breakfast is on the table. What did Major Schaeffer say?”

“I’ll tell you on the way. Where’s your briefcase?”

“Under the bed.”

I reached under the bed, pulled out her briefcase, and began flipping through the stack of Enterprise rental agreements as I stood at the table and uncovered the basket of hot biscuits.

“What are you looking for?”

“Butter.”

“John-”

“Ah, here it is.”

“What?”

“The Enterprise rental agreement with the plate number of the car we saw at the Custer Hill Club.” I put the agreement on the table and buttered a biscuit.

“Who rented the car?”

“This may be interesting…”

“What?”

“This guy’s name. It’s Russian. Mikhail Putyov.”

She thought about that. “Doesn’t sound like a member of the club to me.”

“Me, neither. Maybe Madox invites old Cold War enemies to the club to reminisce.” Still standing, I dug into the omelet and asked Kate, “Do you want breakfast, or do you want to keep painting?”

No reply.

“We have to get going.”

No reply.

“Sweetheart, can I bring you your juice, coffee, and a piece of toast?”

“Yes, please.”

I’m not that well trained yet, but I’m learning. I brought her juice, buttered toast, and coffee to the vanity table and asked, “Do you have cell service?”

“No.”

“I need to make another call from the kitchen.”

“Who are you calling?”

“Someone who can get a make on this Russian guy.”

“Call our office.”

“I’d rather not.”

She informed me, “We’re already in trouble, John. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Here’s the way the world works. Information is power. If you give away your information, you give away your power to negotiate the trouble you’re in.”

“Here’s the way my world works,” Kate replied. “Stay out of trouble.”

“I think it’s too late for that, sweetheart.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Iwent back into the Great Hall, where about a dozen people, including Cindy and Sonny, were now scattered around the two tables having breakfast. Cindy smiled and waved. Sonny was looking for Kate.

I re-entered the kitchen, and the same kid was on the phone again, placing another order. I said to him, “Henry wants to see you. Now.”

“Huh?”

“I need the phone. Now.”

He got sulky on me but hung up, then stomped off. Young people need to learn patience and respect for others.

I got the number I needed from my cell-phone directory and dialed.

A familiar voice answered, “Kearns Investigative Service.”

I said, “I think my dog is an Iraqi spy. Can you do a background check on him?”

“Who is-? Corey?”

“Hey, Dick. I got this French poodle who every Friday night turns toward Mecca and starts howling.”

He laughed and said, “Shoot the dog. Hey, how you been?”

“Great. You?”

“Terrific. Where’re you calling from? What’s The Point?”

“The point of what? Oh, it’s the place I’m staying at. Saranac Lake.”

“Vacation?”

“Job. How’s Mo?”

“Crazy as ever. How’s Kate?”

“Great. We’re working this together.”

We made polite small talk for a minute. Dick Kearns is former NYPD homicide, part of my Blue Network, which I noticed was getting smaller every year as guys retired and moved, or died natural deaths-or, like Dom Fanelli and six other guys I knew, died in the line of duty on 9/11.

Dick was also briefly assigned to the ATTF, where he’d gotten a top secret clearance and learned how the Feds worked, so when he retired he got a gig doing background checks for the FBI on a freelance basis. He’s in a growth industry since 9/11, and he’s making more money than he ever did as a cop with half the stress. Good for Dick.

The small talk out of the way, I said to him, “Dick, I need some info on a guy.”

“Okay, but I’m up to my ears in work. I’ll do what I can. When do you need it?”

“Noon.”

He laughed. “I have ten background checks I’m doing for the FBI, and they’re all late.”

“Give them all top secret clearances and send the bill. Look, for now, I just need some public-record stuff and maybe a few phone calls to follow up.”

“Noon?”

I noticed that some of the staff seemed interested in my conversation, so I lowered my voice and said to Dick, “It may be a matter of national security.”

“And you’re calling me? Why don’t you have your own office do it?”

“I asked, and they referred me to you. You’re the best.”

“John, are you sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong again?”

Apparently, Dick remembered that he’d helped me, unofficially, with the TWA 800 case, and now he thought I was up to my old tricks again. I was, but why trouble him with that? I said, “I’ll owe you a big favor.”

“You owe me from the last time. Hey, whatever happened with that TWA 800 thing?”

“Nothing. You ready to copy?”

“John, I do this for a living. If I help you, I could go broke, get fired, or get arrested.”

“First name, Mikhail.” I spelled it.

He sighed, spelled it back to me, and asked, “Russki?”

“Probably. Last name, Putyov.” I spelled it, and he confirmed.

“I hope you’ve got more than that.”

“I’m going to make this easy for you. I’ve got a car-rental agreement, and unless this guy used false ID, I’ve got all you need.”

“Good. Let’s have it.”

I read him all the pertinent information from the Enterprise rental agreement, including Putyov’s address, which was Cambridge, Massachusetts. Dick said, “Okay, this should be easy. What’s this guy up to? What is your area of interest?”

“I don’t know what he’s up to, but I think I need to know what he does for a living.”

“That comes with the basic package. Where do I send my bill?”

“To my ex-wife.” Dick didn’t need any more reason to do this other than to help a former brother in blue, but to make sure he was motivated beyond the national security angle, I said to him, “Do you remember a guy I work with at 26 Fed-Harry Muller?”

“Yeah… retired from the job… you mentioned him.”

“Right. Well, he’s dead. Died up here, around Saranac Lake. You may see an obit or a piece in the papers, and the story may say he was killed in a hunting accident. But he was murdered.”

“Jeez… Harry Muller? What happened?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.”

“And this Russian guy is involved?”

“He’s involved with the guy who I think did the murder.”

“Okay… so… noon, right? How do I reach you?”

“Bad cell reception here. I’ll call you. Be reachable.”

“Absolutely.”

“Thanks. Best to Mo.”

“Hello to Kate.”

I hung up and left the kitchen. I needed to find a better place to run this operation.

I made my way out of the Great Hall, into the rotunda, then out the door, where I saw my car with Kate at the wheel.

I jumped in the passenger seat and said, “Okay, we’ll know something about Mikhail Putyov by noon.”

She put the Taurus in gear and off we went.

I looked at the dashboard clock. “Do you think we can get there in thirty minutes?”

“That’s why I’m driving, John.”

“Do I need to remind you of your sheer panic in Manhattan traffic?”

“I don’t panic… I practice tactical evasion techniques.”

“So does everyone around you.”

“Very funny. Hey, what’s in the backseat?”

I glanced over my shoulder. “Oh, I thought ahead and had the chef pack us a picnic lunch.”

“Good thinking. Did you meet him?”

“I did. Henry. Henri. Whatever.”

“Were you awful?”

“Of course not. He’s doing pigs-in-the-blanket during cocktails. Just for me.”

I don’t think she believed me.

We passed through the gates, down the narrow, tree-lined lane, and turned onto the road. Kate gassed it, and we were off to see the state police unless they saw us first and pulled us over for reckless driving.

Kate inquired, “Anything new with Major Schaeffer?”

“There is. He took my advice and began surveillance on the Custer Hill property.”

“And?”

“And, that Enterprise rental car we saw there, which was Putyov’s, was returned last night to the airport.”

“So, Putyov’s gone?”

“If he is, he didn’t leave last night from the airport. He… or maybe it was someone else driving his car… went back to the Custer Hill Club in a van.” As she drove, I filled her in, then took the rental agreement from my pocket and perused it. I said, “This guy Putyov rented the car Sunday morning. That means he flew in that day on the flight from Boston or Albany-”

“Boston,” she said. “I checked the flight manifests. Mikhail Putyov arrived at Adirondack Regional Airport, Lake Saranac, at nine twenty-five A.M. Sunday.”

“Right. He lives in Cambridge.” I glanced at the rental agreement. “Putyov rented the car for two days, so he was supposed to turn it in today. Instead, it was returned to the airport parking lot last night.” I asked her, “Did you check the flight reservations we got from Betty?”

“I did. Putyov is scheduled to depart today on the twelve forty-five to Boston.”

“Okay. We’ll check that out.” I thought a moment, then said, “I’m wondering why Putyov came in for this gathering later than the others, and why he is apparently still there after everyone else has left.”

“That depends on why he’s there. Maybe he has oil business with Madox.”

“Mr. Madox is a busy man. And a multi-tasker. A social weekend with old and powerful friends, then he murders a Federal agent, then he winds up the weekend with a Russian from Cambridge, Massachusetts. I don’t know how he fit us into his schedule.”

Kate commented, “I don’t think Harry was part of his weekend plans.”

But he may have been.

We headed east on Route 86, and Kate seemed to be having fun passing in the oncoming lane as huge trucks hurtled toward us. I said, “Slow down.”

“I can’t. The gas pedal’s stuck, and the brakes are gone. So just close your eyes and get some sleep.”

Kate, raised in a rural area, has a lot of these stupid on-the-road jokes, none of which I find funny.

I kept my eyes open and stared out the windshield.

Kate said to me, “I need to call John Nasseff. Do you know him?”

“No, but he has a nice first name.”

“He’s NCID, attached to the ATTF.”

I replied, “W-H-A-T?”

“Naval Criminal Investigation Division, John. He’s a commo guy.”

“Ask him about my cell phone.”

She ignored that and continued, “I was thinking about Fred, the Navy veteran. So, if that clue has any relevance at all, then we should ask a Navy commo guy about ELF and see if we hit on something.”

I wasn’t sure I was completely following this line of reasoning, but Kate might be onto something. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be calling 26 Federal Plaza with questions like that. I said, “I’d rather not call our office.”

“Why not? That’s where we work.”

“Yeah, but you know how everyone there gossips.”

“They don’t gossip. They exchange and provide information. Information is power. Right?”

“Only when you keep it to yourself. Let’s just go online and learn about ELF.”

“You go online. I’m calling the expert.”

“Okay… but make it like a parlor game, like, ‘Hey, John, we have this bet going about extremely low frequency radio waves. My sister says they can hard-boil an egg, my husband says they’ll fry your brain.’ Okay?”

“Do you want him to think we’re idiots?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not as good as you are at playing stupid.”

“Then I’ll call him.”

“We’ll both call him.”

We arrived in the hamlet of Ray Brook, and Kate slowed down. About two blinks later, we pulled into the parking lot of the state police headquarters. It was 8:05 A.M.

Kate took her briefcase, and we got out of the Taurus and started walking toward the building, but a car suddenly pulled out of a parking space and stopped right in front of us.

I wasn’t sure what that was about, but I was on my guard.

The driver’s-side window went down, and Hank Schaeffer stuck his head out. “Jump in.”

We got in his car, an unmarked Crown Victoria, I in the front, Kate in the back.

I wondered why he was waiting for us in the parking lot instead of the lobby, but he clarified the situation by saying, “I have company this morning.”

I didn’t need to ask.

He pulled onto the road and said, “Six of them. Three from the New York field office, two from Washington, and one from your shop.”

I said, “They’re from the government, and they’re here to help you.”

“They’re helping themselves to my files.”

Kate, in the back, said, “Excuse me. I’m FBI.”

I turned to her. “We’re not criticizing the FBI, darling.”

No reply.

I asked Schaeffer, “Who’s here from the ATTF?”

“Guy named Liam Griffith. Know him?”

“Indeed. He’s from the Office of Professional Responsibility.”

“What the hell is that?”

“That’s Fed talk for Internal Affairs.”

“Really? Well, he’s looking for both of you.”

I glanced back at Kate, who seemed a little upset.

Some people called Liam Griffith the Enforcer, but the younger guys who’d seen The Matrix too many times called him the Agent in Black. I called him a prick.

I recalled that Griffith was supposed to be at that meeting in Windows on the World, but he’d been either late or uninvited. In any case, he’d escaped the fate of everyone who’d been there that morning.

Also, I’d had a few run-ins with Mr. Griffith during the TWA 800 case, and my last words to him in the bar at Ecco’s had been, “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

He took my suggestion, though he didn’t take it well.

Now, he was back.

Kate asked Schaeffer, “What did you tell him?”

“I told him you’d probably stop in today. He said he’d like to see you both when you arrive.” He added, “I figured you’d want to postpone that.”

I said to Schaeffer, “Thanks.”

He didn’t acknowledge that. “Your boss, Tom Walsh, called right after you left. He asked what we discussed, and I referred him to you.”

I replied, “Good. I referred him to you. Did you tell him we were staying at The Point?”

“No. Why?”

I glanced back at Kate, then said to Schaeffer, “Well, he left a message for us there.”

Schaeffer reiterated, “I didn’t mention it.”

Maybe, I thought, the FBI guys from the city, or Liam Griffith, had interviewed my friend Max at Hertz. I asked Schaeffer, “Did Walsh say we were assigned to this case?”

“No. But neither did he say that Griffith was here to pull you off the case. But I think he is.”

If Kate and I could speak freely now, we’d probably agree that basically we’d been screwed by Tom Walsh. In fact, I couldn’t keep that in, and I said to Kate, “Tom reneged on our deal.”

She responded, “We don’t know that… Maybe Liam Griffith just wants to… make us understand the terms of our assignment here.”

I replied, “I don’t think that’s why Walsh called the Office of Professional Responsibility, or why Griffith would fly here.”

She didn’t answer, but Schaeffer said, “Last I heard, you had seven days to crack the case, and until I hear otherwise, you’re the investigating team.”

“Correct,” I said.

Meanwhile, I needed to keep one step ahead of Liam Griffith.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Less than an hour after we’d left Ray Brook, we turned off Route 56 at Stark Road.

Our cell phones and beepers had been unusually quiet all morning, which would have been a real treat if it wasn’t so ominous.

In fact, our usual phone pal, Tom Walsh, was lying low now that the Enforcer, Liam Griffith, was on the prowl. At this point, Walsh and Griffith had chatted a few times, speculating as to the whereabouts of Detective Corey and Special Agent Mayfield, a.k.a. the renegade agents.

I was certain that Griffith had assured Walsh that the miscreants would be along shortly, and that before they got halfway across the lobby of state police headquarters, they’d be in his custody and headed out to the airport, where an FBI helicopter was waiting to take them back to Manhattan.

Well, that wasn’t going to happen.

I shut off my cell phone and beeper and motioned for Kate to do the same.

Schaeffer took the same route that Rudy had given us, and within fifteen minutes, we were at the T-intersection where McCuen Pond Road ran north to the Custer Hill Club gatehouse.

Close to the intersection, I saw an orange pickup truck with a state seal on the door parked on the shoulder. Two men in coveralls were clearing brush.

Schaeffer slowed down and said to us, “State police.”

He stopped, and the two guys recognized the boss and came up to the car. They looked like they wanted to salute, but they were undercover, so they just nodded and said, “Good morning, Major.”

Schaeffer asked, “Any activity?”

One of them replied, “No, sir. Nothing going in or out. Quiet.”

He joked, “Don’t work too hard. That’ll blow your civil service cover.”

Both troopers got off good laughs for the boss, and we moved on.

Schaeffer said to us, “If they see a vehicle coming from Custer Hill and turning toward Route 56, they’ll radio to an unmarked vehicle who’ll pick up the subject vehicle on the highway, as we did last night with the Custer Hill van and the Enterprise car. If the subject vehicle turns this way, into the woods, then the truck here will follow.”

Major Schaeffer continued, “Last night, we used a truck from the power company. In a day or so, we’re going to run out of excuses to be at that intersection in the middle of the woods.”

I asked, “Do you think anyone from the Custer Hill property is even aware of these vehicles?”

“Absolutely. My guys say the Custer Hill security people run a Jeep out to this road at least twice a day, look around, then go back. Sort of like a perimeter recon.”

I said, “Bain Madox was an infantry officer.”

“I know that. And he knows he has to recon outside his perimeter.”

Madox was also paranoid, which was useful when people really were after you.

We continued down the logging road, and Kate said, “John, I see what you meant about Harry’s surveillance. It could have been done off the property, back there where Major Schaeffer has his team.”

“Right. One way in, one way out.” And for those guests arriving in the Custer Hill van from the airport, there should have been a stakeout at the airport to see who arrived on the Boston and Albany flights and who went into the van.

Instead, Walsh sent Harry, alone, onto the property.

This was either a badly conceived surveillance, done on a shoestring budget, or something else. Like someone wanted Harry Muller caught. Well, not Harry specifically, but any ATTF cop who got handed this assignment to check out so-called domestic terrorism. Like me, for instance.

As interesting as this thought was, it didn’t make much sense. I should just put this under one of the usual categories of piss-poor planning, desk-chair stupidity, or my bad habit of Monday morning quarterbacking.

Schaeffer broke into my thoughts. “I wouldn’t dream of criticizing how you people run your assignments, but your friend never had much of a chance to accomplish this surveillance on the property.”

Neither Kate nor I replied, and Schaeffer continued, “If you’d contacted me, I’d have given you the lay of the land, offered some manpower, and advice.”

I said, “Sometimes, the Feds can be a little arrogant and secretive.”

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

To change the subject while also taking Schaeffer’s advice about using his services, I asked him, “Did you locate Fred?”

“Who? Oh, the Navy veteran. Not yet. I’ll ask around.”

Apparently, Major Schaeffer hadn’t spent too much time on locating Fred the vet. Also, I’m sure he didn’t think it was too important. Neither did I, until Kate suggested calling the ATTF Navy commo guy about ELF. You just never know what’s going to lead to something, or what might connect two points that weren’t even on the same page.

We turned onto a dirt trail that was just wide enough for the car. Schaeffer said, “This is the trail where we found the body a mile or so from here, then we found the camper about three miles further.” He added, “It’s almost six miles from the camper to the perimeter fence of Custer Hill. About an hour-and-a-half hike.”

Neither Kate nor I responded.

Major Schaeffer continued, “So, you’re thinking that Harry Muller originally parked the camper much closer, and that he entered the property about eight A.M. Saturday morning, got picked up by the Custer Hill security, then somewhere along the line he was forcefully interrogated, then maybe drugged, and he and his camper were moved onto this trail, where he was murdered, and his camper was driven a few more miles up the trail. Is that about it?”

I replied, “That’s about it.”

Schaeffer nodded and said, “Could’ve happened that way.” He asked me, or himself, “But why in the name of God would they murder a Federal agent?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out.”

Kate asked, “Has anyone else had a hunting accident on or around this trail, or near the Custer Hill property?”

Schaeffer kept his eyes on the narrow trail and replied, “I’ve been thinking about that since Detective Corey brought it up yesterday, so I asked around and the answer is yes, about twenty years ago when the Custer Hill property was being developed.” He informed us, “It happened about five miles north of the property. One of my old-timers remembered it.”

Kate asked, “What was the outcome?”

“Hunting accident, shooter unknown.”

“And the victim?”

“Never identified.” He briefed us, “Male, about forty, clean shaven, well nourished, and so forth. Single shot to the head. It was summer, and the victim was wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and hiking boots. No ID, the body was at least two weeks dead when discovered, and some animals had gotten to it. Facial photos were taken but not shown to the general public for obvious reasons. Fingerprints were recovered, but not good ones, and they were unmatchable to any data banks that existed at the time.”

Kate pointed out, “Isn’t that a little suspicious? I mean, single shot to the head, no ID, no one reported missing, and I assume no vehicle turned up in the area.”

“Well, yeah. It’s suspicious. But according to my guy who remembered it, there was not a single clue or evidence of foul play, so, to make things simple, the sheriff and the coroner ruled it an accident, awaiting any information to the contrary.” He added, “We’re still waiting.” He paused, then said, “Even now, with this apparent homicide, I wouldn’t try to connect that death to the Custer Hill Club, which wasn’t even occupied at the time.”

I said to him, “Run the fingerprints again.”

We drove on in silence. I thought, of course, there could very well be a connection. The victim, if he had been murdered, could be some hiker who saw something he wasn’t supposed to see at the Custer Hill construction site-or maybe it was some guy working on the Custer Hill project who saw or knew too much about something. Like ELF. Or something else.

I didn’t want to start making Bain Madox into this evil genius who was responsible for everything that went wrong in the world for the last twenty years-floods, famine, war, plague, earthquakes, my extra ten pounds, and my divorce. But this guy certainly fit the part of some sort of global manipulator. I mean, the rule is, If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it’s a duck.

Then, I kill the duck.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Major Schaeffer pulled off the trail onto a recently cleared patch of ground, explaining, “We needed to widen the trail here for a turnaround.”

We got out and followed him another twenty yards to where an area was staked out with yellow tape. On the trail itself, they’d used Day-Glo orange to spray paint an outline of Harry’s body. In the center of the outline was a blue jay, pecking the ground.

The sun was higher now, and light penetrated the trees and lit up the pleasant woodland trail. Birds were chirping, and squirrels scampered through the trees, dropping acorn husks. A soft breeze rustled the fall leaves, which floated down in a constant flurry. Now it is autumn and the falling fruit…

There’s no good place to die, but I suppose if you didn’t die in your own bed, this was as good a place as any.

On the other side of the taped-off area, I saw a state police SUV on the trail.

Schaeffer said, “Those guys came in from the other direction. They’re still looking for a shell casing, but whoever did this did not leave a casing or anything else behind. And we still haven’t found the bullet that passed through the victim’s body.”

I nodded. Assuming the murder weapon was a high-velocity rifle, the chances of finding the bullet in the woods were not good. In fact, there were many spent bullets in the woods, and there was no way that any of them could be identified as the bullet that killed the victim. Even a ballistics match on one of Madox’s rifles wouldn’t prove anything except that Madox, or a guest, had once gone hunting in the woods. Bottom line-the woods were a good place to commit murder.

Schaeffer continued, “We’re keeping the tape out at fifty feet for now, but I’m going to pull it tighter today, then by tomorrow, there’s no reason to keep this as a pristine crime scene.” He informed us, “Rain forecast for tomorrow.” He added, “I think we and the CSI team did all we could. There’s nothing here.”

Again I nodded, as I kept staring at the Day-Glo orange outline. The blue jay had been joined by its mate.

Schaeffer said, “If you look up the trail, you’ll see that it’s fairly straight, so it’s hard to imagine a hunter on this trail mistaking a man for a deer. And if the hunter was in the woods, it would take a miracle shot to pass through all these trees without hitting one of them.”

“Right,” I agreed. “Looks like murder.”

“Unfortunately, other than the near impossibility of this being an accident, we don’t have a shred of evidence that it was murder.” He reminded me, “There was no robbery, and the victim had no local ties that might lead to a grudge killing, which sometimes happens up here.”

I didn’t reply. Major Schaeffer obviously suspected that Harry’s assignment was linked to his death, and that the murderer was Bain Madox, but he wasn’t going to take that step until he had a good piece of evidence.

Schaeffer asked us, “Do you want to see the photos?”

I didn’t, but I said, “Please.”

He took a stack of color photos from his overcoat pocket and handed them to me. I flipped through them as Kate stood beside me.

Harry had fallen face-first, as I already knew, and his arms were thrown out from his sides by the impact of the bullet, as shown in the spray-painted outline on the trail.

I could barely see the entry wound in the center of his back, but close-ups revealed a bloodstain in the center of his camouflage jacket.

I stared at a close-up that showed the left side of Harry’s face with his eyes open.

I could see the leather strap around his neck that was connected to the binoculars, which had landed clear of his body and were lying close to his left shoulder, near his face.

I asked Major Schaeffer, “Was that the position of the binoculars when you found the body?”

“Yes. These are the photos that were taken before we touched or moved anything.” He added, “It may be that he was holding or looking through the binoculars when he was shot, which I think is why they’re clear of the body and not under his chest. Or, the impact of the round hitting the body just caused the binoculars to swing on their strap away from the body before it hit the ground.”

Possible, but not probable. First, Harry was not looking through his binoculars before he’d been murdered by the people who brought him here. Second, the laws of physics would suggest that the binoculars would swing back to their original position, hanging on Harry’s chest, before his body hit the ground. But that was not a certainty.

Major Schaeffer continued, “You saw his personal effects laid out in the morgue, and his video camera was found in the right pouch pocket of his jacket, the camera in his left. In the right cargo pocket of his pants was the bird guide and in the left was the pair of wire cutters.”

Major Schaeffer, referring to his notebook, recited the inventory of what was found-key chain, wallet, Glock, credentials, and so forth, and where it was found on the body.

As Schaeffer spoke, I tried to reconstruct how Madox had done this, and I concluded that he’d needed at least one accomplice-probably Carl and maybe someone else, though I doubted that Madox wanted two witnesses to this.

Harry had been drugged, and his ankles had been shackled. They’d put him in the sleeping compartment of the camper and driven him out here. There could have been a second vehicle for a getaway.

Assuming, then, that Madox did not want more than one accomplice, and assuming that Harry was drugged and nearly comatose, Madox was then presented with the problem of how to stand Harry upright so he could be shot in the back as though he’d been walking.

One man could not hold a drugged man upright while the other fired, so the solution was to put Harry on his knees, while Carl-or Madox-held the binoculars and strap tightly around Harry’s neck to keep him in the kneeling position. Then, the shooter knelt and put a bullet through Harry’s spine and heart.

The accomplice let go of the binoculars as Harry was falling forward, and the binoculars ended up where I saw them in the photo. Then, one or both men unshackled Harry’s ankles and moved his arms and legs to simulate the position of a body being hit by a high-velocity bullet and falling forward from a standing position. Then, probably, they’d brushed the trail with pine boughs. The only thing they’d forgotten was that the binoculars would most probably have ended up under the body, and may also have been damaged by the round passing through the body and out the chest.

Otherwise, they did a good job, if I could use that word for a cold-blooded murder.

Schaeffer asked us, “Do you want to see the camper?”

I nodded and handed the photos back to him.

He led us around the yellow tape and through the woods.

We came out on the trail again near the SUV, where the police had also widened the trail for a turnaround. Schaeffer got one of his troopers to drive us the three miles up the trail to where the camper sat parked in a small clearing.

We got out, and I looked at Harry’s camper, which I’d never seen before. It was an old Chevy pickup, fitted with a sleeper on the truck bed. Old as it was, it seemed as if it had been kept meticulously clean and in good repair.

Schaeffer said, “We dusted it for prints, did some vacuuming, and got some dirt samples out of the tire treads. This afternoon, we’ll tow it out of here to the highway, put it on a flatbed, and send it to the forensic garage in Albany for a thorough going-over. Obviously, we’re looking for evidence of other people being in the vehicle.”

I said to him, “Sounds like you think it was premeditated murder.”

“Let’s assume it was.”

I pictured Harry drugged and bound in the rear sleeping compartment, and someone, maybe Carl, at the wheel. Driving in front of the camper was Madox in one of his vehicles: a Jeep, a van, or an all-terrain vehicle.

I asked Schaeffer about tire marks on the trail, and he replied, “As you can see, this is hard-packed earth, plus it hasn’t rained in two weeks, and then you have all these leaves and pine boughs on the trail. So, no, we didn’t get any good tire marks.”

Kate asked, “Did the dusting indicate that any surfaces had been wiped clean?”

“No. When you have premeditation, you have gloves. We might get some interesting clothing fibers, but again, with premeditation and smarts, the perpetrators would burn whatever they wore.” He added, “There’s an open Coke can in the beverage holder, and we’ll do a DNA on that, but I don’t think our perps were drinking Coke. If we recover DNA, it will probably be Harry’s.”

Schaeffer looked around at the clearing, then down the trail, and said, “Okay, so here’s the camper. What I’m thinking is that there were at least two perpetrators, and two vehicles-the camper and the getaway vehicle-though, as I said, there were no distinct tire marks. They stopped back there, shot the victim, then got back in the vehicles and continued on, putting some distance between themselves and the scene of the crime.”

Kate and I nodded, and Schaeffer continued, “If they were locals, they knew about this clearing where a lot of campers and hikers pull off. Then, if you go another mile up this trail, you reach a paved road. So, one guy parked the camper here where you see it, then got into the getaway vehicle, and within a few minutes, they were making their getaway on the paved road up ahead.”

Major Schaeffer had done a credible job of reconstructing the crime, partly because he’d already had some time on the scene with CSI people putting their heads together, and partly because he had knowledge of the area.

I said to Major Schaeffer, “I assume you have the key to this camper, which was missing from Harry’s key chain in the morgue.”

“I do.” He reminded me, “You said you didn’t handle the evidence in the morgue.”

“Did I say that?” I continued, “I also assume you confirmed that the Chevy truck key you found on the chain was for this camper.”

He looked at me. “We’re not as smart as you city guys, Detective, but we’re not stupid.”

Based on my previous experiences with rural and suburban cops, I realized that statement was long overdue. I said, “Just checking,” then asked, “How do you think the perpetrators moved this camper three miles from where the body and the ignition key were found?”

“They could have hot-wired the camper, towed it with their other vehicle, or even had a duplicate key made before the crime. But the most likely answer is that the victim had a spare key on his person, or in the vehicle.”

“Right.” I told him about the apparently missing spare Chevy key in Harry’s wallet, and asked him, “Did you notice that?”

He didn’t reply directly but informed me, “The absence of a key among other keys is not proof that there was a key.”

“Right… I’m just speculating.”

Actually, this was a detective’s pissing match, which we all do to keep everyone on their toes, which is good for the investigation, not to mention the detectives’ egos.

Kate seemed to sense this and said, “In any case, this was made to appear that Harry left the camper here, and began walking north, toward the Custer Hill Club, and met with an accident three miles from his camper, and about three more miles from the Custer Hill property.” She concluded, “Bottom line, he would not have parked six miles from the surveillance property. Plus, the phone call to his girlfriend at seven forty-eight A.M. indicated he was near the subject property, but that’s not where he was found. Therefore, we have problems with time, distance, logic, and plausibility, which leads us to conclude that what we see here is not what Harry actually did on Saturday morning, but what someone did to him about a day later.”

That pretty much summed it up, and neither Major Schaeffer nor I had anything to add.

So we’d done all we could here, which wasn’t much, but you had to begin at the scene of the crime, then work backward and forward from there.

The trick was not to become process oriented but to remember the goal, which was to find the killer. The good news was that I had a suspect. Bain Madox. And I had a possible accomplice. Carl. But neither of those names was going to appear on the New York state police homicide report.

I asked Schaeffer, “Are the FBI agents in your office coming out here?”

“I asked them, and they said another team would do that-an Evidence Recovery Team. These guys in my office don’t seem particularly interested in the crime scene.”

No, I thought, they were more interested in Bain Madox than Harry Muller. And Liam Griffith was only interested in John Corey and Kate Mayfield.

But for me, it was important that I see where Harry Muller had died, and to think about how he’d died: a helpless, drugged prisoner, a police officer, doing his duty, murdered by a person or persons who didn’t think as much of Harry Muller’s life as they thought of their own self-interests, whatever they were.

I wondered if Bain Madox-assuming it was Madox-had tried to think of another solution to whatever problem Harry Muller posed for him. Surely there must have been a moment when murder was not the best solution, when some other, more clever course of action would have solved whatever problem Madox had with Harry Muller’s appearance at the Custer Hill Club.

Most criminals-from the very stupid to the very clever-don’t understand the forces they put into motion when they decide on murder to solve a problem. The ones who do understand often try to make it look like an accident, suicide, or natural death. And by doing that, they usually leave more clues than if they’d made it look like an everyday murder and robbery.

The best way to cover up a murder is with the complete disappearance of the body, which, along with the crime scene, holds too many clues. But Bain Madox had a unique problem: he needed to get a soon-to-be-dead Federal agent off his property and onto someone else’s property-in this case, state land-where the body could be found before state and local police and Federal agents came around looking for the missing person on Madox’s property. Therefore, Madox had something on his property-other than Harry Muller-that he didn’t want anyone to see.

This, what we saw here, was Madox’s solution, and it wasn’t a bad quick fix. It would not, however, survive a full-blown homicide investigation.

If my other theory was correct, however, then time was all Madox wanted before he became a suspect. This bastard had already lit a fuse, and it was burning faster than it would take to find the bomb.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

We returned to Schaeffer’s car, turned around, and headed back down the trail. No one had much to say.

We were approaching the T-intersection where the undercover state troopers were still hacking away at the brush. Schaeffer stopped and asked them, “Anything to report?”

One of the guys replied, “The black Jeep did a recon ten minutes ago, and the driver asked us what we were doing.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him we were clearing brush and leaves, which are potential fuel sources for forest fires started by careless motorists throwing lit smoking materials out the window.”

“Did he buy it?”

“He seemed skeptical. Said no one had done that before. I told him the risk of forest fires was very high this year.”

“Okay. Tell you what-call Captain Stoner and tell him I want two highway repair crews here filling potholes. Real highway workers, with two troopers along, dressed like road crew and leaning on their shovels like they do.”

The trooper smiled. “Yes, sir.”

“Then you guys take off.”

“Yes, sir.”

Schaeffer continued toward Route 56 and said to us, “I think Madox is on to this surveillance by now.”

I replied, “He’s been on to the fact that he’s under surveillance since Harry Muller got caught on his property Saturday morning.”

Schaeffer pointed out, “We don’t know that Harry Muller got caught on his property.” He inquired, “Why was your friend sent here to gather information on Madox’s guests?”

“I don’t know, and neither did he.” I explained, “I spoke to him before he drove up here.”

Schaeffer probably thought he was going to get some information from us in exchange for saving us from Liam Griffith and taking us to the crime scene. So, to give him something that he should have had anyway, I said, “Harry was also supposed to check out the airport. Flight manifests and car rentals. The Feds will, or have already done that. You should do the same before that information disappears.”

He didn’t reply, so I added, “Kate and I happen to know that some VIPs from Washington arrived at the airport and may have gone to the Custer Hill Club.”

He glanced at me.

When you think you might be pulled from a case because you’re stepping on the wrong toes, you need to pass on the info to someone who might run with it-or at least hold it until they decide what to do with it.

I gave Schaeffer another tip. “You should keep the information about your Custer Hill surveillance to yourself for a while.”

Again, no reply. I think he’d be a little more chatty without an FBI agent in his backseat. But I’d said what I had to say, and I’d repaid him for his favors. What was written in Harry’s pocket was not information that Major Schaeffer needed to know.

Now it was my turn, so I asked Schaeffer, “Do you know this guy Carl? Sort of Madox’s right-hand man, or maybe bodyguard.”

Schaeffer shook his head. “I don’t know anyone at that lodge. As I said, his security people are not local. He has his barracks where he keeps them, and they probably do a week on, then go home, then back for another week or so of duty. As for the house staff, I have the impression they’re not from around here either.”

That was interesting.

“There’s more population north of here, outside the state park, starting with Potsdam, then Massena. In fact, the Canadian border is less than fifty miles from where we are right now, and I know that a lot of Canadians commute to work in the tourist industry here. So, if I was Madox and I wanted staff from out of the area, I’d go whole hog and get them from out of the country so that their gossip was not likely to travel back here.”

I hadn’t met any of the house staff, and I can’t tell an upstate accent from a Canadian accent, anyway. As for the security guys, whatever accent they’d been raised with had been replaced by an affected, clipped, military manner of speaking.

Schaeffer informed us, “I made a call this morning and checked that Enterprise plate number, and the car was rented to a guy named Mikhail Putyov.”

I didn’t reply, so Major Schaeffer said, “Sounds Russian.” He added, “And maybe he’s still at the lodge. No one has left the Custer Hill Club since last night.”

“Right. Aren’t you glad you did that surveillance?”

Major Schaeffer ignored that. “The guy I spoke to at Enterprise said two FBI agents, a man and a woman, came around yesterday and got copies of all his rental agreements. Do you know anything about that?”

I asked evasively, “How did he describe them?”

“He said the guy was hitting on Max, the Hertz lady, and the woman was very pretty.”

“Who could that be?” I wondered aloud, knowing I was in more trouble from the backseat than from Liam Griffith. Thanks, Major.

Kate spoke up. “I guess that was us.”

I asked Schaeffer, “Didn’t I mention that when we spoke?”

“No.”

“Well, I meant to.”

I looked at the dashboard clock and saw it was 10:15 A.M. I said to Major Schaeffer, “By the way, this guy Putyov is booked on the twelve forty-five P.M. flight to Boston. If he’s going to be at the airport one hour before departure, as required, he should be leaving the Custer Hill Club shortly-assuming he’s at the club.”

“How do you know Putyov is booked on the twelve forty-five flight?”

“Didn’t I mention that Kate and I did what Harry was supposed to do at the airport? Flight manifests and car rentals.”

“No, you didn’t.” He reached for his radio.

I said, “Madox’s security guys are certainly monitoring the police band. Use your cell phone.”

He glanced at me, and I couldn’t tell if he was impressed with my brilliance or worried about my paranoia. In any case, he used his cell-phone directory and called his surveillance team. “Anything to report?”

He had the speaker on and the trooper replied, “No, sir.”

“Well, there may be a vehicle coming from the subject property, heading for the airport. Advise our surveillance vehicle on Route 56.”

“Yes, sir.”

Schaeffer hung up and glanced at the dashboard clock, then did what I would have done first and called Continental Airlines at the airport. He got our friend Betty on the line and said, “Betty, this is Hank Schaeffer-”

“Well, how are you?”

“Just fine. And you?”

And so forth. I mean, pleasantries are nice, and it’s sweet that everyone in RFD land knows everyone else and that they’re all related by blood, marriage, or both, but let’s get down to business, folks.

Finally, Major Schaeffer asked her, “Could you do me a favor and see if you’ve got a guy named Putyov”-he spelled it-“on your twelve forty-five flight to Boston?”

Betty replied, “Well, I can tell you without looking it up that we did. But since then, I got a revised manifest out of the company reservations computer, and I saw that he canceled.”

“Did he rebook?”

“Nope.” Then it was Betty’s turn. “Any problem?”

“No, just routine. Call me at the office if this guy Putyov rebooks or shows up. Also, make copies for me of all your flight manifests and reservations for the last six days. I’ll pick them up later.”

“Okay. Hey, you want to hear something? Yesterday, a guy and a lady from the FBI come around, and they want copies of all my flight manifests and reservation sheets. They flew in on an FBI helicopter, so I knew they were for real and they had badges. So I gave them what they asked for.”

Betty went on awhile, then added editorially, “The guy had a real smart mouth, and I gave it right back to him.”

I didn’t recall that I was anything but polite, but even if I was a little smart with her, she hadn’t given it right back to me. Liar.

Major Schaeffer glanced at me and said to Betty, “Well, thanks-”

She interrupted. “What’s happening? This guy said it had something to do with the Winter Olympics.” She laughed. “I told him that was in 1980.” She added, “The lady was nice, and you could see she was kind of fed up with this crackpot. So, what’s this all about?”

“I can’t say right now, but I want you to keep this to yourself.”

“That’s what they said. I would’ve called you, but I didn’t make too much of it at the time. Now, I’m thinking-”

“There’s nothing to be concerned about. Call me if this guy Putyov shows up or rebooks. I’ll see you later. Okay?”

“Okay. You have a good day.”

“You, too.” He hung up, glanced at me, and said, “Well, you heard all that.”

“I was very nice to her. Kate? Wasn’t I nice to Betty?”

No reply.

Schaeffer said, “I meant about Putyov canceling his flight.”

“Right. So, possibly he’s still at the lodge.”

“Yeah. He didn’t rebook.” He informed us, “These are small commuter airplanes, and the few flights we have are usually full. You can’t depend on running out to the airport and finding an empty seat.”

Schaeffer had a lot on his plate now, and a lot on his mind, but he had no idea what was going on beyond a homicide investigation. However, he knew something was going on at Custer Hill that interested the Feds and was not supposed to interest him.

We were approaching Route 56, and I said to Major Schaeffer, “Do us a favor and run us up to Potsdam.”

“Why?”

“We need to… actually, we’re trying to avoid Liam Griffith.”

“No kidding? What’s in it for me?”

“Well, then, just let us out on Route 56. We’ll hitchhike to Potsdam.”

“You might see a bear before you see a car.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m armed.”

“Don’t shoot the bears. I’ll take you.”

“Thanks.” I turned around to speak to Kate, but she looked a little frosty. I said to her, “I’ll buy you lunch in Potsdam.”

No reply.

Then, bigmouthed Schaeffer says, “Max is quite a looker. Funny, too.”

“Who? Oh, the Hertz person.” A little payback from the good major.

We were at the intersection of Route 56, and Schaeffer stopped the car, and asked, “Potsdam?”

I had a sense of déjá vu from when I was at this crossroads yesterday and made the decision to go see Harry at the Potsdam morgue rather than go as ordered to state police headquarters.

Now, we had to decide if we were going to face the music with Griffith before we got deeper into trouble, or go up to Potsdam and hide out.

Schaeffer asked again, “Which way?”

I glanced over my shoulder. “Kate? Potsdam or Liam?”

She replied, “Potsdam.”

Schaeffer turned right and headed north to Potsdam.

It’s tough enough working a homicide investigation when you’re out of your jurisdiction. It’s even tougher when you’re on the lam from the people you’re working for, and your partner is pissed at you, and your prime suspect is a buddy of some guys who work for the president.

How do I get myself into shit like this?

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

We chatted a bit about the case as we drove through the park preserve. When we got to South Colton, I asked Schaeffer, “Do you know Rudy who owns that gas station?”

“Yeah, I remember him from when I used to patrol this area. Why?”

“He’s Madox’s local rat.” I explained my brief association with Ratso Rudy.

Schaeffer nodded, and said, “This guy Madox has a lot more going on here than I realized. But as I said, he never caused us any trouble, and I don’t think he’s here that much. But from now on, I will keep closer tabs on him.”

I thought that there wasn’t going to be much more “from now on,” but I didn’t reply.

Schaeffer arrived at the same thought. “I guess he’s a murder suspect now.”

“Well, I think he is.”

“Do your colleagues in my headquarters think that?”

“I reported our suspicions to Tom Walsh in New York.”

“And what are you two doing in Potsdam?”

I replied, “Just taking a breather.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you go back to The Point?”

“Well, I think Mr. Griffith may be in our room using Kate’s makeup while he waits for us.”

“So, you’re on the run from your own people?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

“No? How would you put it?”

“Let me think about that. Meanwhile, can we be assured that you won’t mention this to anyone?”

“Let me think about that.”

“Because, if we can’t count on your discretion, you may as well take us back to Ray Brook.”

“What’s in this for me?”

“You’d be doing the right thing.”

“When do I know that?”

“Oh… in about two days.”

“Yeah? So, you want me to commit a breach of professional responsibility and not mention to Griffith that I took you to the crime scene, and then to Potsdam?”

“Tell you what, Major. Ask him and the other FBI guys what this is all about. If they give you a straight answer, then send them to Potsdam to find us. Deal?”

“I think you’ll get the best of that deal. But okay. It’s a deal.”

“And I’m going to throw in the keys to my Hertz car, which you may want to move out of your parking lot on the off chance that the FBI practices good police procedure and goes through the lot looking for our rental car.” I gave him the keys and said, “There’s a picnic lunch from The Point in the backseat, and it’s yours.”

“This deal is getting better. What’s for lunch?”

“Probably snails. Also, if you want to cover your tracks a little with the FBI, you should call The Point and ask for us.”

Major Schaeffer observed, “You’d make a good fugitive.”

Actually, that’s what we were at the moment, but there was no reason to remind him of that.

We were on the outskirts of Potsdam now, and Schaeffer asked, “Where do you want to go?”

“Just drop us off at a subway station.”

I wasn’t sure if Major Schaeffer appreciated or got my humor, but he said, “I guess you need a car.”

“Good idea. Is there a rental place around here?”

“There’s an Enterprise.”

I waited for the rest of the list, but that seemed to be it.

We went through the center of town, then continued up Route 56, past the hospital where we’d seen Harry, and a few minutes later, we arrived at Enterprise Rent-A-Car.

Major Schaeffer parked near the rental office and said to us, “I don’t know why you want to avoid Griffith, or what kind of trouble you’re in. But if it wasn’t for the fact that you lost a friend and partner here, and that your colleagues are freezing me out, I wouldn’t be sticking my neck out for you.”

I replied, “We appreciate that. Your instincts are good.”

“Yeah? Well, I want you to prove to me that they are.”

“We’ll keep you informed.”

“That would be nice for a change.” He said to us, “Okay, I’m going to tell Griffith that I met you at the crime scene and that I delivered his message to you.”

I reminded him, “Get rid of our rental car.”

“Let me handle this, Detective.”

Kate said to Schaeffer, “Be assured, Major, that John and I will take responsibility for any problems this might cause you.”

“The only problem I have at the moment is hosting six Federal agents who are about to pull this case from me.”

I informed him, “There are more on the way.” Then I said, “Here’s the way I think Harry Muller was murdered.” I gave him my reconstruction of the murder as I thought it had probably happened. I concluded, “Look for signs that Harry may have been awake enough to kick the sides or roof of his camper.”

Major Schaeffer stayed silent awhile, then said, “It could have happened that way. But that doesn’t bring me any closer to finding the murderer or murderers.”

Actually, his prime suspect was still Bain Madox whether he wanted to believe that or not. I said, “Well, when you find a suspect, you can shake him up with that description of how it was done. It’s also good for your report.”

He nodded and said thanks, but didn’t offer me a job.

We shook hands all around, then Kate and I got out of the car and walked into the Enterprise office. I said to the lady behind the counter, “I’d like to rent a car.”

“You’re in the right place.”

“I thought so. How about an SUV?”

“Nope. I got a Hyundai Accent ready to go.”

“What kind of accent does it have?”

“Huh?”

“I’ll take it.”

I used my personal credit card since my employers had already paid for one rental car. Not to mention that I was on the run from them, and it would take them a while longer to trace my card than it would theirs.

Within fifteen minutes, I was behind the wheel of a little rice burner.

I drove back toward the center of town, and Kate observed, “It really doesn’t take that long to rent a car, does it?”

I thought I knew where this was going. “No, especially if I’m not asking for a copy of all their rental agreements for the last four days.”

“Not to mention the time you can save by not hitting on the rental lady.”

Jeez. Here we were, up to our eyeballs in trouble, and some megalomaniac was about to start World War III or something, and she’s busting my balloons about a little kidding around at the Hertz counter a long time ago. Well, yesterday. I refused to play this game and remained silent.

She informed me, “You’re not single anymore, you know.”

And so forth.

We got into the center of town, and I pulled into a parking space near a coffee shop, and said, “I need coffee.”

“John, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Yeah. I’m getting a coffee to go. What do you want?”

“Answer my question.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long are we going to be doing it?”

“Until we break this case or until our colleagues catch us, whichever comes first.”

“Well, I can tell you what’s going to come first.”

“Coffee?”

“Black.”

I got out of the car and went into the coffee shop, a local place, not a Starbucks, where I’d have to visit the ATM machine first.

I ordered two black from the spaced-out young lady behind the counter, and while she was mentally struggling with my request, I noticed a rack of pamphlets and free guides near the door. I plucked a bunch of them out of the rack and shoved them in my pockets.

The space cadet behind the counter was trying to figure out what size lid to use, and I said to her, “I need to make a local call. Can I use your cell phone?”

“Uh…?”

The coffee came to a buck-fifty, and I gave her a five and said, “Keep the change for the phone call.”

She handed me her cell phone, and I dialed The Point.

Jim answered, “The Point. How can I help you?”

“This is Mr. Corey. Any messages for me or my wife?”

“Good morning, Mr. Corey. Are you enjoying your stay with us?”

“Hey, Jim, I have to tell you, this is the best twelve hundred bucks a night I ever spent, and that includes the showgirls in Vegas.”

Jim was momentarily speechless, then said, “I have two messages for you. Both from Mr. Griffith. He’d like you to call him.” He gave me Mr. Griffith’s number and asked, “Will you be joining us for dinner this evening?”

“Do you think I’d miss Henry’s woodcock? Do me a favor and call Sonny, and remind him that he was going to loan me a jacket and tie. Okay?”

“Yes, sir, that would be Mr. DeMott in the Lookout.”

“Right. Deliver the clothes to my room. Okay, see you at cocktails. Henry’s doing pigs-in-the-blanket.”

“I’ve heard.”

I hung up and handed the cell phone back to Ms. Spacey, who I think thought it was a gift. At least I didn’t have to worry about her remembering any of this if the Feds came around making inquiries.

I left the coffee shop, and out on the sidewalk, I had two thoughts. One was that I should stop being reckless and egotistical, and think of Kate’s career, and go see Griffith and spill everything to him, including “MAD,” “NUK,” and “ELF,” with the hope that the FBI could figure out what Madox was up to before it was too late.

The other was that I shouldn’t do any of those things. And the reason for that was that this case was very strange, and I didn’t trust anyone anymore. Except, of course, Kate, who was, in no particular order, my wife, my partner, my lawyer, my immediate supervisor, and an FBI agent.

And although I trusted her, with Kate, you never knew who was going to show up.

I was betting on wife and partner.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Igot back in the car and handed Kate her coffee and the stack of local travel guides and pamphlets. “We need a place to stay, and not in Potsdam.”

“Maybe we should go to Canada and ask for asylum.”

“I’m glad you’re maintaining your sense of humor.”

“That wasn’t a joke.”

I sipped my coffee as I drove through downtown Potsdam, and Kate flipped through the printed material. I told her about my call to The Point. “Very soon, Griffith will ask the state and local police to begin a missing-persons search for us, if he hasn’t already. But I think we can keep ahead of him.”

Kate seemed not to hear me and studied the local literature. “This might be a good place to buy a house. Median house value is $66,400.”

“I’m just looking for a place to rent for the night, darling.”

“Median household income is only $30,782 a year. How much is your three-quarter tax-free disability?”

“Sweetheart, find a place to stay.”

“Okay…” She flipped through some brochures and said, “Here’s a nice-looking B and B-”

“No B and Bs.”

“It looks cute. And it looks isolated, if that’s what we’re after.”

“We are.”

“It’s on twenty-two acres of what used to be the St. Lawrence University riding stables.” She read, “‘It offers the privacy of a classic country estate.’”

“How much is this classic country estate?”

“Sixty-five dollars a night. But you can get a cottage for seventy-five.”

“That’s what we were paying at The Point for an hour.”

“Still paying.”

“Right. Which way?”

She glanced at the brochure and said, “We need to take U.S. Route 11.”

I was beginning my second circuit of downtown Potsdam and knew the place well by now. I drove to an intersection with lots of road markers, and soon we were on Route 11, heading out of town.

I said, “I knew guys on the Fugitive Squad who said that fugitives always seem to be having fun evading capture. It’s like, a real high, using your wits, being on the road-”

“I am not having fun. Are you?”

“Well… yeah. It’s a game. Games are fun.”

She didn’t comment on that and said, “This B and B is about ten miles from here, outside of Canton.”

“Canton is in Ohio.”

“Maybe they moved it, or maybe, John, there’s a Canton in New York.”

“We’ll see.” So we continued southwest on Route 11.

Kate was back to the chamber of commerce pamphlet. “There are a lot of colleges in the area, so the percentage of college-educated people is higher than the national average.”

“You’d freeze your college-educated butt off up here.”

“The average temperature in January is twenty-seven degrees. That’s not too bad.”

“Tell me that in January.”

“We could stay with your parents in Florida for the winter.”

“I’d rather freeze to death.” I looked at the dashboard clock, which said 11:47. I needed to call Dick Kearns as soon after noon as possible.

The road was well traveled and cut through open country, farms, and hamlets. We were definitely out of the Adirondack Mountain region and into the Great Lakes plains. Back there in God’s country, where the bears outnumbered the people and road traffic was light, Kate and I would attract attention and be remembered. Here, we blended in with the general population. As long as I kept my smart mouth shut.

The little Hyundai handled well, but I’d wanted a four-wheel drive in case we needed to crash the fence at Custer Hill at some point in time. Like tonight.

I asked Kate, “How much ammo do you have?”

She didn’t reply.

“Kate?”

“Two extra magazines in my briefcase.”

I had one magazine in my inside jacket pocket. I never carry enough ammo. Maybe if I had a briefcase or a purse, I’d carry an extra magazine. “Is there a sporting-goods store in Canton?”

Without answering, she flipped through a local guide, then said, “Here’s an ad for a sporting-goods store in Canton.”

“Good.”

We drove in silence, and within ten minutes, she said, “Turn here onto Route 68. Look for Wilma’s B and B.”

“Maybe we can open a B and B. You’ll cook and clean. I’ll shoot at the arriving guests.”

No reply.

I saw the sign for Wilma’s and pulled into a gravel drive that ran through a rolling field dotted with evergreens. Up ahead was a Cape Cod-style house with a covered porch.

I stopped the car, and we got out and stepped up to the porch. I looked back toward the highway, which was barely visible.

Kate asked me, “Okay?”

“Perfect. Looks like someplace where Bonnie and Clyde would stay.”

She rang the doorbell, and a minute later, a middle-aged gent opened the door and asked, “Can I help you?”

Kate said, “We’d like a room for the night.”

“Well, you came to the right place.”

That must be the local line. They probably said the same thing when you showed up at the hospital for an emergency appendectomy.

We went inside to a small office space in the foyer, where the proprietor, Ned, said, “You got your choice. Two rooms upstairs, or two cottages.”

I said, “We’ll take a cottage.”

He showed us two photos. “That’s Pond House-it’s on a pond. And this here’s the Field House.”

The Field House looked suspiciously like a house trailer. Kate said, “I think the Pond House. John?”

“Right.” I asked Ned, “Do you have outside phone lines in these cottages?”

He chuckled. “Sure do. Got electricity, too.”

I wanted to tell him we’d just come from a luxury resort without television or phone service, but he wouldn’t believe that.

He said, “Pond House has cable TV and VCR, and you got Internet hookup.”

“No kidding? Hey, do you have a laptop I could borrow or rent?”

“Got one you can use for free, if you get it back to me by six-thirty. That’s when the wife goes on eBay to check her auction. That woman buys junk, then she sells it back on eBay. She says she’s making money, but I don’t think so.”

If I wasn’t trying to keep a low profile, I’d tell him that she was probably fucking the UPS guy. But I just smiled.

Anyway, I paid cash for the room, which Ned appreciated, and he didn’t seem to need any ID or security deposit. He handed me his laptop, worth about a thousand bucks. I thought about asking him for a six-pack of beer while I was at it, but I didn’t want to impose on his hospitality.

Ned gave us a key to the cottage, some basic house rules, and directions to Pond House. “Just follow your nose.”

That would have put me in his kitchen, but I think he meant get in the car first.

Kate and I went to the car, and she said to me, “Do you see how nice and trusting people are here?”

“I seem to be missing my wallet.”

She ignored that and continued, “This is like where I was raised in Minnesota.”

“Well, they did a good job there. Let’s discuss relocation later.”

I followed my nose for a hundred yards, and we came to a little shingled cottage on a pond.

Kate took her briefcase, and we entered. It was a decent enough place, with a combination sitting room, bedroom, and kitchen decorated in what looked like eclectic eBay. Out back was an enclosed porch that overlooked the pond. Hopefully, there was an indoor bathroom somewhere.

Kate was inspecting the kitchen, and I asked her, “What’s in the fridge?”

She opened the door. “A lightbulb.”

“Call room service.”

She again ignored me and found the bathroom.

I picked up the phone on the writing desk and called Dick Kearns, collect.

He accepted the charges and asked me, “Why am I paying for this call?”

“I’m in jail, and I already used my free phone call to call my bookie.”

“Where are you? Who’s Wilma on my caller ID?”

“Ned’s wife. How’d you make out?”

“With what? Oh, Pushkin. Russian writer. Dead. No further information.”

Dick apparently felt the need to jerk me around in lieu of billing me. I said, “Come on, Dick. This is important.”

“First, I’m required to ask you, What is your clearance?”

“Five feet, eleven inches.”

“Unfortunately, Detective Corey, most of this stuff is not available to people under six feet, but I’ll just write here that you’ve applied for a six-foot clearance.”

The old joke out of the way, Dick said, “Okay. Ready to copy?”

“Hold on.” Kate had come out of the bathroom and pulled up a kitchen chair near the desk. I said to Dick, “I’m putting us on speaker.” I hit the Speaker button, hung up, and said, “Say hello to Kate.”

“Hi, Kate.”

“Hi, Dick.”

“I’m glad you’re there to keep this guy out of trouble.”

“I’m trying.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time-?”

“Dick,” I interrupted, “we’re on a tight schedule.”

“Yeah, me, too. Okay, ready?”

Kate got her notebook, and I took the pad and pencil from the desk and said, “Shoot.”

“All right. Putyov, Mikhail. Born in Kursk, Russia, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, 18 May 1941. Father deceased 1943, Red Army captain, killed in action. Mother deceased, no further info. Subject attended… I can’t pronounce these fucking Russian words-”

“Spell them.”

“Right.” He filled us in on Mikhail Putyov’s education, and my eyes were glazing over until he said, “He graduated from Leningrad Polytechnic Institute with an advanced degree in nuclear physics. And later, he was associated with the… what the hell…? Kurchatov? Yeah, Kurchatov Institute in Moscow… This says it’s a major Soviet nuclear facility, and this guy did research there.”

I didn’t comment, but Kate and I exchanged glances.

Dick asked, “Is that what you’re looking for?”

“What else?”

“Well, then he worked in a borscht factory, dropping little potatoes in the soup.”

“Dick-”

“He worked on the Soviet nuclear weapons program someplace in Siberia…” He spelled the name of some town or installation. “This stuff seems to be classified, and from 1979 to the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, there’s not much info.”

“Okay… how reliable is this information?”

“Some of it I got directly from the FBI. Putyov is on their watch list. Most of it I got from Putyov’s own C.V., which is posted on the website where he works.”

“Where is that?”

“Massachusetts Institute of Technology. He’s a full professor there.”

“What’s he teach?”

“Not Russian history.”

“Right-”

“I also got some stuff on him online from academic journals. He’s well respected.”

“For what?”

“Nuclear shit. I don’t know. You want me to read this stuff?”

“I’ll check it out later. What else?”

“Well, I lucked out with the FBI field office in Boston. I found a guy there who I knew and he was willing to talk off-the-record. He told me that Putyov was brought here in 1995 as part of our post-Soviet resettling program to neutralize some of this free-floating nuke talent before these guys sold out to the highest bidder. He was set up in this teaching job at MIT as part of the resettling program.”

“They should have just shot him.”

Dick chuckled and said, “That would have been cheaper. They bought him an apartment in Cambridge, and he still draws a couple of bucks from Uncle Sam. In fact, I did a quick credit check on him, and he comes up triple A. No money or credit problems, which, as we know, eliminates half the motives for half the illegal shit that goes on in the world.”

“Right.” It was the other half that worried me; the kind of motive for unlawful activities that an oil billionaire might find irresistible. Like power. Glory. Revenge.

Kate asked, “Why is he on the FBI watch list?”

“This guy in Boston told me it was standard procedure for a person like that. The Bureau doesn’t have any negatives on him. But they require him to notify them when he leaves the area because, as the guy I spoke to said, Putyov is a walking brain full of things that he shouldn’t be sharing with any country that’s got an illegal nuke program in the works.”

I inquired, “Did Putyov notify the Boston office that he was leaving town?”

“I don’t know, and I didn’t ask. I was lucky enough to get this guy to talk to me off-the-record. But my questions were confined to background stuff.”

Kate asked, “Wife? Kids?”

“Two grown sons, also brought here as part of the resettling package. Nothing on them. Wife, Svetlana, doesn’t speak much English.”

Kate asked, “You spoke to her?”

“Yeah. I called the apartment. But before that, I called his office at MIT. His secretary, a Ms. Crabtree, said he e-mailed her over the weekend-Saturday-and wrote that he wouldn’t be back until Tuesday-today. But he’s not there yet, and no one has heard from him.” He added, “I guess he’s up there where you are. Right?”

“We don’t know.” Odd, I thought, that he’d canceled his 12:45 flight to Boston sometime last night, but hadn’t yet contacted his office or the airline to rebook on the next flight to Boston, which I recalled would be 9:55 tomorrow morning, and he wasn’t driving back to Boston in his rental car because it had been returned.

Kate asked, “Did his secretary sound concerned?”

“I couldn’t tell. She was professional, and I had no reason to push her. So I call Svetlana, and she says to me, ‘He not home.’ So I ask, ‘When he be home?’ and she says, ‘Tooosday,’ and I say, ‘Today is Tooosday,’ and she says, ‘Cool beak,’ and hangs up.”

“Cool beak?”

“Yeah, that’s Russian for call back. So I called back about twenty minutes ago and said, ‘I need to reach Mikhail. He won a million dollars in the Reader’s Digest sweepstakes, and he needs to claim his prize money,’ and she said, ‘Moony? Vhat moony?’ Anyway, I don’t think he’s home, or she’d have put him on to claim his money. So, is this guy missing?”

“Maybe. Anything else?”

“No. That’s the basic free introductory offer.”

“Did you get a cell-phone number for this guy?”

“I asked Svetlana and his secretary. They weren’t giving it out, but I’ll bet they called it a few times.”

“Right. How about the phone company? Or the FBI office in Boston?”

“I’ll try the phone company. But I’m not calling my FBI source back. I went as far as I could with him, and he was cooperative, but then he got nosy. We’ve got to leave that alone unless you want to stir up some shit.”

“Okay, leave that alone.”

“Kate, why am I doing this? When I worked for the ATTF, they had their own computers, phones, and files.”

She looked at me, then said to Dick, “Your friend is pursuing his own theory about something.”

“Right. Did you tell him he needs to be a team player?”

“I mentioned that a few times.”

By now, I was rolling my eyes.

Dick said, “Well, when John gets fired, I need some help here.”

Kate replied, “I think he’ll be on the Federal do-not-hire list forever.”

“Okay,” I interrupted, “let’s get back to business. Dick, is there anything else you can think of that might be important or relevant?”

“Relevant to what?”

Good question, and before I could think of an answer, Dick asked, “What’s with the nuke stuff?”

“I don’t think that’s relevant to the homicide investigation.”

“Why would an MIT professor be mixed up with a murder?”

“I thought he might be Russian Mafia, but it doesn’t sound like it. Okay, I’ll-”

“So, did the Arabs snatch this guy?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll take Putyov’s home and work numbers.”

He gave them to us, and said, “Okay, guys, the ball is in your court. Good luck with locating Putyov, and I hope you find the sonofabitch who killed Harry Muller.”

“We will.”

Kate said, “Thanks, Dick.”

“Watch yourselves.”

We hung up, and Kate looked at me. “Nuclear physicist.”

“Right.”

“What’s he doing at the Custer Hill Club?”

“Fixing the microwave oven?”

“John, we need to fly to New York today and have Walsh assemble the appropriate people-”

“Hold on. You’re overreacting. We don’t have any startling information other than a nuclear physicist happened to be a guest at the Custer Hill Club-”

“We have MAD, NUK, ELF, and-”

“Jeez, I hope they found that by now.”

“What if they haven’t?”

“Then they’re stupid.”

“John-”

“We can’t admit to having evidence that we’ve hidden… well, that we just forgot to mention.”

“ We? ” She rose from her chair and said, “You didn’t report it. We have committed a felony. I’m an accessory.”

I also stood. “Don’t you think I’m going to cover for you?”

“I don’t need you to cover for me. We need to report everything we have, including Putyov. Now.”

“For all we know, the FBI knows everything we know, and they’re not sharing it with us-so why should we share it with them?”

“That’s our job.”

“Right. And we will share it. But not now. Think of what we’re doing as a supplemental investigation.”

“No, we’re engaged in an unauthorized investigation.”

“Wrong. Walsh authorized us-”

“Liam Griffith-”

“Fuck him. For all I know, he’s here to bring us a week’s worth of clean underwear.”

“You know why he’s here.”

“No, I don’t. And neither do you.”

She moved closer to me. “John, what’s your agenda?”

“As always, truth and justice.” I added, “Duty, honor, country.”

“Bullshit.”

“Well, the real answer is we need to save our asses. We’re in trouble, and the only way out of that trouble is to bring this case further along toward-”

“And don’t forget your ego. This is John Corey, NYPD, trying to prove that he’s smarter than the whole FBI.”

“I don’t need to prove that. It’s an established fact.”

“I’m going back to New York. Are you coming with me?”

“No. I need to find Harry’s killer.”

She sat on the bed, sort of staring at the floor. Clearly, she was upset.

I stood there for a full minute, then said, “Kate.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “Trust me.”

She didn’t reply for a while, then muttered, almost to herself, “Why can’t we just return to New York and tell Tom everything we know…? And try to salvage our careers…?”

“Because,” I replied, “we’re past the point of no return. There is no turning back.” I added, “Sorry.”

She sat there a bit longer, then stood. “All right… what’s next?”

“ELF.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Kate seemed to have calmed down a little, and resigned herself to the fact that the idiot who got her into this mess was probably the only idiot who could get her out of it.

I was feeling a little pressured by that, but I knew if I stayed focused and solved this case-Harry’s murder and the Madox mystery-then our career problems and personal problems would disappear. And while we were at it, maybe we could also save the planet. As Kate herself said, “Nothing succeeds like success.”

The opposite of that was… well, disgrace, humiliation, dismissal, the unemployment line, and some sort of nuclear surprise. But why be negative?

To make Kate feel part of the solution, I said to her, “Okay, I’ll take your advice, and we’ll call John Nasseff.”

Kate and I sat at the writing desk and took out our notepads.

I’d rather have used Ned’s laptop, but I was pretty certain that John Nasseff, who was a Technical Support guy, was out of the ATTF loop anyway.

She dialed out, using her personal calling card that would not show Wilma’s number on a caller ID, then identified herself to the ATTF operator and asked for Commander Nasseff. She put the phone on speaker, and as the call was routed, she said to me, “John Nasseff is an active-duty naval commander, so you may want to initially address him by his rank.” She added, “He’s an officer and a gentleman, so watch your language.”

“And you be careful how you phrase the questions.”

She replied, “I think I know how to do this. But why don’t you take the lead as you usually do?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Navy Commander John Nasseff came on the line. “Hi, Kate. How can I help you?”

“Hi, John. My husband, John, who works with-works for me-and I need some information about extremely low frequency radio waves. Can you help with that?”

“I think so…” He paused, then said, “Can I ask what this is about?”

I chimed in, “Good afternoon, Commander. This is Detective Corey, who works for Special Agent Mayfield.”

“Just call me John.”

“Same to you. To answer your question, unfortunately, this is a sensitive matter, and we’re only at liberty to say it’s urgent.”

“I understand… What would you like to know?”

I asked, “Can ELF waves fry an egg?”

Kate looked pissed, but Commander John replied, “I don’t think so.”

John Nasseff sounded like the starched Navy guy that he probably was, so I followed up with, “Just kidding. Can you give us some background on ELF waves? And please don’t be too technical. I can’t even program the buttons on my car radio.”

I got him to chuckle, and he replied, “All right… it’s sort of a technical subject, but I’ll try to speak English. First, I am not an expert on ELF signals, but I can certainly give you some basic background.”

“We’re all ears.” I opened my notepad and picked up my pencil.

“Well, to begin… I’m pulling up some of this on my computer… okay, ELF waves are transmitted at extremely low frequencies…” He chuckled to himself and said, “That’s why they’re called… Anyway, these are extremely long waves, so say you’re transmitting at 82 herz, or 0.000082 megaherz-that’s equal to a wavelength of 3,658,535.5 meters, or 3,658.5 kilometers-”

I dropped my pencil and said, “Hold on, John. Hold on. We don’t want to send a message on our ELF transmitter. Who uses this wavelength? And what’s it used for?”

He replied, “It’s only used by the military. Specifically, the Navy. It’s used to contact nuclear submarines operating at very low depths.”

Kate and I looked at each other. I wanted to ask him if he knew Fred, but instead I inquired, “Can these ELF waves be monitored?”

“Sure. If you have the right equipment. But you might wait a long time to hear an ELF transmission.”

“Why?”

“They have very limited use. And anything you heard would be encrypted.”

“Okay… take us through this. Who, what, where, when, how, and why?”

“I don’t think anything I’m going to say is classified, but I need to ask you if you’re on a secure line.”

Typical military commo guy. I thought maybe Ned was listening to pass the time of day, but he didn’t look like a spy, and Wilma was probably watching the Home Shopping Network. I said to Commander Nasseff, “We’re on a regular landline, and it’s a one-time use for me at a resort up in the Adirondacks.” We weren’t actually in the Adirondack Mountains any longer, but that’s where Walsh and Griffith needed to think we were if this conversation got back to them. I added, “A resort called The Point. The chef is French, but I’m sure he’s not listening in.”

“All right… as I said, most of this is not classified. So let me explain the practical application of ELF technology. As you know, we have nuclear subs operating at very low depths for extended periods of time-months, sometimes-and most of these subs operate in their regular patrol areas near… well, this is a little sensitive, but I’ll say near underwater hydro-acoustic stations where they can be in touch with naval operations through normal radio channels. But some of these subs can be out in no-man’s-land, too far from these underwater stations, so in an emergency situation, naval operations in Pearl Harbor, for the Pacific Fleet, or Norfolk, for the Atlantic Fleet, need to get in touch with these nuclear submarines that are not near the surface or near an underwater relay station. Follow so far?”

I looked at Kate, who nodded, and I said, “Sure. Go on.”

“Well,” he continued, “as a for instance, normally used VLF waves-very low frequency-won’t penetrate deep into the ocean depths, especially if the water is very saline. Salty.”

“I got salty.”

“Good. But ELF waves can travel all the way around the world regardless of atmospheric conditions, and they can penetrate anything, including mountains, oceans, and polar ice caps. They can reach a deeply submerged submarine anytime, anyplace. In fact, if it weren’t for the existence of ELF waves, we’d have no communication with some of these vessels in our nuclear submarine fleet, and that could lead to a major problem if the balloon went up.”

“What balloon?”

“The balloon. That’s slang for atomic war.”

“Right. I like balloon better.” Again, Kate and I looked at each other, trying to comprehend this. I didn’t know how she was feeling, but thinking of Bain Madox, I was a little worried.

Commander Nasseff made a funny doomsday joke by saying, “If it wasn’t for ELF, we couldn’t have a good, all-out atomic war.”

“Well, thank God for ELF.”

He chuckled. “That’s an old Navy commo joke.”

“That’s a real knee-slapper. Got any more?”

“Well, gee, it’s been a long time since the Cold War, but-”

I interrupted. “So, that’s the only way… the only reason anyone would use an ELF radio-to talk to a submarine.”

He replied, “Well, it’s not actually a voice radio-it’s more of a signal transmitter-like a telegraph-to send encrypted letter-code messages.”

“And only to a submarine?”

“Right. A deeply submerged submarine. ELF waves are very long, and therefore the transmissions are very slow. But they can penetrate anything. Thus, their only practical use is to contact submerged submarines that can’t be contacted by normal means.”

“Right. Can ELF waves screw up my cell phone?”

He chuckled again. “No. These waves are so far off the chart, they wouldn’t interfere with any other radio waves, microwaves, or anything we currently use on a day-to-day basis.”

Kate said to him, “So, these ELF transmissions are letter codes.”

“Correct.”

“And they can only be picked up by submarines?”

“Well, they can be picked up by anyone with an ELF receiver. But unless you know the code, which changes often, it would be meaningless. All you’d hear would be transmitted pulses, which are the letters in encrypted form. From what I understand, a three-letter code is the most common.”

Kate asked, “And that tells the people on the sub everything they need to know?”

“Usually, it just tells them that they need to establish normal radio communication.” He explained, “An ELF transmission is called a bell ringer. It’s to alert a submarine commander that a situation is developing, and he needs to do something to get in touch. But sometimes the three-letter code is self-explanatory. For instance, it could mean ‘Surface’ or ‘Proceed to location A,’ which is a predesignated grid coordinate. Follow?”

Kate replied, “I think so.”

“You can’t use ELF for long, chatty messages. It can take half an hour for the signal to reach the sub. And I should point out that the submarine can’t send an ELF signal or message. It can only receive one.”

I said, “Like, ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you.’”

“Correct.”

Kate asked, “Why can’t a sub send an ELF message?”

“The transmitter and antenna need to be on land. I can explain that later. But meanwhile, if a submarine needs to reply to this one-way message, or if the sub commander needs more data, then the sub would need to get near an underwater hydro-acoustic station-if there’s time-or would need to get near the surface and send up a communication buoy to reply or get more information via VLF, or these days via satellite, or other means.”

I inquired, “What do you mean, ‘If there’s time’?”

“Well, for instance, if the other side has already launched ICBMs against us, then there’s no time to establish normal radio communication, because by the time the sub receives an ELF signal, which, as I said, can take thirty minutes, all forms of communication in the U.S. have already been vaporized, and the atomic war is all but over.” He explained, “If that’s what’s happening on the surface, then the submarines receive the last and only ELF message they will ever get-a three-letter code that means… well, ‘Fire away.’”

Kate looked a bit worried, but Commander Nasseff had good news. “ELF waves are not affected by thermonuclear explosions.”

I said, “Thank God for that. But let me ask you-what if the guy sending the atomic-launch code sends the wrong letters? Like, he means to type in XYZ, which means ‘lunch break,’ but he screws up and types in XYV, which means ‘Launch your nukes’?”

Commander Nasseff replied with a little amusement in his voice, “That can’t happen.”

“Why not? Look at the e-mails you get.”

“I mean,” he explained patiently, “there are safeguards, and all orders to launch need to be verified.”

“By who? By the time the sub gets the order a half hour after it’s sent, as you just said, there’s no one left to verify anything.”

“This is true. But rest assured that can’t happen.”

“Why not? I mean, you’re talking about three measly letters. Like those monkeys typing King Lear.”

“For your information, a three-letter code will yield 17,576 possible letter combinations in the English language alphabet. The Russian alphabet, with thirty-three letters, will yield 35,937 different codes.” He explained, “Thirty-three, times thirty-three, times thirty-three equals 35,937. So, what are the chances that a naval radio operator could mistakenly send the code to the submarine fleet to launch their missiles at their predesignated targets?”

Considering the fact that if something could go wrong, it would, I thought the chances seemed pretty good. I said, “Maybe we should use the Russian alphabet. You know? More letters. Less chance of starting a nuclear war by accident.”

He found that funny and said to me, “Actually, if you want to know more than you need to know, whoever transmits the message needs to send it as a repeating, error-correcting code, followed by another three-letter verification code. No one can screw that up by accident.”

I asked the obvious and more pertinent question, “How about on purpose? Like some nut who wants to start an atomic war?”

He thought about that and replied, “As I said, the codes change frequently.”

“But if someone had the code-”

“I can’t imagine that any unauthorized person could get the initiating codes and the verification codes, plus getting the current encrypting protocols. Also, the computer encryption software is sophisticated beyond anything you can imagine.” He added, “You shouldn’t worry about things like that.”

I thought of Bain Madox and wanted to say to Commander Nasseff, “You should.”

Kate asked, “And there is no other possible application for this means of communication? I mean, no other use for ELF waves other than military?”

“Well, that was true. But I’ve heard that since the end of the Cold War, the Russian ELF transmitter has been used for geophysical research. Swords into plowshares.” He explained, “The ELF waves can penetrate deep into the Earth’s crust and can therefore be used for electromagnetic sounding and monitoring. For instance, seismic research. Earthquake predictions and things of that sort. But I don’t know much about that.”

Kate said, “So, theoretically, someone outside the military could send an ELF transmission. Like scientists.”

“Theoretically, but there are only three ELF transmitters in the whole world, and they’re all owned by the military.” He added, “We have two, they have the other.”

Kate thought about that, then asked, “I see… but theoretically… is this top secret, or is it unlawful to build such a transmitter?”

“I don’t know about unlawful, and there’s nothing top secret about the technology or the physics behind it. The actual problem is that an ELF transmitting station can be expensive to build, and it has no practical application outside of contacting submarines or, recently, in limited geophysical research.”

I didn’t think that Bain Madox was interested in geophysical research, but he might be, so I asked, “Can these ELF waves detect oil deposits?”

“I would think so.”

“So, geologists could use them to find oil.”

“Theoretically, but ELF stations can only be built in a few places in the world.”

Kate inquired, “Why is that?”

“Well, now that we’re talking about the actual transmitter itself, let me explain that. You asked why a submarine can’t send an ELF message. One reason is that an ELF transmitter can only be located on land in an area that has very low ground conductivity. And there are only a few places on the planet where this geological condition exists.”

I asked, of course, “And where is that?”

“Well, one is where the Russian transmitter, called Zevs, is located-northwest of Murmansk, up near the Arctic Circle. Another place where these necessary conditions exist is here in the U.S. Our two transmitters are the Wisconsin Transmitter Facility-WTF-and the Michigan Transmitter Facility-MTF, and they both share the same geological formation called the Laurentian Shield.”

“And that’s it?”

“Well, that’s it for existing ELF transmitters. But the Brits almost built one during the Cold War for the Royal Navy at a suitable location called Glengarry Forest in Scotland. But for a variety of political and practical reasons, the idea was scrapped.”

Neither Kate nor I said anything for a while, then Kate recapped, “So, there are only three ELF transmitters in the entire world.”

Commander Nasseff made a little joke and replied, “Last time I counted.”

Well, I thought, count again, Commander.

Kate and I glanced at each other, but neither of us asked the obvious question about other suitable and perhaps close-by locations. We knew we needed to finesse that question so as not to have Commander Nasseff sitting around the coffee bar telling people that Corey and Mayfield were asking about ELF transmitters in the Adirondack Mountains.

John Nasseff took the silence to mean we were done taking up his time and asked, “Was that helpful?”

Kate replied, “Very. Thank you. One more question. I’m not clear on something. You are saying it’s possible for a private individual to build an ELF transmitter?”

John Nasseff was probably thinking about lunch, but answered, “Sure. Someone can build one in his basement or garage. It’s actually fairly basic technology, and some of the components are probably off-the-shelf items, and what’s not readily available can be built or bought for the right money. The real problem is the location of the antenna and the size of the antenna.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“Because, this is not a standard vertical antenna. An ELF antenna is actually a long cable, or cables. These cables are strung on telephone-type poles, usually in a big circle, and they run for miles.”

That sounded like something I’d seen recently. I asked, “Why is that difficult… or expensive?”

“Well, it’s expensive,” Nasseff replied, “if the government does it.” He got off a good laugh, then continued, “As I said, it’s all about geology and geography. First, you need to find a location where the rock formation is suitable, then you need to acquire a sufficiently large area of that land.”

“Then what?”

“Well, then you string your cables, which are actually the feed for your antenna. These cables may have to run for hundreds of miles-in a circle to save space-or, if the geological conditions are perfect, you could get away with, say, fifty miles or less.”

Kate said, “I’m not quite following the geological angle.”

“Oh, well… let me look this up… okay-a necessary ground condition to build an ELF antenna is an area where there are only a few meters of sand, or moraine gravel. Beneath that, you need a rock base of igneous granite, or metamorphic… what the hell is this?” He spelled, “G-N-E-I-S-S.”

I said, “I hope that’s not the code to launch.”

He chuckled. “I guess it’s a type of rock. Let’s see… areas of very old Precambrian mountain chains, such as the Laurentian Shield, where our ELF installations are located… the Kola Peninsula in Russia, where they have their ELF installation… this place in Scotland where the Brits decided not to build an ELF station… a place near the Baltic Sea… well, you get the picture.”

I didn’t hear him say, “The Adirondack Mountains,” and I was really listening closely.

He continued, “So, if someone wants to build an ELF station, he goes to one of these areas, buys enough land, then sinks telephone poles in the bedrock and strings antenna wire between them, in a circle. The better the geological conditions, the shorter the wire has to be to provide the same transmitting power. Then the antenna wire is connected to a thick copper grounding cable, which runs down one or more of the telephone poles into a deep borehole in the low-conductivity rock. Then, a powerful electrical generator-and this is a big expense-feeds the antenna cables, and the current runs around the antenna wire, then goes down the copper grounding cables into the rock. And then, the Earth itself becomes the actual antenna. Follow?”

I replied, “Absolutely.”

I don’t think he believed me and he said, “This is a little technical for me, too. But it seems that if you have enough electrical generating capacity-thousands of kilowatts-and once you get the antenna right, the actual radio transmitter is not that difficult to build, and you can transmit ELF wave signals to your heart’s content.” He added, “Unfortunately, no one is listening.”

I reminded him, “The submarines are listening.”

“Only if they happen to be on the frequency that you’re transmitting. The Russians are transmitting on 82 herz, and we are transmitting on 76 herz. And even if the submarines are hearing something on the appropriate frequency, their ELF receiver would probably reject the signal.”

“Why?”

“Because, as I said, military signals are computer encrypted. Encrypted when transmitted, and decrypted at the receiving end. Otherwise,” he explained, “any nut-as you seem to be suggesting-could theoretically play havoc with the Russian and American nuclear submarine fleets. You know, like start World War III.”

I knew exactly what he meant without the explicit example.

Kate was standing now. “Has anyone ever tried something like that?” she asked.

Commander Nasseff was silent on that subject, so I asked the same question.

He came back with a question of his own. “What are you guys on to?”

I knew that was coming, and I didn’t want him sending a three-letter code to the Pentagon that meant, “Check out Corey and Mayfield.” I said to him, “Well, as you may know, we’re in the Mideast Section. That’s all I can say.”

He thought about that, then responded, “Well… these people may have, or may be able to acquire this technology… but I don’t think there’s a suitable geological area in any of those countries.”

“That’s good news,” I said. But this really wasn’t about our Mideast friends. I asked him once again, “Has anyone-in the past-ever tried to send a bogus signal to our submarine fleet?”

“I’ve heard a rumor to that effect.”

“When? How? What happened?”

“Well… if you can believe this rumor, about fifteen years ago, our nuclear sub fleet was receiving encoded ELF messages, but the onboard submarine computers weren’t able to verify the legitimacy of the encoded messages, so they were rejected.” He continued, “And when the sub commanders contacted naval operations in Pearl Harbor and Norfolk by other means, they were informed that no such messages had been sent by them via Wisconsin-Michigan hadn’t been built yet.” He stayed quiet for a few seconds, then added, “It appeared that some… entity was sending bogus messages, but the safeguards worked, and none of the subs took action based on those messages.”

I asked, “What action? What did the messages say?”

“Launch.”

The room was quiet for a while, then Kate asked, “Could it have been the Russians sending those messages?”

“No. First, the Russians didn’t even have ELF transmitting capabilities until about 1990, and even if they did, there was no logical reason for them to order U.S. subs to launch against the U.S.S.R.”

I agreed with that and asked, “So, who was it?”

He replied, “Look, this could be one of those apocryphal Cold War stories that submariners or communication personnel make up to impress their girlfriends or their bar friends.”

“Right,” I agreed. “That story’s worth a big hug or a free beer. But it could also be true.”

“Could be.”

“So,” I said, “apparently we have the ELF transmitter count wrong. I’m counting four now.”

He stayed silent awhile, then replied, “Actually, about fifteen or sixteen years ago, there was only one ELF station in the world-ours in Wisconsin. As I said, Michigan hadn’t been built yet, and neither had Zevs. That’s why I think this story has no basis. Who would build and operate an ELF transmitter with the purpose of starting a nuclear war?”

I thought maybe my crazy ex-father-in-law would do that, but he was too cheap to spend the bucks. So I suggested, “The Chinese? You know, telling us to launch against the Russkies, then sitting back and watching us destroy each other.”

“Well, that’s possible. But if they got caught at it, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Russians and Americans agreed to nuke them for that. That is a very dangerous game to play.”

It was, and if you were a country with skin in the game, like China or Russia, you’d think twice about it. But if you were a rich, private, and crazy individual sitting in the mountains, you might want to amuse yourself with an ELF transmitter. I pointed out to Commander Nasseff, “You said these ELF waves could be monitored, so I assume the transmission source can also be located.”

“That is a good assumption. But the truth is no. Remember, the Earth itself has become the antenna, so the signals seem to emanate from all around you.”

“Like a cosmic message?”

“Well… it would be more like the ground shaking because of an earthquake. The signal would seem to be coming from everywhere.”

“So there’s no way to trace the origin of an ELF signal?”

“Not in the sense that you’re thinking of. But ELF receivers could get a general idea of where the transmission source was by comparing the effective radiated power that they were receiving at their site. Like all energy sources, the farther away from the origin you are, the weaker the signal becomes. That’s how we learned about the Russian Zevs transmitter-we suspected that the Russians had an ELF transmitter to signal their submarines, so we put a receiving station in Greenland, and this station received strong signals. After a while, we were able to home in on its general location in the Kola Peninsula, and spy satellites confirmed. But that was only because the Russians happened to be transmitting continuously while we hunted for the signal source.”

I thought about that, then asked, “Was the Navy ever able to figure out where those bogus launch signals were coming from?”

“I have no idea. Although I would suspect not, or everyone involved in naval communication would have heard about it, officially or unofficially. I never heard about it.” He reminded me, “But again, these bogus transmissions may never have occurred.”

Well, I thought they had, and I suspected that Commander Nasseff thought so, too. I also thought I knew the source.

He switched to a happier thought. “Well, thank God the Cold War is over.”

“You can say that again.”

But he didn’t. “Anything else?” he asked.

I thought of Mikhail Putyov. “Would a nuclear physicist be at all involved in extremely low frequency technology?”

“Not at all. He’d probably know less about it than you do.”

“Hey, I’m an expert now. No one’s going to try to sell me an ELF wave oven.”

“Why,” asked Commander Nasseff, ignoring my joke, “would ELF concern the Mideast Section of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force?”

Kate and I exchanged glances, and she wrote on my pad, “You’re the bullshitter.”

Thanks, Kate. I replied to Commander Nasseff, “Well, as it turns out, based on what you’ve told us, we may be… well, on the wrong wavelength.” I chuckled for effect and explained, “We’re actually working on a case involving this environmental terrorist group called the Earth Liberation Front. ELF. Wrong ELF. Sorry.”

Officer and gentleman that he was, Commander Nasseff didn’t dignify that bullshit with a response.

Kate, who knows how not to ask a question that tips off the person being questioned, said to Nasseff, “John, I’m looking at my notes, and I think you said that the only suitable U.S. location for an ELF antenna and transmitter is this geological area in Wisconsin and Michigan called the Laurentian Shield. Do I have that right?”

He could have been snotty and asked what that had to do with the Earth Liberation Front, but he answered, “I think that’s right… Hold on… here’s another place in the U.S. where you can locate an ELF transmitter.”

Neither Kate nor I asked where, but John Nasseff informed us, “You’re actually standing on it.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

We sat on the enclosed porch, which was warmed by the sun coming in the big windows. Outside, leaves fell, ducks swam on the pond, and fat Canada geese waddled across the lawn without their passports.

We were lost in our own thoughts, which were probably similar. Finally, Kate said, “Madox has a big electrical generator, and an ELF antenna on his property, and he probably has a transmitter somewhere in his lodge. Maybe his fallout shelter…”

I tried to lighten the moment. “So, you think Madox is exploring for oil?”

She wasn’t in the mood for my humor and asked, “Do we think Madox was the person who sent those ELF transmissions to the submarine fleet fifteen years ago?”

“We do.”

“But why?”

“Let me think. Hey, he was trying to start a thermonuclear war.”

“Yes, I understand that. But why?”

“I guess he was just rolling the dice, crossing his fingers, and hoping for a happy ending.”

“That’s insane.”

“Right. But he didn’t think so.” I said to her, “You may be too young to remember, but there were people in this country in those days-Mr. Madox, I’m sure, among them-who wanted to push the button first and get it over with. They truly believed that the Soviets would be caught napping, and that Soviet technology and weapons systems were faulty, and that we could survive whatever they threw back at us.” I added, “Radioactive fallout is overrated.”

“Totally insane.”

“Well, fortunately, we’ll never know.” I thought a moment and said, “Madox obviously had some inside information about military ELF codes and decided to use it. The technology to build the transmitter and antenna, as we heard, is not secret, and at some point, about twenty years ago, Madox knew he needed the right piece of real estate, and before you know it, he’s shopping for land in the Adirondack Mountains.” I added, “Best investment he ever made.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I guess that’s what happened… but it didn’t work.”

“No, thank God, it didn’t, or we wouldn’t be here talking about it.”

“Why didn’t it work?”

I went over it in my mind and replied, “My guess is that he underestimated the sophistication and complexities of the computers and the software, which are obviously an integral part of the coded ELF transmissions. And at some point, he was warned by his inside guy that if he kept trying to get the launch code right, the government would make an all-out effort to discover the source of these bogus transmissions, and the FBI would be breaking down the door of the Custer Hill Club. So he gave up on his interesting hobby.”

“Or maybe God intervened.”

I gave that some consideration and said, “I have no doubt that Bain Madox believed he was on God’s side, and God was on his.”

“Well, He wasn’t.”

“Apparently not. Meanwhile, what is the connection between ELF and Mikhail Putyov, former Soviet nuclear weapons physicist, currently a professor at MIT, and houseguest of Mr. Madox?”

Kate thought a moment, then replied, “Maybe… maybe this time, Madox is going to try to get our subs to launch against predesignated targets in the Mideast, China, or North Korea.”

I processed that and said, “That sounds like the Bain Madox we know. Interesting possibility. But it still doesn’t explain Putyov.”

Kate thought about that and probably about things she never dreamed she’d be thinking about yesterday. She asked me, or herself, “What the hell is this guy up to?”

“I think he’s up to Plan B, and I have no idea what that is, except that it’s a version of Plan A, which didn’t work fifteen years ago.”

I looked at my watch and stood. “Here’s what I want you to do, Kate. Go online and see if there’s anything else we need to know about ELF waves. Also, Google Mikhail Putyov, and while you’re at it, Bain Madox.”

“Okay…”

“And this is important-get the laptop back to Wilma before six-thirty.”

She forced a smile and asked, “Can I go on eBay?”

“No, you may not go on eBay. Okay, then call the FAA and get the continuing flight plans for Madox’s two jets. The tail numbers of his aircraft are in your briefcase. That may take a while, knowing the Federal bureaucracy as I do, but be persistent and charming-”

“Why do you think that’s important?”

“I really don’t know. But I’d like to know where Madox sent those aircraft in case it becomes important.” I added, “Also, I’d like you to study those flight manifests, airline reservations, and car-rental agreements, and see what else you can come up with. And call Putyov’s home and office and see if anyone knows his whereabouts.”

“Okay… but what are you doing while I’m doing all of this?”

“It’s my nap time.”

“Very funny.”

“Actually, I’m going to run a few errands. I’ll get us some food plus some personal items, which don’t seem to be included for seventy-five bucks, and whatever else you’d like.”

She informed me, “We don’t need anything at the store, John. After we gather all this information, we are heading back to the city.” She added, “I’ll book a flight from Adirondack Regional Airport, or someplace else around here.”

“Kate, I don’t think we have enough information yet to buy a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

“I think we do.”

“No, I think there are people in Washington who know at least as much as we do right now.”

“Then why did they send Harry to do surveillance on the Custer Hill Club?”

Good question. And several answers came to mind. “Well, maybe it had to do with this weekend gathering. But beyond that, I don’t know.”

“John, I think Harry accomplished his assignment. I think they wanted him to get caught.”

So did I, and now, so did Kate. I said, “Seems that way.”

“But why would they want him to get caught?”

“That’s the big question. A possible answer is to signal to Bain Madox that he is under the eye. They certainly didn’t expect Madox to murder the surveillance person he’d caught.”

“Why would the Justice Department and the FBI want Madox to know he was under surveillance?”

“Sometimes, in police work, you use surveillance to shake up a suspect. Sometimes, with rich and powerful people, you use it as a courtesy, or a warning. You know, like, cease and desist before you put us all in a bad situation.”

Kate stood and came closer to me. She said, “It could have been you.”

Actually, I hope I would have had the brains to scrub the assignment as soon as I got a close look at the situation. Harry, on the other hand, was a simple soul who always put too much trust in the bosses, and who followed orders.

She asked me, “If you’re right, do you think this surveillance has frightened Madox into abandoning whatever he’s up to?”

“I think a man like Madox doesn’t frighten very easily. He’s a man with a mission, and he’s already committed at least one murder on his way to completing that mission.”

“One that we know of.”

“Right. And I’m fairly sure that what happened this weekend had the opposite effect of what Washington hoped for. In fact, Bain Madox’s timeline has been shortened to about twenty-four hours, give or take a few hours.”

“It may just be that he knows the game is up and he’s planning to flee the country. That’s what most people would do.”

“I’m really convinced he’s not like most people. But check out where his jets are.”

She nodded and said, “Okay, but if you really think he’s going ahead with whatever he’s planned, and if you don’t want to go back to the city, then we need to get to the closest Federal attorney and ask for a search warrant for the Custer Hill Club.”

“Sweetheart, I think the only warrant you’re going to find at a Federal courthouse is an arrest warrant for Kate Mayfield and John Corey.”

“Then let’s go to Schaeffer and see if he can get the local D.A. to get a search warrant.”

“Kate, no one is going to issue any warrant with Bain Madox’s name on it based on what you or I tell them. We need to get more evidence.”

“Such as?”

“Well, obviously some hair and fibers from the Custer Hill lodge that will match what was found on Harry’s body and clothes. That’s the connecting forensic evidence that’s required to link Madox’s lodge to Harry, and Harry to Madox, who was at the lodge.”

“All right… but how do you get fibers from the Custer Hill Club without a search warrant?”

“The same way I’d do it if I was investigating the murder of John Doe, who I believed was last seen alive at the house of Joe Smith.”

“What do you mean…?”

“I’m going to the Custer Hill Club to pay a visit to Mr. Madox.”

“I don’t want you to go there.”

“Why not? This is what I’d do at this stage of any other homicide investigation. We’re running out of clues and leads at this point, so I need to go back to the prime suspect and talk to him.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Actually, you’re not. I need you here to work the details that we’ll need to build the case… the stuff we’ll need to get a search warrant.” Actually, the time was running out for that, but it sounded good.

“No,” she said firmly. “You are not going there alone.” She looked at me. “It could be dangerous.”

“It’s not dangerous. This is not Dracula’s Castle. I’m a Federal agent making some inquiries.”

“He’s already killed one Federal agent.”

Good point. But I replied, “And he probably regrets it. If he doesn’t, he will later.” I walked back into the sitting area and put on my leather jacket.

Kate followed and also put on her jacket.

This was one of those moments that called for just the right combination of firmness and tenderness. I took her in my arms and said, “I need you here. We’re a little short on manpower today. I can really handle this myself.”

“No.”

“I think I have a better chance of getting in to see him if I’m alone.”

“No.”

“I’ll check in with Schaeffer’s surveillance team at the intersection. Okay? I’ll tell them to give me an hour, and if I’m not out by then, they should send in the cavalry. Okay?”

That seemed to do the trick, and she appeared less insistent that she go with me.

I concluded with, “Keep in touch with Schaeffer. Also, call The Point and see who’s looking for us. Tell them we’re shopping in Lake Placid, and if Mr. Griffith calls, he should meet us downtown. And remind Jim that Sonny DeMott was going to loan me a tie and jacket for dinner.”

“He was?”

“I’m sure he would. Just bullshit them.” I added, “Pretend you’re me.”

She smiled, then said, “I want you to turn on your cell phone.”

“Kate, no cell phones. You turn that thing on, and Liam Griffith will be at this door within an hour.”

“John… this is not the way we work.”

“Now and then, sweetheart, you have to stretch the rules a little.”

“Now and then? You did this on the last case.”

“I did? Well, it turned out okay. Meanwhile, see if you can get a pizza delivered.”

We went to the door, and Kate said, “Be careful.”

“No anchovies.”

We smooched, and off I went to Dracula’s Castle.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Ifound a convenience store on the outskirts of Canton. Or maybe it was downtown Canton. Hard to tell.

Anyway, I went in and bought what I needed for my mission, which was a package of Drake’s Ring Dings with cream inside, and one of those little sticky lint rollers.

The checkout guy gave me a shortcut back to Colton, a distance of about thirty miles. I also asked him where the sporting-goods store was, and he gave me directions.

I got back in the car and thought about my next move. It was a little after 1:00 P.M., which meant I should be at the Custer Hill gatehouse before 2:00 if I didn’t stop to pick up a box of 9mm rounds and a few extra magazines. I mean, if I was going to blow Madox’s brains out, I had more than enough ammo in my fifteen-round magazine, plus one in the chamber.

On the other hand, if I needed to shoot my way out of there, I was possibly a few rounds short. Bottom line with ammunition is that it’s always better to have more than you need, because if you have less than you need, things didn’t usually work out well.

Also, I probably shouldn’t have done an ammo check with Kate, who may have been wondering if I was planning an assault on the Custer Hill Club. I wasn’t sure about that myself, but it was an option.

Anyway, I decided that my first order of business should be to get to the Custer Hill Club and see what, if anything, Madox was up to. If I needed more ammo, I knew Madox had plenty of guns lying around.

I began driving, and I turned on the radio and listened to a talk show in French, live from Quebec.

I had no idea what they were saying, but everyone seemed really worked up about something, and I could pick out the words “Iraq,” “America,” “Bush,” and “Hussein.”

The melodious French language was giving me a headache, so I scanned the channels, trying to find a news channel that might mention the hunting accident, but all I got were DJs and local commercials. I locked in to a country-western station, and Hank Williams was wailing “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” Why I like this music is a mystery to me and a secret I don’t share with many people.

The weather was still good, and the country road was decent and lightly traveled, so I was making good time.

I opened the Ring Dings and sharked the first one, then savored the second. Truly an exploration of chocolate.

I noodled while I drove and listened to Hank singing “Hey, Good Lookin’.”

First, Kate was safe enough back in Wilma’s B amp;B if she didn’t get an attack of duty, honor, and country, and call Walsh or Griffith.

Ms. Mayfield is a bit more savvy than she seems, and I hoped that she was in her post-9/11 mind-set, and understood that something very odd was going on in New York and Washington, and that she shouldn’t be calling anyone about that.

Second, the last time I checked with Major Schaeffer, he was on our side. But that could change very quickly. Or maybe he never really was on our side. If a state trooper pulled me over in my Enterprise rental car, I’d have the answer to that before I got to the Custer Hill Club.

Third, Tom Walsh. He really wasn’t clued in to whatever was going on, and now he was probably in trouble for sending the absolutely most wrong agents up here to work the case of the missing Harry Muller. Well, if he was in deep shit, he got what he deserved. On the other hand, he’d originally wanted me here in place of Harry. What was that all about?

Fourth, Liam Griffith, the Enforcer. I recalled that he was a friend of my enemy, the happily departed Ted Nash, CIA officer, so, as the Arabs would say, Any friend of my enemy is my enemy. Especially if they’re both assholes. I needed to avoid this guy until I had the power to take him down.

And last but not least, Mr. Bain Madox, who had apparently once tried to start a thermonuclear war to see how it turned out. I mean, this was so far off the chart that I had trouble grasping it. But all the little pieces that I’d seen for myself, including meeting the gentleman, seemed to point in that direction. I thought maybe Madox had watched too many James Bond movies during his formative years, and related too well to the sicko villains.

Bain Madox, however, was not some movie bad guy with a foreign accent; he was an all-American boy, a war hero, and a success story. Sort of like Horatio Alger with a thermonuclear death wish.

But as my therapist would say, if I had one, “John, the thermonuclear-war thing is in the past, and we need to move on.” Right. The problem now was to figure out what Bain was doing in that big house to turn his past failure into success.

I got off the back road at Colton, headed south on 56, and entered the sleepy hamlet of South Colton. And there was Ratso Rudy chewing the fat with some guy in a pickup truck.

I couldn’t resist, so I pulled into the station. “Hey, Rudy!”

He saw me and ambled over to the car. I said, “I’m lost again.”

“Yeah? Hey, how you doin’?” He observed, “You got a new car.”

“No, this is the same one.”

“You sure? You had a Taurus yesterday.”

“I did? Hey, did you see Mr. Madox last night?”

“Well, yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that. He didn’t want to see me.”

“He told me he did.”

“You sure?”

“That’s what he said.” I added, “Sorry about telling him you said I should get the money up front.”

“Yeah… I tried to explain that to him, but he thought that was funny for some reason.”

“Yeah? What else did he say?”

“Well… he said you was pulling my leg. He said you was a wise guy. And a troublemaker.”

“Me? Is that the thanks I get for fixing his ice maker?”

“He said there was nothing wrong with his ice maker.”

“Who are you going to believe? Me or him?”

“Well… it don’t matter.”

“The truth matters.” I asked, “Does he still have houseguests?”

Rudy shrugged. “Didn’t see nobody. But there was a car out front of his house, and I thought it was you. Blue Taurus.”

“I have a white Hyundai.”

“Yeah, now you do. But yesterday you had a blue Taurus.”

“Right. Hey, did anybody from Madox’s place stop in for gas today?”

“Nope. You need gas?”

“No, this thing burns rice wine. Did anybody stop here and ask you for directions to his place?”

“Nope… Well, a guy came in from Potsdam, and wanted to check my map.”

“Why?”

“He had these directions to the Custer Hill place, and he wanted to check them out. I told him he wasn’t going to find it on my wall map, so I checked his directions and gave him some landmarks to look for.”

There are different ways to ask nosy questions, and I inquired, “Was he a tall, thin guy with a handlebar mustache, driving a red Corvette?”

“No, he was a repair guy from Potsdam Diesel.”

This caught me by surprise, and I was nearly at a loss for words. “Oh… right. Charlie from Potsdam Diesel. The generator guy.”

“Yeah. But I think his name was Al… Yeah. This is the time of year you need to get the generator checked. Last November… maybe December, we got this ice storm out of nowhere. Lines down all over the-”

“Right… so, is Al still there?”

“Don’t know. That was maybe a hour ago. Didn’t see him go by. Why? You lookin’ for this guy?”

“No… just…”

“Where you headin’?”

“Huh?”

“You said you was lost.”

“No…” I asked Rudy, “Did you give Mr. Madox my message? The one about me being a good shot?”

Rudy looked a little uncomfortable. “Yeah… he didn’t think that was so funny.”

“Yeah? What did he say?”

“Not much. Just asked me to say it again.”

“Okay… good. So… I’ll see you later.”

I got back on the road and headed toward the Custer Hill Club.

Potsdam Diesel.

The generators were about to be fired up, and soon the transmitter would be warming up and the antenna would be humming, sending ELF waves deep into the bowels of the Earth. And someplace on this screwed-up planet was a receiver that was going to pick up those signals.

Holy shit.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Iwas driving too fast for the logging road, and the Hyundai went airborne a few times.

Up ahead, I could see where McCuen Pond Road ran north to the Custer Hill gatehouse, but I didn’t see anyone leaning on his shovel nor did I see any freshly filled potholes.

I stopped at the T-intersection and looked farther up the logging road, then McCuen Pond Road.

I seemed to be the only one there.

This was like that scene in The Godfather where Michael goes to the hospital to see how Pop is doing and discovers that someone pulled the police guard off the job, and the hit men were on the way. Mama mia.

I sat there for a minute, waiting for a surveillance guy to pop out of a bush. But I was definitely alone. So, what’s up with Schaeffer? Hank? Buddy? Hello?

Well… time was wasting, so I turned onto McCuen Pond Road and headed for the gatehouse.

I slowed down, as per the sign, then stopped at the speed bump and pulled my Glock and stuck it in my jacket pocket.

The gate slid open, and a guy in camouflage fatigues walked toward me. As he got closer, I saw he was the same storm trooper I’d dealt with the last time, which was good. Or maybe not. I tried to remember if I’d pissed him off. Kate always remembers who I pissed off, and she briefs me.

I rolled down my window, and the guy seemed to recognize me, notwithstanding my new car. He had the same line as last time: “How can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Madox.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“Look, Junior, let’s not go through all this shit again. You know who I am, and you know he’s not expecting me. Open the fucking gate.”

He definitely seemed to remember me now-maybe because I was wearing the same clothes, but more likely because I’m an arrogant prick. He said to me, unexpectedly, “Proceed to the gatehouse.” He added, “He is expecting you.” Then he smiled.

Well, that was nice. But it wasn’t really a nice smile. I drove toward the gate, and in my side-view mirror, I saw Junior Rambo on his walkie-talkie.

The gate slid open, and as I drove through, another guy in the gatehouse stepped out and put up his hand. I returned his greeting with an Italian salute, and accelerated up the winding road toward the lodge.

I noticed again the telephone poles and the three heavy wires running between them-and what had looked a little odd yesterday now looked suspiciously like an ELF antenna. Unless, of course, I was totally wrong. I needed a dose of Bain Madox to give me confidence in my suspicions and conclusions.

Coming toward me was a black Jeep, and the driver was waving to me, which was nice, so I waved back and honked my horn as he veered off into the drainage ditch.

Up ahead was the flagpole, flying the Stars and Stripes with the yellow Seventh Cavalry pennant below. I knew, from something I’d read, that the pennant meant the commander was on the premises, so El Supremo was definitely in.

I went around the flagpole, stopped under the portico, got out, locked my car, then stepped up to the porch. The front door was unlocked, and I went into the atrium foyer and glanced up at the balcony.

There was no one around, and I recalled that the house staff was on a break after the three-day weekend, which showed Mr. Madox to be an enlightened employer, or a man who wanted to be alone.

On the wall, General Custer was still making his last stand, and I noticed now, on the paneling above the painting, a fiber-optic fish eye that could see the whole room. In fact, I may have subconsciously noticed it the first time, and maybe that’s where my stupid Holy Mackerel joke had come from. Maybe not.

I moved closer to the painting as though studying it, then closer until I was too near the wall for the eye to see me.

I glanced up at the balcony again, then I pulled my little lint roller out of my jacket, peeled the paper off, and dropped it on the carpet and rolled it with my foot. Then I retrieved it and put it back in my pocket. If that stupid dog was around, I’d have lint-rolled him, too.

I like forensic evidence when other people collect it, analyze it, and report the results to me. But sometimes you have to do this stuff yourself. I didn’t think there was much time left to wait for forensics tests, but maybe someone would find the lint roller in my pocket if I wound up having a hunting accident.

I heard a sound behind me and turned to see Carl coming down the staircase. We made eye contact, and I couldn’t tell if he’d seen me lint-rolling the rug.

Carl stopped on the last step, stared at me, and asked, “Are you here to see Mr. Madox?”

“I’m not here to see you, Carl.”

He didn’t respond to that. “You need to be escorted to the lodge, and into the lodge.”

“Yeah. I know. Insurance. Should I try again?”

I don’t think he liked me, and he was probably still pissed off about having to make me café au lait.

He said, “Fortunately, Mr. Madox is receiving.”

“Receiving what? Cosmic messages?”

“Receiving visitors.”

I looked at Carl, who, as I’d noticed on my earlier visit, was a big fellow. He was no kid, but he looked fit, and what he lacked in youth, I was sure he more than made up for in experience. In fact, I could picture him twisting the binocular strap around Harry’s neck and holding him upright on his knees while his boss put a bullet through Harry’s spine.

I’ve known a number of tough old combat veterans, and you’d expect them to still be tough, and probably they are, someplace inside. But most of them that I’ve known have a sort of gentleness about them, as if to say, “I’ve killed. But I don’t want to kill again.”

Carl, on the other hand, gave me the impression that he’d add a P.S. to that. “Unless ordered to kill.”

He said, “Mr. Madox is in his office. Follow me.”

I followed him up the sweeping staircase to a foyer that overlooked the lobby below.

Carl led me to a paneled door and said, “Mr. Madox has fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll give him longer than that.” Unless I kill him before my time is up.

Carl knocked, opened the door, and announced, “Colonel, Mr. Corey to see you.”

Colonel ? I said to Carl, “Detective Corey. Try again.”

He looked really pissed, and I thought about asking him for a mocha freezie, but he announced, “Detective Corey to see you, sir.”

Colonel Madox said, “Thank you, Carl.”

I entered the office, and the door shut behind me. I expected to see Colonel Madox all decked out in his beribboned dress uniform, but he was standing behind his desk, wearing jeans, a white polo shirt, and a blue blazer. He said to me, “This is an unexpected pleasure… detective.”

I replied, “I had the impression at the gate that I had an open invitation.”

He smiled and said, “Yes, actually, I did mention to the security staff that you might drop by again in connection with the missing person-which, I understand, has become moot.”

I didn’t comment on that, so Madox extended his hand, we shook, and he said, “Welcome.”

He motioned me to a chair in front of his desk, and I sat, wondering if Harry had ever been here.

Madox asked me, “Where is Ms. Mayfield?”

“She’s at a yodeling class.”

He grinned. “So, are you both enjoying your room at The Point?”

I didn’t reply.

He said, “I’ve actually stayed there a few times for a change of pace. I like the lake, which I don’t have here. It’s a good property, but I find the food too… well, Continental for my taste. I prefer simple American food.”

I didn’t respond, and he asked me, “Do they still have that French chef there? Henri?”

“They do.”

“He’s a real prima donna, like all of them. But if you talk to him, he’ll make you a simple beefsteak, sans mystery sauce, and a baked potato.”

Was this asshole trying to tell me something? I knew not to mention that Kate and I were married, but I had broken one of the other cardinal rules when I told him where we were staying, and now he was possibly playing a head game with me.

He seemed to be in a chatty mood, the way a lot of suspects are when the fuzz is talking to them, and he said, “Speaking of the French, what is their problem?”

“They’re French.”

He laughed. “That’s it.” He tapped the newspaper on his desk, which I saw was the New York Times, and asked me, “Did you see this front-page article? Our loyal French allies are hinting that we’re on our own in Iraq.”

“I saw that.”

“I have a theory that they lost an important part of their gene pool in World War I. A million brave soldiers dead in the trenches. So, who was left to procreate? The mentally and physically unfit, the cowards and the sissies. What do you think?”

I thought he was out of his fucking mind, but I replied, “Genetics are not my strong point.”

“Well, it’s just my theory. On the other hand, I actually had two former French soldiers in my battalion. One was a Foreign Legionnaire, the other a paratrooper. They joined the American Army to fight, and fight they did. They loved to kill Commies. Great balls.”

“There goes your theory.”

“No. France doesn’t produce enough men like that. But maybe they do, and their feminized society shuns them. They don’t respect the warrior ethos any longer. But we do.” He said emphatically, “This war in Iraq will be over in less than thirty days.”

“When’s it starting?”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought you might have friends in high places.”

“Well… actually, I do.” He hesitated, then said, “Bet on mid-March. Around St. Patrick’s Day.”

“I say end of January.”

“Will you put a hundred dollars on that?”

“Sure.”

We actually shook on it, and he said, “When you lose, I’ll come looking for you.”

“Twenty-six Federal Plaza.” We made eye contact and I said, “If you lose, I’ll come looking for you.”

“Call my New York office. It’s not far from 26 Fed. Duane Street. GOCO.” He mentioned, “I was actually in my office when the planes hit… I’ll never forget that sight…” He asked me, “Were you in your office? Did you see it?”

“I was about to walk into the North Tower.”

“My goodness…”

“Let’s change that subject.”

“All right.” He asked me, “So, will Ms. Mayfield be joining us?”

Odd question, considering I said she was at a yodeling class, plus I had only fifteen minutes with His Majesty. Maybe he liked her looks, or maybe he wanted to know if this was a bust. “It’s just me today.”

“All right… so, I’ve been running off at the mouth, and I never asked you the purpose of your visit.”

The purpose of my visit was a homicide investigation, but I didn’t want to jump right into that. That’s usually a showstopper, and you might be asked to leave. So I said, “I just thought I’d stop by and thank you for offering your assistance with the missing person.”

“You’re quite welcome. Sorry to hear the bad news.”

“Yeah, me, too.” At this point, we’d talk a bit about that, and I’d thank him again for being a good citizen, and I’d leave. But I left that subject alone for now and asked him, “Mind if I take a look at your view?” I nodded toward the window.

He hesitated, then shrugged. “If you wish.”

I stood and went over to the window. The view directly behind the lodge was of the continuing slope of the hill, at the top of which was his relay tower, which sprouted all sorts of electronic arms, and I wondered if that had anything to do with his ELF antenna.

In the distance, I could make out several telephone poles, and I saw birds landing and taking off from the three big cables. They didn’t seem to be glowing, smoking, or flying backward, so I took that as a good sign.

Off in the distance, I saw a big prefab barn. Its doors were open, and inside I could see a few vehicles-a black Jeep, a blue van, and a lawn tractor. Outside the barn were parked a few all-terrain vehicles, which I assumed were used to patrol the property. I expected to see that Colonel Madox also had a few Abrams tanks, but there was no sign of tread marks.

To the right, about a hundred yards from the lodge, I saw two long buildings. From Harry’s map, which I had in my jacket pocket, I identified the white wooden structure as the barracks, and it looked like it could hold about twenty men. The other structure was the size of a house, and it was built of solid bedrock, with a sheet-metal roof and steel shutters closed over the windows. Three chimneys belched black smoke, and near the open door of the building was a step van whose painted sign said POTSDAM DIESEL.

Madox came up beside me and said, “Not a spectacular view. The view out the front is better.”

“I think this is interesting.” I asked him, “Why do you have all these telephone poles and cables running around your property?”

We made eye contact, and he didn’t flinch. “Those poles and wires were installed to connect the call stations around the property.”

“Really?”

“You remember when you were a cop on the beat, and you had police call boxes?”

“Right. We also had two-way car radios since the 1950s, which are a lot cheaper than a few hundred telephone poles in the bedrock.”

Mr. Madox did not respond. In fact, he was probably thinking hard right now, wondering if these were just idle questions, or leading questions.

He said to me, “As I discovered in combat, radios are not reliable. In any case, the call boxes are rarely used now that we have cell phones and high-quality walkie-talkies. He informed me, “The poles are also used to mount and power the security lights.”

“Right.” And the listening devices and video cameras. “Hey, what’s that white building?”

“The barracks.”

“Oh, right. For your army. And I see your motor pool out there. This is a hell of a place.”

“Thank you.”

“And that stone building?”

“That’s where my electrical generator is.”

“I see three chimneys blowing smoke.”

“Yes, three generators.”

“Do you sell power to Potsdam?” I asked.

“I’m a big fan of redundancy.”

“Redundancy.”

“Yes. And so is God. That’s why we have two balls.”

“But only one dick. What’s that about?”

“I’ve often asked myself that very question.”

“Me, too.” He was now supposed to ask me why I was asking all these questions, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Well, thank you for stopping by. Again, sorry about… I’m sorry-what was his name?”

“Harry Muller.”

“Yes. People need to be careful in the woods.”

“I see that.”

“Is there anything else?”

“I just need a few more minutes of your time.”

He smiled politely and reminded me, “That’s what you said the last time, and you stayed awhile.”

I ignored that and moved away from the window, then looked around the office. It was a big room, paneled in light pine with oak furniture. On the floor was an oriental rug.

Above Madox’s desk was a framed photograph of an oil tanker with the words GOCO BASRA on the bow. Another framed photograph showed a burning oil field.

Madox said to me, “The Gulf War. Or, should I say, Gulf War One?” He added, “I hate to see good oil burning, especially if no one is paying me for it.”

I didn’t reply.

Usually, my routine of short questions and shorter responses shakes up a suspect, but this guy was cool as a cadaver on ice. I did sense, however, a little uneasiness in his manner. In fact, he lit a cigarette but blew no smoke rings this time.

Neither of us spoke, then I moved toward a wall filled with framed certificates and photographs.

They were all military-awards, citations, an honorable discharge, his commission as a second lieutenant, his promotions, and so forth, plus a number of photographs, mostly of Madox in various uniforms, about a half dozen taken in Vietnam.

I looked at one that showed his face close-up. His skin was painted in camouflage, plus it was dirty, and there was a fresh cut over his right eye from which ran a trickle of blood. His whole face was shiny with sweat, and his eyes peered out from his blackened features, looking more hawk-like and piercing.

He said to me, “These photographs remind me of how lucky I am to be here.”

Well, I thought, let’s see how lucky you are. “I see three Purple Hearts.”

“Yes. Two minor wounds, but the third Purple Heart was nearly posthumous.”

I didn’t ask for any details, and he didn’t offer any, except “An AK-47 round, through my chest.”

Obviously, it hadn’t hit any vital organs but may have caused blood loss to his brain.

He said, “I was on my third tour of duty, and I was pushing my luck.”

“Right.” Harry hadn’t been so lucky.

“But you know what? I’d do the same thing again.”

I thought I should remind him that the definition of crazy was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

The odd thing, of course, was that, as Ms. Mayfield suggested, Bain and I had connected, and if he hadn’t apparently killed a friend of mine, and if he wasn’t trying to take over or fuck up the planet, I’d probably like him. In fact, he seemed to like me, despite my nosy questions. But then, I hadn’t killed any of his friends, and I hadn’t yet messed up his plans to nuke the planet, or whatever he was working on. So he had no reason not to think I was an okay guy.

As I studied the remainder of his photos, he asked me, “Have you ever been wounded in the line of duty?”

“I have.”

“Military or police?”

“Police.”

He informed me, “As you know, then, it’s traumatic. It’s so far removed from your normal, everyday experience that you can’t quite grasp what happened.”

“I think I got it.”

“What I mean is, if you’re in combat-or doing police work-you expect you may be wounded-or killed-and you think you’re prepared for it. But when it actually happens, you can’t believe it’s really happened to you.” He asked me, “Wasn’t that your reaction?”

“I really think I got what happened.”

“Did you? Well, maybe people react differently.” He expanded on his subject and said, “Then, after you comprehend what’s happened, you go into another state of mind.” He explained, “To paraphrase Winston Churchill, There’s nothing as satisfying as getting shot and surviving.”

“Right. The alternative is getting shot and dying.”

“That’s the point. It’s a near-death experience, and if you survive, you’re never the same again. But I mean that in a positive way. You feel very… euphoric… powerful. Almost immortal. Was that your experience?”

I recalled lying in the gutter on West 102nd Street after two Hispanic gentlemen popped off what sounded like a dozen rounds at me, managing an unimpressive three hits at twenty feet, and I remembered seeing my blood running into a storm drain in front of my face.

“How did you feel?” he asked.

“I think I felt fucked up for a few months.”

“But afterward. Didn’t it change your life?”

“Yeah. It ended my career.”

“Well,” he said, “that’s a big change. But I mean, did it change how you looked at life? How you felt about the future? Like, God had something big planned for you.”

“Like what? Getting shot again?”

“No… I mean-”

“Because I got shot again.”

“Really? In the line of duty?”

“Well, yeah. I wasn’t on vacation.”

“I thought your career was ended.”

“I’m on career number two.” I added, “Libyan guy. I’m still looking for him.”

“I see.” He seemed stuck on this subject. “Apparently, you take these attacks on you personally.”

You let the suspect talk because he may be headed somewhere. And even if he’s not revealing something about the crime, he’s revealing something about himself. I replied, “When people shoot at me, I tend to take it personally, even if it they don’t know me.”

He nodded and said, “That’s interesting because, in combat, you never take it personally, and you never think about finding the actual person who was shooting at you. That’s the last thing on your mind.”

“So, you weren’t pissed at the little guy who plugged you?”

“Not at all. He was just earning his pay. Same as I was earning mine.”

“That’s very forgiving. And you don’t strike me as the forgiving type.”

He let that slide and continued, “What I mean is, soldiers don’t see the enemy as individuals. The enemy is one big amorphous threat. So, it doesn’t matter who individually is trying to kill you, or whom you kill in return, as long as the guy you kill is wearing the same uniform as the guy who tried to kill you.” He explained, “You’re shooting at the uniform, not at the man. Understand?”

“Well… I never saw the Libyan, but the two Hispanic guys who tried to kill me were wearing tight black chinos, purple T-shirts, and pointy shoes.”

He smiled and said, “I guess you can’t go around shooting everyone who’s dressed like that. But I could shoot anyone who looked like the enemy.”

“That’s a treat.”

He informed me, “Revenge is very healthy, but it doesn’t have to be personal revenge. Any enemy combatant will do.”

“That may not be as healthy as you think.”

“I beg to differ. Revenge brings closure.” He added, “Unfortunately, that war ended before I could return to duty and even the score.”

I had the sudden thought that if I could pin Harry’s murder on this guy, his lawyer would plead insanity, and the judge would say, “I agree, Counselor. Your client is out of his fucking mind.”

It occurred to me that this guy had probably been lost in limbo after the Soviets went belly-up, and there were no major-league enemies left that were worth his attention, or who needed to be killed so that Bain Madox could save the nation.

Then came September 11, 2001. And that, I was sure, was what this was all about.

He changed the subject abruptly and asked me, “Have you gotten into the woods at all?”

“A little this morning. Why?”

“I was wondering if you’d seen any bears.”

“Not yet.”

“You should try to see a bear before you go back to the city.”

“Why?”

“It’s an experience. They’re fascinating to watch.”

“They don’t look that interesting on the National Geographic Channel.”

He smiled and said, “You can’t smell them on television. The thrill is being face-to-face with a wild animal that you know can kill you.”

“Right. That’s a thrill.”

“But if you’re armed, that’s cheating. The interesting thing about black bears is that you can actually interact with them. They’re dangerous, but they’re not dangerous. Follow?”

“I think I lost you after the first ‘dangerous.’”

“Well, think of a lion on one hand, and a lamb on the other. With those animals, you know exactly where you stand. Correct?”

“Right.”

“But a bear-a black bear-is more complex. They’re intelligent, they’re curious, and they will often approach a human. Ninety-five percent of the time, they’re just looking for a handout. But five percent of the time-and it’s hard to tell when that is-they’re looking to kill you.” He took a step closer to me and said, “That is what makes it interesting.”

“Right. That’s interesting.”

“You see my point? The potential for death is there, but the likelihood of death is low enough so that you are drawn into the encounter for the thrill. Your heart races, your adrenaline shoots out of your ears, and you’re stuck right there, between fright and flight. You see?”

I mean, I didn’t smell alcohol on his breath, but maybe he was drinking vodka, or snorting something, or he was nuts. Or maybe this was a parable, about John and Bain.

He concluded with, “Now, a brown bear or a polar bear is a different story. You know exactly what’s on their minds.”

“Right. What are those colors again? Brown is…?”

“Bad. Grizzly.”

“So, black is-”

“Not bad.” He added, “The white ones are polar bears. They’ll rip you apart.” He informed me, “We only have black bears here.”

“Good. And they know they’re black?”

He thought that was funny, then looked at his watch. “Well, again, thank you for stopping by. If… well, if there’s some sort of… fund established for Mr. Miller… please let me know.”

I totally lost it, but I took a breath and got myself under control. I really wanted to gut-shoot him, and watch him die slowly as I explained that me shooting him was very personal, and not at all professional and not what I was paid to do.

He seemed to be waiting for me to say good-bye, but I just stood there, and he said to me, “By the way, a mutual friend of ours, Rudy, stopped by last night.”

Or maybe I could explain to him that I shot him for God and country. I didn’t know what he was up to, but I was fairly certain that he had to be stopped, and if I didn’t stop him right now, then whoever tried to stop him later might be too late. Bain Madox would understand that.

He said, “Rudy. From the gas station in South Colton.”

I put both my hands in the pockets of my leather jacket and felt the butt of my Glock in my right hand.

Madox continued, “He seemed confused about something. He was under the impression I’d asked you to let him know that I wanted to see him.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No. Why did you tell him that?”

But if I shot him right here and now, only he would know why. And maybe that was enough.

But maybe I needed to know more. For sure, the police and the FBI would want to know more.

“Detective?”

And maybe, to be honest with myself, I couldn’t just pull my gun and shoot an unarmed man. And to be even more honest, Mr. Bain Madox intrigued me… no, he impressed me. And he’d already been shot-he’d survived a war, and he was, or believed he was, a patriot continuing to do his duty, and if I told him he was actually a psychopathic killer, he’d be shocked.

“Mr. Corey? Hello?”

We made eye contact, and I thought he guessed what was on my mind. In fact, his eyes focused on where my right hand was gripping the gun in my pocket.

Neither of us spoke, then he said to me, “Why did you tell him to tell me that you were a good shot?”

“Who?”

“Rudy.”

“Rudy?” I took another breath and brought my hand out of my pocket, empty. I said, “Rudy. Rudy, Rudy. How is Rudy?”

He seemed to sense a pivotal moment had passed, and he dropped the subject of Rudy. “I’ll have Carl show you out.” He walked to his desk, picked up a walkie-talkie, and was about to hit the Send button.

I said, “I’m here to investigate a homicide.”

He hesitated, then put down the walkie-talkie. He looked at me and asked, “What homicide?”

I moved closer to his desk and replied, “The murder of Harry Muller.”

He appeared appropriately surprised and confused. “Oh… I was told that it was an accident. The body had been found… I’m sorry, I should have expressed my condolences to you. He was a colleague of yours.”

“A friend.”

“Well, I am very sorry. But… I had a call from the sheriff’s office, and the person said this man’s body had been found in the woods and that it was ruled a hunting accident.”

“It hasn’t been ruled anything yet.”

“I see… so… there’s a possibility of foul play.”

“That’s right.”

“And…?”

“I was hoping you could help me.”

“No… I’m sorry. What would I know about…?”

I sat in the chair in front of his desk and motioned for him to have a seat.

He hesitated, aware that he didn’t have to sit and talk about this, and that he could ask me to get out of his chair, his house, and his life. But he wasn’t going to do that. He sat. Technically, I had no jurisdiction here to investigate a homicide-that was still the job of the state police. But Madox didn’t seem to know that, and I wasn’t about to give him a lesson in constitutional law.

We did the old eye-lock thing, and the guy never blinked. Amazing. How did he do that? Even guys with glass eyes blink.

He asked me, “How can I help you, Detective?”

“Well, it’s like this, Mr. Madox. Harry Muller, as you may know, was not here to watch birds.”

“You said he was.”

“He wasn’t. Actually, he was here to watch you.”

He didn’t feign shock or surprise. He seemed to think about that, nodded, then said to me, “I understand that the government is interested in me. A man in my position would be surprised if the government wasn’t interested in him.”

“Yeah? Why do you think the government is interested in you?”

“Well… because of my dealings with foreign powers. Oil pricing.” He informed me, “I’m a personal friend of the Iraqi oil minister.”

“No kidding? How’s he taking this war thing?”

“I haven’t spoken to him recently, but I imagine he’s not very positive about the imminent invasion of his country.”

“I guess not. So, you think the government is interested in you because… why?”

“Because my interests and the interests of the United States government don’t always coincide.”

“I see. So, whose interests come first?”

He smiled a little, then answered, “My country always comes first, but my country is not always well represented by my government.”

“Yeah. I can buy that. But let’s say for argument’s sake that the government doesn’t give a rat’s ass about your dealings with foreign powers. That maybe you’re wrong about that. So, why else would they be interested in you?”

“I have no idea, Mr. Corey. Do you?”

“No.”

“And why would Detective Miller from the Anti-Terrorist Task Force be sent to spy on me? Does the government think I’m a terrorist?”

“I don’t know. Who said that Detective Muller was from the Anti-Terrorist Task Force?”

He hesitated a second, then replied, “He’s a colleague of yours. You’re on the Task Force.”

“Right. Good detective work.”

He lit a cigarette, but again blew no smoke rings. “So, what you’re saying is that this man Miller-”

“Muller. Detective Harry Muller.”

“Yes. Detective Harry Muller was sent here to… spy on me-”

“And your guests.”

“And my guests, and you don’t know-”

“It’s called surveillance, by the way. Spying is a negative word.”

He leaned toward me. “Who gives a shit what it’s called?” He finally lost his cool, slammed his desk, raised his voice, and said, “If this man-Detective Muller-was sent here to… observe me and my guests, then I am damn pissed off about that! The government has no right to intrude on my privacy, or the privacy of my guests, who have lawfully assembled on private property for-”

“Right. Right, right, right. That’s another issue. The issue here is murder.”

“You say it is. The sheriff says it was an accident. And if it was murder, what does that have to do with me?”

If you tell the guy he’s a suspect, then you have to read him his rights, and I didn’t have the damn card with me, and if I did, and I read it, he’d say, “You got the wrong guy, Detective. Excuse me while I call my lawyer.”

So I said, “I didn’t say it had anything to do with you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To tell you the truth”-which I had no intention of doing-“I think it might have something to do with one of your security people.”

He really wasn’t buying that, but it was good enough so that we could both pretend we were on to something, and continue our cat-and-mouse routine for a while.

He leaned back and said to me, “That’s… that’s incredible… but… I mean, do you have any evidence of this?”

“I can’t discuss that.”

“All right. But do you suspect anyone in particular?”

“I can’t say at this point.” I explained, “If I name a suspect, and I’m wrong, there’s hell to pay.”

“Right. But… I’m not sure, then, how I could help.”

“Well, the standard procedure is for the FBI to ask you for all your personnel files, then we begin to question your entire security staff, and also your house staff, to try to determine everyone’s location, movements, and so forth at around the time of the death.”

I went on a bit, and he listened, then said, “I still don’t understand why you think one of my staff may have committed a murder. What would be his or her motivation?”

“Well, I’m not sure. Maybe it was a case of overenthusiasm.”

He didn’t reply.

“Let’s call it going beyond the call of duty. Maybe there was an altercation. Maybe what happened could be ruled involuntary manslaughter, or some other lesser offense, like justifiable homicide.”

He thought about that and said, “I’d hate to think one of my men could do this. They’re well trained, and there’s never been an incident before.” He looked concerned. “Do you think, as an employer, I could be sued for wrongful death?”

“That’s not my area of expertise. You should ask your lawyer.”

“I will.” He reminded me, “As I said yesterday, lawsuits are ruining this country.”

I thought he’d said lawyers, but now that he needed one, they weren’t so bad after all. I suggested helpfully, “I’ll ask Ms. Mayfield about that.”

He didn’t reply but put out his cigarette, then said, “Well, I’ll provide whatever personnel files you or anyone may need.” He asked me, “When do you want all of this?”

“Probably tomorrow.” I informed him, “There’s an FBI Evidence Recovery Team on the way.”

“All right… I’m not sure the files are kept here. They may be in my New York office.”

“Let me know.”

“How can I reach you?”

“The Point. How can I reach you?”

“As I said, through my security staff.”

“That may not work out in this case,” I reminded him.

“Then through my New York office.”

“How about your cell phone?”

“My office has a twenty-four-hour operator. They will call my cell phone.”

“Okay. How long will you be staying here?”

“I’m not sure. Why?”

“One day, two days, a year? When are you leaving?”

He obviously wasn’t used to being grilled, and he replied with impatience, “Two or three days. How long will you be staying here?”

“Until the case is solved.” I asked him, “Where are you going when you leave here?”

“I… probably New York.”

“Okay. I have to ask you to notify the FBI in New York if you plan to leave the country.”

“Why?”

“You may be a material witness in a homicide investigation.”

He didn’t reply.

“Also, I’ll need you to provide me with a list of your weekend guests.”

“Why?”

“They may also be material witnesses. You know, they may have overheard something, or be able to give us information about security staff or house staff who were acting strangely. Or about the movements of other guests.” I said to him helpfully, “It’s like a murder-mystery weekend in a big country house. You know, like, did Mr… say, Wolf, who was reading in the library, notice that… let’s say, Carl the butler was missing for two hours and came home with blood on his clothes. That sort of thing.”

No answer.

I continued, “Also, I’ll need any surveillance tapes that may have been taken on your property, or in this lodge. And I’ll need the security log, which I’m sure you, as a former Army officer, insist be kept. Who was on-duty, when they came on-duty, got off-duty, what security rounds they made, any unusual incidents, and so forth.” I reasserted, “I’m sure that log and those security tapes exist.”

He neither confirmed nor denied the existence of a logbook or security tapes.

I pulled out my notebook and said to him, “I wonder if you could give me the names of your weekend guests off the top of your head.” I reminded him, “I think you said there were about sixteen.”

By now, Mr. Bain Madox was feeling a little hemmed in, like George Custer. There didn’t seem to be any way out of this encirclement, but he found one. “I’m afraid I have to cut you short, Detective.” He explained, “I need to make some important phone calls to the Mideast, and it’s getting late there. And I have other pressing business to take care of.” He reminded me, “I run a business, and today is a workday.”

“I know that. I’m working a homicide.”

“I appreciate that, but… I’ll tell you what. I have an idea.”

“Good. What’s your idea?”

“Why don’t you come back this evening? We can mix business and pleasure. Let’s say cocktails at seven, and if you’d like to stay for dinner, that would be fine.”

“Well, I don’t know about dinner. Henry is doing woodcock tonight.”

He smiled and said, “I think I can do better than that, and I’ll also have a list of my weekend guests for you.”

“Terrific.” I couldn’t drop my lint roller on the rug without explaining why I was playing with a lint roller, so I slipped off my shoes and rubbed my socks over the fuzzy oriental rug, which is always easy to match.

I really had the strong sense that Harry had been here, and in about two days, I might know. Then, I could come back here with an arrest warrant for Mr. Bain Madox for murder, or better yet, since that charge might not stick, I could, in good conscience, gut-shoot him. Unless, of course, by that time, he was in Iraq or someplace playing poker with the oil minister.

I asked him, “Who’s cooking tonight?”

“I’ll work something out.” He added, “I can do the cocktails. Scotch, correct?”

“Right. Well, that’s very nice of you.”

“And of course bring Ms. Mayfield.”

“I’ll see if she’s back from her yodeling.”

“Good. Dress is casual.” He added with a smile, “No tux.”

“Tux is tomorrow night.”

“That’s right. Wednesdays and Saturdays.” He prompted, “Please talk Ms. Mayfield into coming, and tell her not to worry about how to dress.” He said to me, man-to-man, “You know how women are.”

“I do? When did that happen?”

We both got a little chuckle out of that, and we were bonding again. Great. Meanwhile, I wondered if Kate and I would get out of here alive. “Will anyone be joining us?”

“Uh… I’m not sure yet. But you and I can retire to the library if we need to take care of some business.”

“Good. I hate to talk about murder at dinner.” I asked him, “Are any of your weekend guests still here?”

“No. They’ve all left.”

Maybe he forgot about Mikhail Putyov.

He stood and said, “So, seven for cocktails, then some business, then dinner if you can pull yourself away from the woodcock.”

“That’s a tough call.” I slipped on my shoes, stood, and said, “Hey, what’s étuvée of vegetables?”

“I’m not sure.” He gave me some advice. “Don’t eat anything you can’t pronounce, and never eat anything whose name has an accent mark over any of the letters.”

“Great advice.”

“Again, sorry about Detective Muller. I hope to God it had nothing to do with any of my staff, but if it did, you can be assured of my complete cooperation.” He added, “I’ll see about the information you asked for.”

“Thanks. Meanwhile, mum’s the word. We don’t want to spook anyone.”

“I understand.”

We shook, I left his office, and there was Carl standing a few feet from the door. He said to me, “I’ll show you out.”

“Thanks. You could get lost in this place.”

“That’s why I’m showing you out.”

“Right.” Asshole.

We descended the stairs, and I asked Carl, “Where’s the restroom?”

He motioned to a door off the hallway. I went in and took the hand towel from a ring and wiped some surfaces, collecting hair, skin cells, and whatever other DNA the forensic people liked to play around with. I wished I could have gotten Madox’s cigarette, but short of asking him if I could keep his butt for a souvenir, that wasn’t possible.

I stuffed the hand towel in the small of my back and exited.

Carl showed me to the front door.

I said to him, “See you at six.”

“Seven.”

Not too bright. But loyal. And dangerous.

CHAPTER FORTY

Up ahead, the steel gate wasn’t opening as I approached the gatehouse, and I started honking.

The gate began to slide open, and as I reached the gatehouse, the two storm troopers gave me mean stares as they stood there with their thumbs hooked into their gun belts. If that was the best they could do, I wouldn’t bother to flip them the bird, but I did accelerate, veer close to them, then cut the wheel, and squeezed the Hyundai through the half-opened gate.

In my side-view mirror, I saw them kicking the gravel and stomping the ground. I think they were pissed off.

Maybe I didn’t have to be such a prick. But you need to establish who the alpha male is right up front. People like knowing their place in the pecking order.

Also, I had no doubt that one or both of these guys had grabbed Harry on the property. And if not them, then some guys wearing the same uniform. Right, Bain?

There was still no surveillance team visible, and I wondered what the hell Schaeffer was up to.

I drove out to Route 56 and headed north.

I replayed my conversation with Bain Madox, which made for some interesting side thoughts. Bottom line on that, Bain and John knew that Bain and John were playing head chess with each other.

Anyway, Madox asked me to dinner, and, of course, Ms. Mayfield was invited. And Madox deduced from my unchanged clothes that Ms. Mayfield and I had come here on short notice. So he went out of his way to make sure Ms. Mayfield would feel comfortable at the club in whatever she was wearing. That was very thoughtful of him-not to mention observant. Bain Madox would make a good detective.

I knew Kate was worried about me, and you can get away with a three-minute cell-phone call before it’s traced, so I turned on my phone and dialed the Pond House number. Kate answered, “Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“Thank God. I was starting to worry-”

“I’m fine. I can only talk for a minute. I need to run some errands, and I’ll be back in about an hour.”

“Okay. How did it go?”

“Good. I’ll fill you in when I get back. Did you get some of those things accomplished?”

“Yes, I-”

“Did you speak to Schaeffer?”

“I couldn’t reach him.”

“Okay… hey, did you get a pizza?”

“No. You can pick up something.”

“Hungry?” I asked.

“Famished.”

“Good. I swung an invitation for us for dinner at the Custer Hill Club.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you about it when I see you.” I informed her, “Dress is casual.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No. It’s casual. Seven for cocktails.”

“I mean-”

“I have to hang up, see you later.”

“John-”

“Bye. Love you.” I hung up and shut off my phone. Did I say we were going to dinner at the Custer Hill Club? Am I crazy?

Anyway, I was approaching Rudy’s gas station, and there was Rudy, talking to another self-service customer. I pulled in and called out, “Rudy!”

He saw me, ambled over, and said, “You back?”

“From where?”

“From…? I don’t know. Where’d you go?”

“I tried to smooth things over for you with Mr. Madox.”

“Yeah…? I told you, I talked to him. He’s okay.”

“No, he was still pissed at you. Well, I got good news and bad news. What do you want first?”

“Uh… the good news.”

“The good news is that he’s not pissed at you anymore. The bad news is that he’s opening a GOCO gas station across the street.”

“Huh? He’s what? Oh, jeez. He can’t do that.”

“He can and he is.”

Rudy looked across the street at the empty field, and I’m sure he could picture it: eight gleaming new pumps, clean restrooms, and maps of the park.

I said to him, “Competition is good. It’s American.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Hey, I need a favor. Rudy?”

“Huh…?”

“I gotta go pick up a deer carcass. You got something bigger I could swap for this Korean lawn mower?”

“Huh?”

“Just for tonight. And I’ll throw in a hundred bucks for your trouble.”

“Huh?”

“And I’ll fill your tank.”

“You need gas?”

I drove the Hyundai around the back of his station, out of view, and within five minutes I did a deal with Rudy, who was still acting like he’d been kicked in the head by a mule. In fact, he didn’t notice that the Hyundai keys were not in the ignition as I said they were.

My parting words to him were, “Don’t call Madox about this. That’ll make it worse. I’ll talk to him.”

“He can’t do that. I’ll go to court.”

Anyway, Rudy’s bigger vehicle turned out to be a beat-up Dodge van whose interior looked like it had suffered a fuel explosion during a food fight. But it ran like a champ.

I continued on, and in Colton, I passed up the turn for Canton and took the long route, via Potsdam.

When you’re running from the posse, you need to change horses often, shoot your last horse, and never ride the same trail twice.

I reached Canton and found Scheinthal’s Sporting Goods, where I bought a box of.40-caliber rounds for Kate and a box of 9mm for myself. Everyone in law enforcement should be using the same caliber handgun, like in the military, but that’s another story. I also got us four spare Glock magazines. The proprietor, Ms. Leslie Scheinthal, needed ID for the ammo purchase, and I showed her my driver’s license, not my Fed creds.

I needed to change my socks, which had recently become forensic evidence, so I bought a pair of wool socks that would be good for collecting more rug fibers and hairs in Mr. Madox’s dining room and library.

Of course, all this investigative technique stuff would become moot if Madox slipped a Mickey Finn in our drinks, or shot us with a tranquilizer dart, and we woke up dead, like Harry. Also, there was the possibility of good, old-fashioned gunplay.

On that subject, I had the thought that a situation could arise where Kate and I might be relieved of our weapons. I had no intention of letting that happen without a fight, but the fact was, we were walking into an armed camp, and it’s hard to argue with ten guys who have assault rifles pointed at you. I was sure that Harry had encountered a similar situation.

So I looked around the sporting-goods store for something that wouldn’t set off a metal detector and might pass a frisk, and at the same time would be more useful in a tight situation than, say, a pair of wool socks.

Ms. Scheinthal, who was a pretty young lady-though I didn’t notice-asked me, “Can I help you with anything?”

“Well… this is kind of a long story…” I mean, I really didn’t want to get into the whole thing about my dinner host and his private army holding me up at gunpoint and taking my pistols, then me needing a hidden weapon to kill them, and so forth. So I said, “I’m… I need some survival gear.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, Leslie. What do you have?”

She walked me to an aisle and said, “Well, here’s some stuff. But all camping gear is really survival gear.”

“Not the way my ex-wife camped, with a house trailer and a cleaning lady.”

Leslie smiled.

I looked over the stuff and tried to figure out what the hell I could smuggle into the lodge that wouldn’t set off a metal detector. Stun grenades have almost no metal, so I asked her, “Do you have stun grenades?”

She laughed. “No. Why would I carry stun grenades?”

“I don’t know. Maybe to fish. You know, like dynamite fishing.”

She informed me, “That’s illegal.”

“No kidding? I do it all the time in Central Park.”

“Come on, John.”

She seemed to want to help, but I wasn’t being very helpful myself. She said, “So, you’re camping out. Right?”

“Right.”

“So, do you have winter gear?”

“What’s that?”

She laughed. “It gets cold out there at night, John. This isn’t New York City.”

“Right. That’s why I bought these wool socks.”

She thought that was funny, then said, “Well, you need winter camping gear.”

“I really don’t have a lot of cash, and my ex-wife stole my credit card.”

“You got a rifle, at least?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you need to watch out for the bears. They’re unpredictable this time of year.”

“So am I.”

“And don’t think you’re safe with those peashooters you got. Last guy I knew who tried to drop a bear with a pistol is now a rug in a bear den.”

“Right. Funny.”

“Yeah. Not funny. Well, if a bear comes around your camp, looking for food, you have to bang pots and pans-”

“I don’t have pots and pans. That’s why I need stun grenades.”

“No. You know what you need?”

“No, what?”

“You need a compressed gas horn.”

She took a tin canister off the shelf, and I asked her, “Is that a can of chili?”

“No-”

“Compressed gas. You know?”

“John-jeez. No, this is like… an air horn.” She explained, “This usually scares them off, and you can also use it to signal you’re in trouble. Two longs and a short. Okay? Only six bucks.”

“Yeah?”

“And this…” She took a box off the shelf and said, “This is a BearBanger kit.”

“Huh?”

“This is like a signal flare launcher with cartridges. Okay? See, here, it says the flare fires one hundred thirty feet high and can be seen nine miles away during the day, and eighteen miles at night.”

“Right…” A little flare went off in my head, and I said, “Yeah… that could do it.”

“Right. Okay, when you fire this cartridge, it puts out a one-hundred-fifteen-decibel report. That’ll scare the you-know-what out of the bear.”

“Right. So the bear will make doo-doo in the woods.”

She chuckled. “Yeah. Here.” She handed me the box, and I opened it. It seemed to consist of a launcher, not much bigger than a penlight and similar in appearance, plus six BearBanger flares, the size of AA batteries. This little thing packed a wallop.

Leslie said, “You just put the cartridge in here, then push the pen-like button, and the flare fires. Okay? But try not to point it at your face.” She laughed.

Actually, it wasn’t my face that it was going to be pointed at if and when I needed to fire this thing.

She continued, “And don’t point it at the bear. Okay? You could hurt the bear or start a forest fire. You don’t want to do that.”

“No?”

“No. Okay, you’ll get a bright light, equal to… what’s this say? About fifteen thousand candlepower.” She smiled. “If I see it, or hear it, I’ll come looking for you.” She added, “This is thirty bucks. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“So, take the air horn and take the BearBanger. Right?”

“Right… actually, I’ll take two BearBangers.”

“You got company?”

“No, but this would make a nice birthday gift for my five-year-old nephew.”

“No, John. No. This is not a toy. This is a big flash bang for adults only. In fact, you need to sign an ATF form to buy this.”

“Adult-in-training form?”

“No. Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.”

“Really?” I took another BearBanger kit, and as we walked to the checkout counter, I silently thanked the fucking bears for helping me solve a problem.

Leslie gave me a form from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, in which I stated that I hereby certified that the BearBangers were to be used for legitimate wildlife pest control purposes only.

Well, that was very close to my intended use, so I signed the form.

There was a box of energy bars on the counter, and I took one for Kate. I would have taken two, but I wanted to keep her hungry for dinner.

Leslie asked me, “Is that it?”

“Yup.”

She rang up the ammunition, air horn, socks, energy bar, and two BearBanger kits.

I paid her with the last of my cash, and I was two bucks short, so I was going to give up the energy bar, but Leslie said, “Owe it to me.” She gave me her business card and suggested, “Stop back tomorrow and let me know what else you need. I’ll take a check, or there’s a few ATMs in town.”

“Thanks, Leslie, see you tomorrow.”

“I hope.”

Me, too.

I got back in Rudy’s van and headed toward Wilma’s B amp;B.

Bears. Madox. Nuke. ELF. Putyov. Griffith.

Asad Khalil, the Libyan terrorist with a sniper rifle, was looking good right now.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

At 4:54 P.M., I pulled into the long driveway to Wilma’s B amp;B. I could see a woman peering through the window of the main house, and it was undoubtedly Wilma, waiting for her UPS lover, and she was probably wondering who the guy was in the van.

I stopped at Pond House, gathered my plastic shopping bags from Scheinthal’s Sporting Goods, got out, knocked on the door, and announced, “It’s your mountain man.”

Kate opened the door, and I went inside. She asked me, “Where did you get that van?”

“Rudy.” I explained, “It’s important to switch vehicles when you’re a fugitive.”

She didn’t comment on that. “How did it go? What’s in those bags?”

“It went well, though Bain still doesn’t have his meds right. Let me show you what I bought.”

I emptied the contents of the two bags on the kitchen table. “Clean socks for me, some extra ammo and magazines for us-”

“Why-?”

“An air horn, and two BearBangers-”

“Two what?”

“Scares away the bears, and signals that you’re in trouble. Pretty neat, huh?”

“John-”

“Hey, you should have seen this sporting-goods store. I never knew so many things came in camouflage. Here’s an energy bar for you.”

“Did you get anything to eat?”

“I had a granola bar.” Or was that a Ring Ding?

I sat on the kitchen chair and pulled off my shoes, then my socks, which I could see had rug fibers on the soles, and at least one long dark hair, which I hoped belonged to Bain Madox, Kaiser Wilhelm, or Harry Muller. I said, “This is from Madox’s office, and I have a hunch-really a hope-that Harry was sitting in the same chair that I sat in.”

She nodded.

I put the socks in a plastic bag, then took a page from my notebook and wrote a brief description of the time, date, method, and place of collection, signed it, and put it in the bag.

I then took the lint roller out of my pocket, removed the protective paper, peeled off the first layer of sticky paper that was coated with fibers, and explained to Kate, “This was from the foyer carpet.”

I carefully pressed the sticky paper to the inside of the plastic bag and said, “One time, I swiped a murder suspect’s ham sandwich from his kitchen”-I began writing up the lint-paper description and continued-“I got enough DNA to link him to the crime… but his lawyer argued that the evidence was improperly obtained-stolen, without a warrant-and therefore not admissible, and I had to swear that the suspect offered me the half-eaten sandwich…” I rolled the bag up and asked Kate, “Do you have any tape?”

“No. But I’ll get some. So, what happened?”

“To what? Oh, the evidence. So, the defense attorney grills me about why the accused would offer me a half-eaten ham sandwich, and I’m on the stand for twenty minutes, explaining how this happened, and why I shoved the sandwich in my pocket instead of eating it.” I smiled at the memory of that testimony. “The judge was impressed with my bullshit, and ruled the ham sandwich as admissible.” I added, “The defense attorney went bonkers and accused me of lying.”

“Well… but it was a lie. Wasn’t it?”

“It was a gray area.”

She didn’t comment on that, but asked, “Did they get a conviction?”

“Justice was done.”

I found the hand towel in the bottom of the second bag and said to Kate, “This is from the downstairs pee-pee room, and I used this to wipe some surfaces.” As I wrote a note about the hand towel, I said, “This comes under the category of the ham sandwich. Was I offered the hand towel to keep, or did I take it without a search warrant? What would you say?”

“It’s not for me to say. It’s for you to say.”

“Right…” I wrote on the note and said aloud, “Offered to me by Carl, an employee of the suspect, when he noticed it was… what? Stuck in my zipper?”

“You may have to think about that.”

“Right. I’ll finish this later. Okay, so with any luck, some of these hairs and fibers from Custer Hill will match those found on Harry, and similarly, maybe some of Harry’s hair and clothing fibers were left at Custer Hill, and they’ll be mixed in with this stuff.”

Kate had no comment, except to say, “Good job, John.”

“Thank you.” I informed her, “I was a good detective.”

“You still are.”

Shucks.

She said, “I think we have enough forensic and other evidence now to call Tom Walsh, then get back to New York, ASAP.”

I ignored that suggestion and showed her my new wool socks. “We have another shot at collecting evidence from the lodge.” I asked her, “What kind of socks do you have on?”

She didn’t reply to my question, and instead asked me, “Are you serious about that dinner invitation?”

“I am.” I put the lint roller back in my pocket. “How many times does a murder suspect invite you to dinner?”

“Well, the Borgias used to do it all the time.”

“Yeah? They were…? Gambino family. Right?”

“No, they were Italian nobility who used to poison their dinner guests.”

“Really? And the guests kept coming? That’s pretty stupid.”

“Point made.”

She unwrapped the energy bar, and I asked her, “Do you want me to take a bite to see if it’s poisoned?”

“No, but if you’re hungry, I’ll share this with you.”

“I’m saving my appetite for dinner.”

“I’m not going there.”

“Sweetheart, he specifically invited you.”

“And you’re not going either.” She said to me, “Tell me what you and Madox talked about.”

“Okay, but first, call Wilma.”

“Why?”

“Tell her you’ll get her laptop back to her before six-thirty, and ask her for a roll of tape.”

“Okay.” She moved to the desk, and I walked barefoot to the couch, not wanting to taint my new socks with Wilma’s B amp;B.

Kate picked up the phone, and I said to her, “Also, ask Wilma to call you immediately if your husband drives by in the white Hyundai.”

I thought Kate would tell me I was an infantile idiot, but she smiled and said, “Okay.” She had an odd sense of humor.

Kate called and got Wilma on the phone and thanked her for the laptop and promised to return it before 6:30. Then Kate said, “Could I impose on you for two more favors? I need a roll of tape-masking tape or duct tape. I’m happy to pay you for it. Thank you. Oh, and if you see my husband drive by in the white Hyundai, could you call me immediately?” Kate smiled as Wilma said something. Kate explained, “It’s just a friend, but… well… yes-”

“Tell her you need enough tape for your wrists and ankles, and see if she has whipped cream.”

“Hold on, please-” She covered the phone and, suppressing a laugh, said to me, “John-”

“And call us if any other vehicle is headed for Pond House.”

Kate looked at me again, nodded, and said to Wilma, “My husband may be driving another vehicle. So, if you see any vehicle coming toward Pond House-yes, thank you.”

Kate hung up and said to me, “Wilma suggests that my friend move his van, and reminded me that there’s a back door off the porch.”

We both got a good chuckle out of that, which is what we needed. Kate said, “As if I don’t know how to get rid of a guy out the back door.”

“Hey.”

She smiled, then said, seriously, “I guess Wilma is now our lookout.”

“She’s motivated.”

Kate nodded. “Sometimes, you think good.”

“I’m motivated.”

Anyway, we belatedly hugged and kissed, then Kate informed me, “I booked us a flight to LaGuardia from Syracuse at eight-thirty A.M. tomorrow. That was the first available flight I could get.”

I didn’t want to argue about that at this point. “I hope you didn’t use your credit card.”

“They weren’t taking checks over the phone.”

“Well, when you get to the airport, tell Liam Griffith I said hello.”

“John, they can’t get credit-card information that fast… well… we can drive to Toronto tonight. There are lots of flights to New York and Newark from Toronto.”

“We are not crossing an international border.” I asked, “Okay, how’d you make out?”

She opened her notebook on the desk. “All right. First, as I said, I couldn’t reach Major Schaeffer. I called twice and left messages that I’d call him again. But I don’t think he wants to talk to me. You may have better luck.”

“I’ll call him later.” I lay on the couch and said, “There was no visible stakeout team at McCuen Pond Road.”

“Maybe they were concealed.”

“Maybe. But maybe Schaeffer pulled the plug on us.”

“But you went in anyway.”

“I carved a note on a birch tree.”

She continued, “I went through the flight manifests, airline reservation sheets, and car rental agreements. There were no startling names that popped out, except Paul Dunn and Edward Wolffer. And, of course, Mikhail Putyov.” She glanced at her notes and continued, “There were a few other names that sounded familiar, but maybe that’s because I’m reading into these names.” She added, “For instance, James Hawkins. Does that sound familiar to you? And don’t tell me he played third base for the Yankees.”

“Okay, he didn’t. Hawkins. Did you Google him?”

“I did. There is a James Hawkins on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Air Force General. But I can’t tell if this is the same guy.”

“Well… if he went to the Custer Hill Club, it probably is. Did he rent a car?”

“No. He arrived from Boston on Saturday, at nine twenty-five A.M., and departed on the twelve forty-five P.M. flight back to Boston on Sunday, connecting to Washington.”

“Okay… if he went to Custer Hill, he was probably picked up by the van.” I added, “It’s interesting that Madox didn’t send his corporate jets for any of these VIPs. But I guess he and they probably didn’t want that direct connection between them. And that’s always a little suspicious.”

Kate replied, “Often, it’s just a matter of government officials not accepting costly gifts or favors from rich people. It’s an ethical issue.”

“That’s even more suspicious.” I said, “So, Madox may also have had a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff at his gathering. Air Force general.”

“I wonder if these guests knew Harry was there, and what happened to him…”

I couldn’t imagine that people like that would be complicit in a murder. On the other hand, if the stakes were high enough, anything was possible. “What else on the airport info?”

“That’s it. As for the dozens of other names, we’ll need a team to work that list to see who these people are, and what, if any, connection any of them might have to Bain Madox.”

I said, “I hope our colleagues are already working on that. But we’ll never know the results.”

She didn’t comment on that and said instead, “Then, I went online and Googled Mr. Bain Madox, and there’s surprisingly little on him.”

“That’s not so surprising.”

“I guess not. Most of what I found were corporate facts-his position as CEO and principal shareholder of Global Oil Corporation. And not much on that. Also, very little in the way of biography, almost nothing personal-no mention of his ex-wife or children-only a half-dozen quotes from published sources, and not a single unpublished quote or comment from anyone.”

“Apparently, he’s able to get blogs and other third-party information deleted.”

“Apparently.” She glanced at her notes and went on, “The only thing vaguely interesting is that about fifty percent of his oil and gas holdings, and half his tanker fleet, are owned by unnamed interests in the Middle East.”

I thought about that, and what Madox had just said about his Iraqi oil-minister buddy during my chat with him. This meant that, like most Western oil executives, he had to kiss some ass in Sandland. But since Bain Madox did not seem like the ass-kissing type, he might be planning a way to eliminate his partners, forever and ever. Maybe that’s what this was about.

Kate continued, “I then went online and researched ELF.” She informed me, “There’s not much more than what John Nasseff told us, except that the Russians use their ELF system differently than we do.”

“Right. They have more letters in their alphabet.” I yawned and listened to my stomach growl.

“There’s another difference.” She looked at her notes again. “Listen to this-the U.S., as we discovered, sends ELF messages to the nuclear sub fleet as a bell ringer, but the Russians, during times of heightened tensions, send a continuous message to their nuclear submarines that, in effect, says, ‘All is well.’ When the positive message stops, that means there’s a new, urgent message on the way, and if that message doesn’t arrive within the time it would take for an ELF signal to reach the submarines, then the silence is taken to mean the ELF station has been destroyed, and the subs are then authorized to launch against their predesignated targets in the U.S., or China, or wherever.”

“Jeez, I hope they’re paying their electric bills on time.”

“Me, too.” Kate continued, “This is why our ELF receiver in Greenland was able to home in on the Russian ELF signal on the Kola Peninsula-because they were using this continuous ‘All is well’ signal during a period of heightened tensions, which, according to this article, we precipitated in order to get the Russians to switch to their continuous-message system, which, in turn, enabled us to find their ELF transmitter on the Kola Peninsula.”

“Wow. Aren’t we clever? And talk about nuclear brinkmanship. Aren’t we glad the Cold War is over?”

“Yes. But this got me thinking that Madox, who had once obtained American ELF codes, may have obtained the Russian ELF codes.” She informed me, “According to this article-written by a Swede, incidentally-Russian encryption software is not as sophisticated or impenetrable as ours, so it could be that Madox has changed his ELF frequency to the frequency used by the Russians, and he’s going to try to send false signals to the Russian sub fleet to nuke… China, or the Mideast, or whoever he doesn’t like these days.”

I thought about that. “I guess if the Russian codes are easier to penetrate than ours, that’s a possibility.” I added, “Same Custer Hill ELF transmitter, different nuclear submarines. Any more interesting ELF stuff?”

“Just that the Indians are looking to build an ELF station.”

I sat up on the couch and asked, “What the hell do they need that for? Launching tomahawks? They have the casinos, for God’s sake.”

“John, the India Indians.”

“Oh…”

“They’re developing a nuclear submarine fleet. So are the Chinese and the Pakistanis.”

“That sucks. Next, it’ll be the postal workers. Then we can kiss our asses good-bye.”

Kate informed me, “Actually, the world is becoming a far more dangerous place than it was during the Cold War when it was just us and them.”

“Right. What’s the median price of a house in Potsdam?”

She didn’t seem to recall and sat at the desk, lost in thought. Then she said, “I also discovered some… not good news.”

“Like, bad news?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I’m still trying to sort it out. Let’s finish the rest of what we need to discuss first so we have a context.”

“Is your mother coming to visit?”

“This is not a joke.”

“All right. What’s next?”

“Mikhail Putyov.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Mikhail Putyov,” I said. “No sign of him at Custer Hill. How about his home or office?”

“I called his office first, and his secretary, Ms. Crabtree, said he wasn’t in, so I said I was a doctor and this concerned a serious health matter.”

“That’s a good one. I never used that.”

“It works every time. Anyway, Ms. Crabtree loosened up a bit and told me that Dr. Putyov hadn’t shown up at work, hadn’t called, and that her calls to his cell phone went right into voice mail. She had also called Putyov’s wife, but Mrs. Putyov did not know where her husband was.” Kate added, “Obviously, Putyov never told anyone where he was going.”

“Did you get Putyov’s cell-phone number?”

“No. Ms. Crabtree wouldn’t give it to me, but she gave me hers for after hours, and I gave her my beeper number.” Kate added, “Ms. Crabtree sounded concerned.”

“Okay, so Mikhail is AWOL from MIT. How about home?”

“Same. Mrs. Putyov was on the verge of tears. She said that even when Mikhail is with his mistress, he calls and makes an excuse for not coming home.”

“He’s a good husband.”

“John, don’t be an asshole.”

“Just kidding. So, Mikhail is not just AWOL, he’s missing in action.”

“Well, he is as far as his wife and secretary are concerned. But he’s probably still at the Custer Hill Club.”

I shook my head. “If he was, he’d have called. A man in his situation, with FBI chaperones, doesn’t disappear and put his wife, family, or office in a position to think about calling the FBI. That’s the last thing Putyov wants.”

Kate nodded, then asked, “So…?”

“Well,” I said, “apparently, not everyone who walks into the Custer Hill Club leaves in the same condition as when they arrived.”

“Apparently not.” She pointed out, “You’ve been there twice. Want to try again?”

“Third time’s a charm.”

She ignored that and continued, “So, I Googled ‘Putyov, Mikhail,’ and pulled up some published articles and unpublished pieces that other physicists had written about him.”

“Do they like him?”

“They respect him. He’s a star in the world of nuclear physics.”

“That’s nice. Then why is he hanging around Bain Madox?”

“There could be a professional relationship. Although, for all we know, it could be some sort of personal relationship. Maybe they’re just friends.”

“Then why didn’t he tell his wife where he was going?”

“That’s the question. Anyway, all we know for sure is that a nuclear physicist named Mikhail Putyov was a guest at the Custer Hill Club and is now missing. Anything beyond that is speculation.”

“Right. Hey, did you call The Point?”

“Yes. There were two new messages from Liam Griffith saying it was urgent that we contact him.”

“Urgent for who? Not us. Did you say we were shopping for moose heads in Lake Placid?”

“I told Jim at the front desk to tell anyone who calls that we are expected back at The Point for dinner.”

“Good. That might keep Griffith cooled off until he shows up at The Point and discovers he got snookered.” I asked, “Did Walsh call?”

“No.”

“See? Our boss cut us loose. Nice guy.”

“I think we cut him loose, John, and now he’s returning the favor.”

“Whatever. Screw him. Who else called?”

“Major Schaeffer called The Point, as per your suggestion. His message to you was, ‘Your car has been returned to The Point. Keys with front desk.’”

“That’s nice. He forgot to leave the stakeout team in place, but he didn’t forget to cover his butt with the FBI.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you were cynical?”

“Sweetheart, I was an NYPD cop for twenty years. I’m a realist.” I reminded her, “I think we’ve been through this before. Okay, what else?”

She dropped her favorite subject and continued, “A man named Carl-sounds familiar-called and left a message that said, ‘Dinner is on.’ Jim asked for the details, but Carl said that Mr. Corey already had the details and please bring Ms. Mayfield, as discussed.” She added, “So, Madox wasn’t leaving his name, or anything that could connect our disappearance to him or his lodge.”

“What disappearance?”

“Our disappearance.”

“Why are you so suspicious of people?”

“John, fuck off.” She continued, “We also had three voice-mail messages in our room.”

“Griffith and who else?”

Kate referred to her notes. “Liam Griffith, at three forty-nine, said, cheerily, ‘Hi, guys. Thought I’d see you earlier. Give me a call when you get this. Hope all is well.’”

I laughed and said, “What an asshole. How stupid does he think we are?” I quickly added, “Sorry. That sounded cynical-”

“Second voice mail asking if we’d like to schedule a massage-”

“Yes.”

“Last voice mail from Henri, who sounds cute, asking what type of mustard you’d like with your… pigs-in-the-blanket.”

“See? You didn’t believe me.”

“John, we have more pressing matters to deal with than-”

“Did you call him back?”

“I did, to keep up the pretext that we were returning to The Point.”

“What did you tell Henry? Deli mustard, right?”

“I did. He’s very charming.”

“He wanted to show me his woodcock.”

She ignored that. “I also made a massage appointment for both of us tomorrow morning.”

“Good. I’m looking forward to that.”

“We’re not going to be there.”

“This is true. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint Henry after all the trouble he went to, but I’m not sorry to miss cocktails with Liam Griffith.”

Kate looked a little fatigued, or maybe worried, and I needed to give her a pep talk, so I said, “You did a great job. You’re the best partner I’ve ever had.”

“I’m your boss.”

“Right. Best boss I’ve ever had. Okay, so, the FAA-”

The phone rang, and I said to Kate, “You expecting a call?”

“No.”

“Maybe it’s Wilma. Your husband is on the way.”

She hesitated, then answered the phone. “Hello?” She listened, then said, “Thank you. Yes… I’ll tell him. Thanks.”

She hung up. “It was Wilma. Duct tape is outside our door. She says my friend should move his van.”

We both laughed, but clearly we were on edge. I went to the window, checked out the terrain, then opened the door and retrieved a big roll of duct tape.

I sat at the kitchen table and began wrapping the makeshift evidence bags, as per rules and regulations. I said to her, “Tell me about the FAA.”

She didn’t reply and instead asked me, “Why don’t we just get the Hyundai back from Rudy, take those evidence bags, and drive to New York?”

“Do you have a pen? I need to sign this tape.”

“We could be at 26 Fed at about…” She looked at her watch and said, “About three or four in the morning.”

“You can go. I’m staying here. This is where it’s happening, and this is where I need to be. Pen, please.”

She handed me a pen from her bag. “What is happening?”

“I don’t know, but when it happens, I’ll be here.” I signed the tape and said, “Actually, we should split up in case… Okay, you drive Rudy’s van to Massena, rent another car, and drive to New York.”

She sat on the chair beside me, took my hand, and said, “Let me finish telling you what I’ve learned, then we’ll decide what to do.”

This sounded like she had an ace up her sleeve, which was probably the bad news. Whatever it was, it was pressing on her mind.

I said, “The FAA. Bad news?”

“The good news is that I was able to get some information. The bad news is the information.”

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The FAA,” Kate began. “As you predicted, this was a challenge. But, finally, someone at the FAA clued me in to call the regional Flight Service Station-the FSS-in Kansas City, where these two GOCO aircraft arrived Sunday afternoon from Adirondack Regional Airport.”

“Good. What did the FSS in KC say?”

“Well, they said these two aircraft landed, refueled, and filed continuing flight plans, then departed.” She glanced at her notes. “One Cessna Citation, piloted by Captain Tim Black, with tail number N2730G, flew to Los Angeles. The other, piloted by Captain Elwood Bellman, with tail number N2731G, flew to San Francisco.”

“Really?” That sort of surprised me. I was sure that one or both of Madox’s jets would fly back here to Adirondack Regional Airport, where Madox could hop aboard and go wherever he needed to go in a hurry. “And those were their final destinations?”

“As of about an hour ago. I called the FSS in LA and San Francisco, and no new flight plans have been filed.”

“Okay… but why did they fly to Los Angeles and San Francisco?”

“That’s what we need to find out.”

“Right. We also should find out where the pilots are staying in these cities so we can talk to them.”

“I had the same thought, and I discovered that private aircraft use what’s called Fixed Base Operations-FBOs-to take care of arriving and departing aircraft. At LAX, I discovered that GOCO aircraft use Garrett Aviation Service as their FBO, and at SFO, GOCO aircraft use a company called Signature Flight Support. So, I called these FBOs and asked if they knew where the GOCO pilots and co-pilots might be. I was told that sometimes a pilot leaves a local number, usually a hotel, where they can be contacted if needed, or their cell-phone numbers. But not this time. The only contact information that these FBOs had on the pilots was the GOCO flight department at Stewart International Airport in Newburgh, New York, where GOCO has its base operations, maintenance hangar, and dispatch office.”

“And? You called these people?”

“Yes, I called the GOCO dispatch office at Stewart, but, for obvious reasons, I did not identify myself as FBI, and no one would give me any information on the two crews.”

“Did you tell them you were a doctor and that both pilots and co-pilots are legally blind?”

“No, but I’ll let you call and see what you can find out.”

“Maybe later.” I asked, “What are the names of the co-pilots?”

“Oddly, the flight plans don’t ask for the name of the co-pilot.”

I could see that the Federal Aviation Administration hadn’t tightened up its act regarding private aviation since 9/11. But I already knew that.

Kate said, “The flight plan does show the number of persons on board, and both aircraft had two. Pilot and co-pilot.”

“Okay… so these aircraft landed at LAX and SFO, no passengers, and they’ve been parked there since Sunday night, and there are no new flight plans filed, and I assume Captain Black and Captain Bellman and their unidentified co-pilots are enjoying the sights of LA and San Francisco as they await further instructions.”

“It would seem so.”

I thought about all of this and concluded that maybe it had no meaning, and was perfectly normal. Just four pilots jetting across the continent without passengers, burning jet fuel at the rate of several hundred gallons per hour, while their boss transported more fuel into the country in his tankers. I asked Kate, “Does this seem strange to you?”

“In and of itself, maybe yes. But we don’t know this world.” She informed me, “One of the FBO employees in San Francisco, for instance, suggested that maybe these aircraft had been chartered by someone for a pickup in San Francisco.”

“Do you think a man like Madox charters his personal jets to make a few bucks?”

“Apparently some rich people do. But there’s more.”

“I hoped there was.”

Kate continued, “I spoke to a Ms. Carol Ascrizzi, who works for Signature Flight Support in San Francisco, and she told me she was asked to transport the pilot and co-pilot in the courtesy van to the taxi line at the main terminal.”

This didn’t seem unusual or important, but I could tell by Ms. Mayfield’s tone of voice that it was. “And?”

“And, Ms. Ascrizzi said that GOCO, like most bigger companies, almost always books a car and driver ahead of time to take the flight crew wherever they need to go. Therefore, she found it odd that this pilot and co-pilot needed to take a taxi from the main terminal. So, Ms. Ascrizzi, wanting to be nice to good customers, told me she offered to drive the two guys to their hotel.” Kate informed me, “Apparently, these crews usually stay in some place with corporate rates near the airport. But the co-pilot told her, thanks, but they were going downtown, and they’d take a taxi.”

“Okay… did she know where they were going?”

“No, they didn’t say.”

Which, I thought, could be why they were taking a taxi and not the offered courtesy van, and why there was no livery car waiting for them. “All right. Anything else?”

“Yes, she told me that these two guys-pilot and co-pilot-had two large black leather trunks with them. The trunks were padlocked, and they were on wheels, and they were very heavy, and it took both men to get each trunk into the van.”

“Okay. Big and heavy. Padlock and wheels.” I said, “I guess that was the cargo that Chad saw at the airport here. Now, it’s been off-loaded in San Francisco, and I assume LA also.” Kate wasn’t bringing this information to any point, so I mentioned helpfully, “Maybe the men had their wives or girlfriends on board as stowaways, and these big, heavy trunks held two days of clothes for the ladies.”

She inquired, “How did you manage to get a sexist remark into a conversation about aircraft cargo?”

“Sorry.” It wasn’t easy. “I was just speculating.” I further speculated, “So… gold? Two dead bodies? What?”

“You should think about it.”

“Okay. What did Carol Ascrizzi say? Was she suspicious? Did the pilot and co-pilot act suspicious or nervous?”

“The pilot and co-pilot, according to Ms. Ascrizzi, were perfectly normal, and joked about the weight of the trunks and the fact that GOCO hadn’t booked a car and driver for them. The co-pilot flirted with Ms. Ascrizzi and told her he hoped he’d see her Wednesday when they returned to the airport for their departure.”

“Okay… departure to where?”

“The co-pilot said their final destination was LaGuardia, but he didn’t say what stops they’d make en route. The pilot left instructions at Signature Flight Support to have the aircraft ready for a noon departure on Wednesday with full fuel.”

“All right… so, the pilot and co-pilot, according to Ms. Ascrizzi, seemed normal, but the cargo did not.” I thought about that and said, “So, the cargo was flown to LA and San Francisco in two private jets, rather than one jet, making two stops in those nearby cities.”

“That’s correct.”

“And there was no car and driver to take the crew and this cargo to where they needed to go.”

“Correct.”

“And the pilot instructed Signature Flight Support in San Francisco to have the aircraft ready for a noon Wednesday departure with the final destination of LaGuardia, but from what you said, they hadn’t yet filed a flight plan with the FAA.”

“Correct. But that’s not unusual. Flight plans, I discovered, need to be filed near the time of departure, to take into account current weather, airport traffic, and so forth.”

“That’s logical.”

“Sorry I couldn’t feed your paranoia.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I got more where that came from. In fact, here’s one-the pilot and co-pilot’s secret destination in San Francisco.”

“Why secret?”

“Well, there was no hired car and driver, which would leave a paper trail, plus they passed up the opportunity to take the courtesy van into town after loading these trunks full of bricks or something into the van, which then had to be off-loaded at the taxi line, then loaded into two taxis, because of the size of the trunks, for the trip into town. Does that make sense?”

“No. So, I called Garrett Aviation Service at LAX and got a guy named Scott on the phone who asked around while I was on hold, and he got back to me with pretty much the same story-two big black trunks, and the courtesy van only to the taxi line.”

“Ah. So, apparently these four guys had the same instructions-to take taxis to wherever they were going with those trunks.”

“It would seem that way.”

“So, quite obviously, these two flight crews had a secret destination or destinations in LA and San Francisco, and that’s why they each took a taxi, which would take a lot of luck to trace. Now, the question is, Does this have anything to do with Bain Madox’s insane plan to become Emperor of North America, or whatever the hell he’s up to? Or, is it not relevant?”

“I think it’s relevant.”

“Is this the bad news?”

She replied, “We need more context. Now, you tell me about your conversation with Madox.”

“Okay. Then I get the bad news?”

“Yes. Unless you can figure it out yourself before we’re finished with the other items on the agenda.”

“That’s a challenge. Okay, do I have everything I need to figure out the bad news?”

“You’re at the point where I was when I figured it out. Then I found one more piece of information that confirmed what I was afraid of.”

“Okay. Wow.”

I thought about that, and there was something coming together in my brain, but before it fell into place, Kate said, “You’re on. Custer Hill. Bain Madox.”

All roads lead back to Custer Hill and Bain Madox.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Isat back on the couch, and Kate sat in an easy chair. I said, “All right. First, Bain Madox was half expecting me.” I added, “Great minds think alike.”

I love it when she rolls her eyes. It’s so cute. I continued, “The house staff seems to be gone, but the security guards are there, and so is Carl.”

I gave Kate a short briefing of my time with Bain Madox, including the tangential discussions about being wounded in the line of duty, and Madox’s odd obsession with bears. I said to her, “But maybe these topics were not tangential. Madox may have been speaking allegorically.”

“Sounds more like macho bullshit to me.”

“Right. That, too. More important, I put Mr. Bain Madox on official notice that he was a material witness in a suspected homicide.” I explained my bogus suspicions about one of his security guards being Harry’s killer. “So, now we have him in a tight spot.”

Kate reminded me, “Murdering a Federal agent is not a Federal crime.”

“Well, it should be.”

“But it’s not.” She informed me, “New York State has the jurisdiction. That means Major Schaeffer.” She asked, “Don’t you teach that in your class at John Jay College of Criminal Justice?”

“Yes, I teach it. I don’t practice it. Actually, I covered myself by using the word assault, which is a Federal crime.” I added, “Madox is not a lawyer. He’s a suspect.”

“But he has a lawyer.”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff.”

She looked a little exasperated with me, but conceded, “I guess that was a good move. Is that about the time he asked you to dinner?”

“Actually, it was.” I added, “He’ll have some of the information that I asked for tonight.”

“Yeah, right. Well, now you need to officially notify Major Schaeffer and Tom Walsh of what you did.”

“I will.”

“When?”

“Later.” I continued to fill in more of what Madox and I spoke about, but I didn’t mention that a moment had come when I considered a classically simple solution to a complex problem. I wanted to say to my wife and partner, “Just as Madox had solved his Harry Muller problem with a half ounce of lead, I could have resolved the entire Madox problem in less time than it took to pick the lint off the rug.” But I didn’t say that.

I did say, however, “Madox expressed his condolences about Harry, though he couldn’t remember Harry’s name.”

Kate looked at me.

I said, “Madox wanted to know if there was a fund he could contribute to.”

She kept looking at me, and I think she suspected that I’d thought about expedited justice, used now and then in cases of cop killers.

Kate said to me, “I called Harry’s girlfriend, Lori Bahnik.”

This took me by surprise, but I realized I should have done that by now. “That was nice of you.”

“It wasn’t an easy conversation, but I assured her we were doing everything possible to get to the bottom of this.”

I nodded.

“Lori said to say hello to you. She’s glad that it’s you on the case.”

“Did you tell her I wasn’t on the case any longer?”

“No, I did not.” Kate stared at me and said, “Last I heard, you and I were on the case.”

We made eye contact and exchanged brief smiles. I switched subjects. “Well, bottom line with Bain Madox is that he is now feeling pressed, and he may do something stupid, desperate, or clever.”

“I think he’s already done all three by inviting you to dinner.”

“Us, darling. And I think you’re right.”

“I know I’m right. So, why don’t you just play right into his hands and show up? Or, do something more clever like don’t show up.” She asked, “May I call Tom Walsh now?”

I ignored that and continued my briefing. “I also got a good look at Madox’s back lot from his second-story office window.” I informed her, “There’s a barracks there big enough to hold twenty or thirty men, but I imagine not more than half are on duty at any time. Plus, there’s a stone building with three chimneys belching smoke, and a diesel generator service truck parked outside.”

She nodded and said again, “It may be time to share this information. I’ll call Tom, you call Major Schaeffer.”

“All right. I’ll call Hank Schaeffer first, so we’ll have more things to chat about with Tom Walsh.”

I stood and went to the desk phone, and using my phone debit card, I called state police headquarters in Ray Brook.

Major Schaeffer was in for Detective Corey, and he asked me, “Where are you?”

I hit the Speaker button and replied, “I’m not sure, but I’m looking at a menu in French.”

Major Schaeffer wasn’t amused. “Did you get my message that your Hertz car was at The Point?”

“I did. Thank you.”

He informed me, “Your friend, Liam Griffith, is not happy with you.”

“Fuck him.”

“Should I pass that on?”

“I’ll do it myself. By the way, I went to the Custer Hill Club, and there was no visible stakeout there.”

“Well,” he replied, “they were there. I pulled them back to Route 56 because this black Jeep kept snooping around. I have another team on the logging road in case anyone comes in or out from the back roads.”

“Okay.” I inquired, “Anything new with your surveillance team?”

“No one has arrived at the Custer Hill Club, except you in a white Enterprise rental Hyundai, and also a diesel service truck.” He gave me the details of my arrival and departure, and asked me, “What the hell were you doing there?”

“I’ll get to that. Has the diesel service truck left yet?”

“Not as of five minutes ago. No one else has left the subject property, so I guess this guy Putyov is still there.” He asked me, “Did you see any sign of him there?”

“No, I didn’t.” I asked him, “Was I followed after I left the Custer Hill Club?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was called directly by my surveillance car, who told me it was an Enterprise rental, and the renter was a Mr. John Corey, and I told them you were on the job.”

“Okay.” So, if that was true, then the state police hadn’t seen the vehicle switch at Rudy’s gas station. If it wasn’t true, then I was driving around in a hot van. But that only mattered if I didn’t trust Major Schaeffer, and the jury was out on that. Bottom line, I really think I would have noticed if I’d been followed.

Major Schaeffer inquired again, “What were you doing there?”

“I was sizing up the suspect and collecting forensic evidence.”

“What kind of forensic evidence?”

“Hairs and carpet fibers.” I explained what I’d done.

Major Schaeffer listened, then asked, “Where is this evidence now?”

“In my possession.”

“When are you giving it to me?”

“Well, I think there’s a jurisdictional question that needs to be resolved first.”

“No, there isn’t. Murder is a state crime.”

I reminded him, “You haven’t classified it as a murder.”

There was silence as Major Schaeffer contemplated the consequences of his fence-straddling. Finally, he said, “I could arrest you for withholding evidence.”

“You could, if you could find me.”

“I can find you.”

“No, I’m really good at this.” I said, “I’ll think about what’s best for this investigation, and best for me and my partner.”

“Don’t think too long.” He asked me, “What did Madox have to say?”

“We talked about bears.” I informed Major Schaeffer, “I put Bain Madox on notice that he was a material witness in a possible homicide investigation.” I explained how I did that, and concluded, “Now, he needs to cooperate, voluntarily, or involuntarily, and that also puts some heat on him.”

Schaeffer replied, “Yeah. I understand how that works, Detective. Thank you.” He asked me, “When did murder in New York State become a Federal crime?”

“When did Harry Muller’s death become a murder?”

Clearly, Major Schaeffer was not happy with me or my methods, so he didn’t answer my question, but informed me, “Madox may now have to cooperate in the investigation, but you’ll never see him again without his lawyer present.”

I wondered if Madox’s lawyer was coming to dinner. On that subject, I decided not to tell Schaeffer about Madox inviting me to dinner until I was well on my way to Custer Hill. I mean, I needed him to know where I was, in case there was a problem. But I didn’t want him to know about it too early in case he or Griffith became part of the problem by arresting me.

He said, “Okay, I’ve done you some favors, and you’ve done me some favors. I think we’re even on favors.”

“Actually, I have a few more favors to ask of you.”

“Put them in writing.”

“And then I’ll owe you a favor.”

No reply. I think he was pissed. Nevertheless, I said, “Speaking of diesels, did you ever find out how big those diesel generators are at Custer Hill?”

“Why is that important?”

“I don’t know that it is. I’m sure it’s not. But I saw that building there-”

“Yeah. I saw it, too, when I was hunting there.”

I let a few seconds pass, then he said, “I had one of my men call Potsdam Diesel, but my guy got the information wrong, or their office person didn’t read the file right.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, my guy said they told him the generators put out two thousand kilowatts.” He paused, then said, “Each. Hell, that could power a small town. It must be twenty kilowatts-maybe two hundred, tops. Or maybe twenty thousand watts.”

“Is there a difference?”

“There is if you stick your dick in a light socket.” He dropped that subject and said to me, “Let me give you some advice.”

“Okay.”

“You’re not in business for yourself. This is a team effort. Rejoin the team.”

Kate raised her hand in a seconding motion.

I said to Major Schaeffer, “It’s a little late for that.”

“You and your wife should get over to headquarters now.”

It’s always nice to be invited home again, and it’s tempting, but I didn’t trust my family any longer, so I said, “I think you have all the Federal agents you need there.”

He offered, “I’ll meet you someplace that’ll make you feel… safer.”

“Okay. I’ll let you know where to meet us later.”

Before he could respond, I hung up and looked at Kate, who said, “John, I think we should go to-”

“End of discussion. New topic. Potsdam Diesel.” I picked up the phone and dialed Potsdam Diesel, whose phone number I recalled from their service truck.

A young lady answered, “Potsdam Diesel. This is Lu Ann. How can I help you?”

I hit the Speaker button. “Hi, Lu Ann. This is Joe, the caretaker at the Custer Hill Club.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have Al here servicing the generators.”

“Is there a problem?”

“No, but could you pull the sales and service files for me?”

“Hold on.”

The speaker started playing Muzak and I said to Kate, “I’m not current on watts-no pun intended-but Schaeffer wasn’t believing six thousand… what were they called? Megawatts?”

Kate replied, “Kilowatts. A thousand watts is a kilowatt. Six thousand kilowatts is six million watts. A lightbulb is usually seventy-five watts.”

“Wow. That’s a lot of-”

Lu Ann was back. “I have it. How can I help you?”

“Well, if I lost power and the generators kicked in, could I make toast and coffee in the morning?”

She laughed and said, “You could make toast and coffee for Potsdam.”

“Yeah? So, how many kilowatts do I have?”

“Okay, you have three Detroit brand, sixteen-cylinder diesel engines, each capable of driving its matching generator to two thousand kilowatts.”

Kate and I exchanged glances.

I said to Lu Ann, “No kidding? How old are these generators? Is it time to replace them?”

“No. They were installed in… 1984… but they should last forever with service.”

“But how much is a new one?”

“Oh… I’m not sure, but the cost of these in 1984 was $245,000.”

“Each?”

“Yes, each. Today… well, a lot more.” She asked me, “Is there a problem with the service?”

“No. Al’s doing a great job. I can see him sweating from here. When is he going to be finished?”

“Well… we only have Al and Kevin… this was called in Saturday afternoon, and we’re real busy… You know you’re paying on an expedited basis?”

Kate and I again glanced at each other. I said to Lu Ann, “No problem. In fact, add a thousand dollars to Mr. Madox’s bill for Al and Kevin.”

“That’s very generous of you-”

“So, what do you think? Another hour?”

“I don’t know. Do you want me to call them, or do you want to go talk to them?”

“You call them. Look, we’re having a big dinner party, so maybe they can come back another time.”

“When would you like to schedule that?”

“November thirty-first.”

“Okay… oh… I see here there’s only thirty days in-”

“I’ll call you on that. Meanwhile, give these guys a holler, and tell them to knock off. I’ll hold.”

“Hold on, please.”

The phone started playing “The Blue Danube Waltz” for some reason, and I said to Kate, “I should have done this an hour ago.”

“Better late than not at all.” She added, “Six thousand kilowatts.”

“Right. Why am I listening to The Blue Danube Waltz?”

“You’re on hold.”

“Do you want to dance-?”

Lu Ann came back on the line and said, “Well, I have good news. They’re finished, and they’re packing their tools.”

“Great.” Shit.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Pray for world peace.”

“Okay… that’s nice.”

“Lu Ann, you have a good evening.”

“You, too, Joe.”

I hung up and said to Kate, “In the history of the world, this is the first time a service crew finished ahead of schedule.”

“Madox wasn’t going to let those guys leave anyway. So, if we weren’t convinced that we were looking at an ELF antenna, that information should convince us.”

“I was already convinced. This is the clincher.” I added, “If you notice the silverware glowing tonight, let me know.”

“John, we are not going-”

“What is the downside of going there for dinner?”

“Death, dismemberment, disappearance, and divorce.”

“We can handle that.”

“I have a better idea. Let’s get in that van and drive to Manhattan. Now. We’ll call Tom on the way-”

“Forget it. I am not going to be on the fucking Thruway talking to Tom Walsh on my cell phone, while the shit is hitting the fan right here. In fact, the real reason we’re going to the Custer Hill Club tonight is not dinner, or to gather more evidence, but to determine if we can and should place Mr. Bain Madox under arrest for the murder of-sorry, the assault on-Federal Agent Harry Muller.”

She thought about that, then replied, “I don’t think we have enough evidence, or probable cause to-”

“Fuck the evidence. We have the evidence. It’s in those bags. And the probable cause is the sum total of everything we’ve seen and heard.”

She shook her head and said, “An arrest on any Federal charge-especially of a man like Bain Madox-would be premature, and could get us in real trouble.”

“We’re already there.” I added, “We need to arrest this bastard tonight. Before he does whatever he thinks he’s going to do next.”

She didn’t say anything, and I thought I’d made my point. “All right, let’s have the bad news.” I added, in a nicer tone, “Then I can make a rational decision about what to do next.”

She said, “I thought you might have figured it out by now.”

“I would have mentioned it if I did. Hold on.” I thought for ten full seconds, and something was trying to connect in my brain, but I had too many things on my mind, so I asked, “Animal, mineral, or vegetable?”

She moved to the desk and, still standing, pulled the laptop closer. “Let me show you something.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Kate hit a few keys on the laptop computer, and a page of text came up on the screen. She said, “That’s an unpublished piece about Mikhail Putyov, written ten years ago.”

I glanced at the screen. “Yeah? And?”

She turned the computer toward me and said, “The writer is a fellow named Leonid Chernoff, another Russian nuclear physicist, also living in the U.S. This piece is in the form of a letter to fellow physicists, in which he praises Putyov’s genius.”

I didn’t respond.

She continued, “And here”-she scrolled-“Chernoff writes, and I quote, ‘Putyov is quite content now in his teaching position, and finds his work challenging and rewarding. Though one must ask if he is as challenged as when he worked at the Kurchatov Institute on the Soviet miniaturization program.’” She looked at me. “End quote.”

“Miniaturization of what?”

“Nuclear weapons. Like nuclear artillery shells, for instance, or land mines. Also, nuclear suitcase bombs.”

It took me half a second to get it, and I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. “Holy shit…” I stared stupidly at the illuminated laptop screen, my mind racing through everything we’d heard, discovered, knew, and suspected.

“John, I think there are two nuclear suitcase bombs in Los Angeles, and two in San Francisco.”

“Holy shit.”

“I don’t know the final destination of those weapons, or if Madox’s two aircraft are going to be transporting those suitcases to their ultimate destination or destinations, or if they’re going to be put on a ship, or-”

“We need to ground those aircraft.”

“Done. I called my friend Doug Sturgis, who’s the ASAC in the LA field office, and told him to put those two aircraft under surveillance in case the pilots show up, or have the planes impounded as evidence in a Federal case that was urgent and of the highest priority.”

I nodded. Her “friend” Doug was, I think, an old boyfriend from when she’d been posted in LA some years ago. I’d had the pleasure of meeting this pin dick when Kate and I had chased down Asad Khalil in California-and I had no doubt that this wimp would jump through his ass for his old pal Kate.

Still, I didn’t see how Kate could kick off a major case with a single phone call to some assistant special agent in charge in LA. I mean, the workings of the FBI remain a mystery to me, but I seem to recall a chain of command.

I asked her about this, and she replied, “What I did-to avoid going through Tom Walsh-was to ask-plead with Doug-to treat this as an anonymous terrorist threat tip.” She informed me, “That will actually get the ball rolling faster, if Doug says that the tip sounded legitimate.”

“Right. And he’s doing this?”

“He said he would.” She added, “I explained that I… and you… were having some credibility problems with the ATTF, but that I had this extremely reliable information, and it was urgent, and it was in his jurisdiction, and-”

“Okay. I got it. And he’s your pal, so he stuck his neck out for you.”

“He wouldn’t stick his neck out for anyone. But he does have to respond to a credible terrorist threat.”

“Right. I guess he knows you’re credible.”

“Can we move on?”

“Yeah. I just needed to know that this is in the right hands, and it’s not sitting in someone’s tomorrow box.”

She moved on. “I also gave Doug the names Tim Black and Elwood Bellman, and I told him that Black was probably staying in a hotel in Los Angeles, and Bellman in San Francisco, and that we needed to find these pilots ASAP.” She added, “I told him my suspicion that they could be transporting suitcase nukes.”

I nodded. That was the right move, obviously. “Did that get his attention?”

She ignored that and continued, “He promised to begin a manhunt in LA immediately, and to call the San Francisco field office, and also to put this out to all local law enforcement agencies in both cities and suburbs. He will also speak to his boss in LA, and both of them will call the Directors in Charge in New York and Washington, and report this tip. Doug will affirm that he believes it is a credible tip, based on the specific nature of the information and so forth, and he’ll describe the actions he’s taking.”

“Good. But if this turns out to be four suitcases filled with porn magazines for Madox’s Arab friends, will Doug take the rap? Or will he mention your name?”

She looked at me and asked, “Do you think I’m wrong on this?”

I thought a moment, then replied, “No. I think you’re right. Four suitcase nukes. I’m with you.”

“Good. Thank you.” She continued, “I told Doug to ask for an elevated domestic terrorist threat level.”

“That should get the LA office off their surfboards.” I reminded her, “This is not actually a domestic threat.”

“No. And Bain Madox is not a terrorist… well, maybe he is. But I couldn’t figure out how to classify a plot to send four suitcase nukes overseas, so I said to Doug, ‘Treat it like an elevated domestic threat, as long as we believe the suitcases are still in LA and San Francisco.’”

“Good move.”

“The FBI in both cities are contacting all the local cab companies to see if any of their drivers remember picking up a male passenger at the taxi line at LAX and SFO, carrying a large, black leather trunk. But I think that’s a long shot because, as you know, many of those cabbies are foreigners, and they don’t like to talk to the police or FBI.”

That was not a politically correct statement from a Federal employee, but when the pressure was on, even the Feds had to retreat into reality.

She continued, “We have a better description of the trunks than of the pilots and co-pilots. So, I asked Doug to call the FAA and get Black and Bellman’s license photos e-mailed to the FBI in LA and San Francisco ASAP. Then, I learned, to my amazement, that pilot licenses don’t have photos on them.”

“Unbelievable. Another incredible example of FAA post-9/11 stupidity.”

“So I used the FAA addresses for the pilots to get their state driver’s licenses with their photos. Black lives in New York, Bellman lives in Connecticut.”

“I see you were busy while I was gone.”

“I got real busy after I realized we may be dealing with suitcase nukes.”

“Right. And how is Doug?”

“I was too busy to ask him. But he did send you his regards.”

“That’s nice.” Fuck him. “Did he appreciate you telling him how to do his job?”

“John, I had the information, and I’d been thinking about this, and he was… well, stunned. So, yes, he appreciated my input.”

“Good.” Also, I recalled he seemed dim-witted.

I thought about this new and exciting development, and my mind was trying to compute all the angles, equations, and possibilities. I said to Kate, “If these pilots went to hotels, and if this is some kind of secret Madox mission, which it seems to be, then these four guys probably checked in under false names.”

She nodded. “But we have the real names of the two pilots, so the FBI will have their driver’s license photos very soon, if not already.” She informed me, “Doug is asking the Kingston regional office in New York to send an agent to the GOCO dispatch office at Stewart Airport to find out who the co-pilots were.”

“Good thinking.” It seemed that this end of the problem was covered, but I thought that finding those four pilots would not be easy, especially if Madox had instructed them to lay low, not answer their cell phones, stay in their hotel rooms, and use false ID.

Kate said, “Unfortunately, the suitcase nukes-if that’s what they were transporting-could very well be out of their hands by now.”

“They are suitcase nukes. Just call them what they are.”

“Okay, okay. Madox is going to ship them someplace out of the country. My guess is the Mideast, or another Islamic country.” She went on, “I called Garrett Aviation Service back and got a guy on the phone who said that the Cessna Citation could not make a Pacific crossing unless it went up the West Coast to Alaska, then the Aleutian Islands, then Japan, and so forth.” She pointed out, “This would involve many refueling stops, not to mention customs checks along the way. So, I think we can rule that out.”

I nodded and processed all this. Madox’s Cessna Citations had landed Sunday night in LA and San Francisco. The pilots and co-pilots had left no local address, but had indicated that they were flying out Wednesday-tomorrow-and heading back to New York. And I was sure that the pilots thought they were, and maybe they really were. Meanwhile, where was their cargo? Most probably it was not with them any longer.

I said to Kate, “I’m thinking that Madox is going to use-or has already used-one of his own oil tankers to transport these nukes someplace. That is why his aircraft landed in seaport cities.”

Kate nodded. “I came to the same conclusion, and I asked Doug to begin a search of ships and containers at both ports, beginning with GOCO-owned ships.” She said unnecessarily, “This is a big job. But if they get the NEST teams activated soon, and the port security people, who also have gamma-ray and neutron detectors, we might get lucky.”

“Right… but they need to sweep not only ships and containers but also warehouses and trucks… and for all we know, those nukes are going to be shipped by commercial air carriers.”

“They’re also checking all area airports.”

“Okay. But this really is like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

“These needles are radioactive, and we have a good chance of finding them.”

“Maybe, if they’re still in LA and San Francisco. But here’s a more likely scenario-those nukes are already on their way by sea or air to their final destinations. I mean, it’s been almost two days since they arrived on the West Coast.”

“You may be right, but we need to search for them in these cities in case they’re still there.” She added, “It will be easier to find the pilots, especially if they turn up at LAX and SFO tomorrow.”

“Right. Okay, here’s the bottom line on those pilots. It would be nice to find them, but I don’t think the FBI will find them with their suitcases. The pilots will, however, know where they delivered the suitcases, or maybe who picked them up. But the trail will probably end there.” I pointed out, “Unfortunately, we’re about forty-eight hours late on this, and the next time those suitcase nukes are seen, it will be in the form of four mushroom clouds over Sandland.”

Kate stood silent and motionless for a while. “God, I hope not.”

“Yeah.” Well, it seemed that Kate and what’s his name in LA had done all they could on short notice, and they’d done a good job-though this was not rocket science, or nuclear physics for that matter. It was standard police and FBI work, and it would yield the four pilots, and maybe even some information about the suitcase nukes. The problem, however, was-as it had always been with this case-time. Madox had started the game before the visiting team had even shown up, and he had points on the board before his opponents took the field.

But there was, possibly, good news. A weak link in this nuclear chain. I said to Kate, “The ELF transmitter. That is how he is going to detonate those bombs.”

She nodded. “That’s what ELF was about. Each bomb must have an extremely low frequency receiver connected to the detonating device. The ELF waves, as we discovered, can travel around the world and penetrate anything. So, when the bombs are where Madox wants them to be, he sends a code from here, and within an hour, the signal reaches the receivers in the suitcases, wherever in the world they are.”

“Right. So it seems as though this asshole built this elaborate ELF station almost twenty years ago to send bogus messages to the U.S. nuclear submarine fleet in order to start World War III. But that didn’t work out, so now he’s figured out another way to make his investment pay off.”

Kate nodded and said, “It all makes sense now.”

“Right… and Putyov was the guy who did whatever he had to do with those suitcase nukes to make them detonate by way of an ELF wave.”

“Also, I discovered online that miniature nuclear weapons need periodic maintenance, so that was also Putyov’s job.”

“The late Dr. Putyov.”

Kate nodded.

I asked, rhetorically, “Where the hell did Madox get these nukes?” Then I answered my own question. “I guess they’re for sale from our new friends in Russia-which is why Madox hired a Russian. Shit, I couldn’t even find a good Swedish mechanic to fix my old Volvo, and fucking Madox has a Russian nuclear physicist to tune up his atomic bombs.” I added, “It’s all about money.”

“Money and madness are not a good combination.”

“Good point. Okay… so, I guess four cities someplace are in trouble in a few days… or a few hours-Islamic cities. Right?”

“Right. What else makes sense?”

I thought about who might be in Madox’s crosshairs. But the potential targets were too numerous to count. And it depended to some extent on if those nukes were being transported by air or sea or some combination of air, sea, and land. I wouldn’t put it past this guy to nuke Mecca or Medina, but maybe this was purely a business deal, and he’d picked oil-shipment points in countries that had pissed him off. Bottom line-what difference did it make?

Kate said, “Well, I think I did everything I could, and Doug is going to do everything he can.”

“Yeah…” I glanced at my watch. “This will give the LA field office something to do before their evening aerobics classes.”

“John-”

“But on the subject of who knows what, and when-Washington does know something about this. It’s just that they forgot to tell us about it.”

No comment from FBI Special Agent Mayfield.

“That’s the only way Harry’s assignment makes any sense.” I continued, “The Justice Department and therefore the FBI in Washington know what Madox is up to. Right?”

“I don’t know. But, as I told you, this was something a lot bigger than you realized when you started sticking your nose into a Justice Department investigation.”

“I think we both understand that.” I said to Kate, “Here are two conspiracy theories for you: one, the government knows what’s going on at Custer Hill, and Harry was the sacrificial lamb sent to give the FBI an excuse to bust down Madox’s doors and arrest him. But here’s a better one-the government knows what’s going on at Custer Hill, and Harry was the sacrificial lamb sent to get Madox and his friends off their asses so that they’d pull the trigger on those nukes.”

Kate shook her head. “That is insane.”

“Yeah? Do you see FBI SWAT teams descending on the Custer Hill Club?”

“No… but… they may be waiting for the right time-”

“If that’s true, they may have waited a little too long.” I reminded her, “Harry was at Custer Hill Saturday morning. Madox’s meeting with his friends was Saturday and Sunday. Putyov showed up on Sunday morning to tune up the nukes. Madox’s aircraft landed on the West Coast Sunday night. Monday was probably the day the nukes were making their way to Sandland. Today is Tuesday, and Potsdam Diesel is finished tuning up the generators.” I concluded, “Sometime tonight or tomorrow is detonation day.”

Kate didn’t reply.

“And Madox is not acting alone. It was not a coincidence that his weekend guests included two, possibly three, and maybe more high-ranking men in the government. Hell, for all we know, the directors of the FBI and the CIA are in on this.” I added, “Maybe it goes higher than that.”

She thought for a few seconds, then said, “Okay… but does it matter at this point who else may be involved with Madox, or who knows about this? The point is, if this is what it seems to be, then I’ve done the right thing by calling the FBI field office in LA-”

“I assume you didn’t tell your friend about Madox, ELF, or where you were calling from, or-”

“No… because… I wanted to speak to you first. What if I’m wrong about all of this? I mean, if you think about it, there could be another explanation for everything-”

“Kate, you’re not wrong. We are not wrong. Harry was not wrong. It’s all very clear. Madox, nuke, ELF. Plus, Putyov.”

“I know. I know. Okay, so now we have to contact Tom Walsh and have him officially notify FBI Headquarters as to the source of this information, meaning me… and you, and what we’re basing this-”

“Right.” I looked at my watch again and saw it was 6:10 P.M. “You do that. Meanwhile, I have a dinner date.”

She stood and said, “No. There’s no reason to go there.”

“Sweetheart, Madox is tuning up his ELF transmitter, awaiting some sort of message that his four suitcase nukes are where they’re supposed to be. Then, an ELF wave will be making its way slowly across the continent, and the Pacific Ocean-or the other way across the Atlantic-until it’s picked up by the ELF receivers in those four suitcases.” I added, “Millions of people will die, and a radioactive cloud will blow across the planet. The least I can do is try to stop this at its source.”

She thought about that, then said, “I’m going with you.”

“No, you’re going to call out the cavalry and get them to the Custer Hill Club-without a fucking search warrant or probable cause or any of that crap-by telling them truthfully that a Federal agent is on the property and is in danger.”

“No-”

“Call Walsh, call Schaeffer, call the local sheriff if you have to, and call Liam Griffith and tell him where he can find John Corey. But give me a thirty-minute head start.”

She didn’t reply.

I went to the kitchen table and got my act together by loading my two Glock magazines with 9mm rounds and clipping the two BearBanger launchers in my shirt pocket alongside my pen, and finally putting on my new socks, which didn’t seem so important any longer. Also, I couldn’t think of a use for the air horn, but I took it anyway, in case Rudy’s van horn didn’t work.

While I was doing this, Kate was banging away at the laptop, and I asked her, “What are you doing?”

“I’m sending an e-mail to Tom Walsh, telling him to contact Doug in LA, and revealing that I was the source of the information.”

“Don’t send it until you hear from me.” I added, “I hope Walsh is checking his e-mail tonight.”

“He usually does.”

On that subject, the FBI still has only internal, “secured” e-mail, so, as unbelievable as it sounds, Kate could not e-mail Walsh’s FBI account, and couldn’t reach or copy anyone in the office, such as the after-hours duty agent. Therefore, she was e-mailing to Walsh’s personal account, hoping he checked it regularly. And this is a year after 9/11.

I said to her, “Okay, I’ll call you on my cell phone when I get close to the Custer Hill Club.”

“Hold on. Okay, I sent it to a service. Delayed send for seven P.M.” She unplugged the laptop, placed it on the kitchen table, then put on her suede jacket. “Who’s driving?”

“Since I’m the only one going, I guess I’ll drive.”

She put the box of.40-caliber ammo in her purse along with the two magazines, then picked up the laptop and walked to the door. I held her arm and asked her, “Where do you think you’re going?”

She reminded me, “You said Madox specifically asked for me, darling. You wanted me to go. So, I’m going.”

I informed her, “The situation has changed.”

“It certainly has. I’ve done all I can here.” She pointed out, “You put me through two days of shit to get where we are-now, I want to be in on the action. And you’re wasting time.” She pulled away from me, opened the door, and walked outside. I followed her.

It was dark now and cold. As we walked to the van, I said to Kate, “I appreciate your concern for me, but-”

“This has more to do with me than you, for a change.”

“Oh…”

“I don’t work for you. You work for me.”

“Well, technically-”

“You drive.”

She got in the passenger seat of the van, and I got in the driver’s seat and drove toward the main house.

Kate said, “Also, I am concerned about you.”

“Thanks.”

“You need supervision.”

“I don’t know-”

“Stop here.”

I stopped at Wilma and Ned’s house, and Kate said, “Here. Return Wilma’s laptop. She has ten minutes before her auction closes.”

I had no idea what that meant, but it sounded important, so I took the laptop, got out, and rang the bell.

The door opened, and Wilma stood there. She looked like a Wilma, and I wouldn’t want to arm wrestle her for the laptop.

She looked me over, then glanced at the van and saw Kate. She informed me, “I don’t want no trouble here.”

“Me, neither. Okay, here’s your laptop. Thanks.”

“What do I say if the husband comes looking for her?”

“Tell the truth.” I said to her, “Do me a favor. If we’re not back by morning, call Major Hank Schaeffer at the state police headquarters in Ray Brook. Schaeffer. Okay? Tell him John left some stuff for him at the Pond House.” I added, “Good luck with the auction.”

She glanced at her watch, said, “Oh… God…,” and shut the door.

I got back in the van, and off we went.

Kate was loading her two magazines and commented, “This van is gross.”

“You think?” I related my brief conversation with Wilma, and Kate responded, “We’ll be back before morning.”

That was optimistic.

The dashboard clock said 3:10, which may have been wrong. My watch said 6:26, and we’d be fashionably late for cocktails.

I had this sense that somewhere, someplace, another clock was ticking.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

As I drove, I asked Kate, “What did you put in that e-mail to Walsh?”

“I told you.”

“I hope you didn’t mention that we were on the way to the Custer Hill Club for cocktails and dinner.”

“I did.”

“You weren’t supposed to do that. Now, the posse may intercept us-or be there ahead of us.”

“No, they won’t. I told you, I sent the e-mail to a service that will send it later. Delayed send, at seven P.M.”

“I never heard of that.”

“It was specifically invented for situations like this, and for people like you.”

“Really? That’s neat.”

She explained, “You want to be inside the Custer Hill lodge before anyone knows we’re even going there. And by the time Tom Walsh reads my message, we are, hopefully, resolving some issues there. Correct?”

“Right.”

“And, we’ll be heroes.”

“Right.”

“Or dead.”

“Now, don’t be thinking negative thoughts.”

“Do you want to turn around now?”

I looked out the windshield. “Why? Did I miss my turn?”

“John, do you think this might be a good time for you to come to your senses?”

“No, this is not a good time for that. Did you come along to bug me, or help me?”

“To help you. But if you drive to the state police headquarters, I’d think you were very smart.”

“No, you’d think I was a chicken-livered, yellow-bellied, ball-less wimp.”

“No one would ever call you that. But sometimes, like now, discretion is the better part of valor.”

“Some wimp made up that expression. Look, I’m not stupid. But this is personal, Kate. This has to do with Harry. Plus, there’s a time element here.” I explained, “The ELF station is, or will be, up and running, and I don’t know if anyone in law enforcement could get on the Custer Hill property faster than we, who have been invited.”

“That may or may not be true.”

“What is true is that I want a piece of that sonofabitch before anyone else gets to him.”

“I know that. But are you willing to risk a possible nuclear incident to satisfy your personal vendetta?”

“Hey, you sent that e-mail on a delay.”

She pointed out, “I can call Major Schaeffer and Liam Griffith right now.”

“We’re going to do that right before we get to Custer Hill. For now, we need to get there without interference.”

She didn’t reply to that but instead asked me, “Do you think Madox is going to send that ELF signal tonight?”

“I don’t know. But we have to assume that our invitation to dinner has something to do with his timeline.” I suggested, “Turn on the radio and see if we hear a breaking news story about nuclear blasts somewhere. If we do, I can slow down and not worry about being late for dinner.”

She switched on the radio, but nothing happened. “It doesn’t work.”

“Maybe the ELF waves knocked out AM and FM. Try the ELF channel.”

“Not funny.”

I was on Route 56 now, heading toward South Colton, and I took the Hyundai keys out of my pocket and put them in her hand. I said, “I’m stopping at Rudy’s gas station, and you’re taking the Hyundai and driving to state police headquarters.”

She opened the window and tossed out the keys.

“That’s going to cost me fifty bucks.”

“All right, John, we’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Let’s take this opportunity to discuss what to expect, and what we need to say, and do. Plus, we should discuss some contingency plans, and what our objective is in going there.”

“You mean a game plan?”

“Yes, a game plan.”

“Okay. Well, I thought we’d play it by ear.”

“I don’t think so.”

“All right… well, first, don’t allow a metal scan. And certainly not a frisk.”

“Goes without saying.”

“I mean, I doubt he’d try that, unless all pretense of us being dinner guests is dropped.”

“And if that happens?” Kate inquired.

“Well, if they ask for our guns, then we’ll show them our guns and our shields.”

“What if there are ten of them with rifles?”

“Then, we go into our Federal agent mode and tell them they’re all under arrest. And let’s not forget to mention to Madox that the entire B Troop barracks of the New York state police knows where we are. That’s our ace in the hole.”

“I know that. But actually, no one yet knows where we’re going. And what if Madox doesn’t care who knows where we are? What if Hank Schaeffer is in the kitchen cooking, and the sheriff is making drinks? What if-?”

“Don’t make Madox ten feet tall. He’s smart, rich, powerful, and ruthless. But he’s not Superman, sweetheart.” I added, “I am Superman.”

“All right, Superman, what else do we need to think about to keep ourselves alive and healthy?”

I advised her, “Don’t ask for a frozen daiquiri or anything that can be drugged. Drink what he’s drinking. Same with the food. Be careful. Remember the Borgias.”

“You remember the Borgias. I swear, John, you’d eat chili and hot dogs even if you knew they were poisoned.”

“What a way to go.” I continued my briefing. “Okay, our demeanor. This is a social occasion, mixed with the unpleasant business of a Federal investigation. So, act accordingly.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning, just the right combination of being polite, but firm.” I continued, “Madox likes his scotch. Try to gauge his sobriety. If he’s not drinking much, take that as a sign of trouble.”

“I understand.”

We discussed a few more fine points of etiquette that might not be addressed by Emily Post.

When we finished with etiquette class, Kate returned to survival school. “Tell me about the BearBangers.”

“Hey, these are neat.” I gave her one and told her how to load it and fire it, and went over its possible use as a weapon of last resort if we were relieved of our hardware. I said, “It might pass a frisk since it looks like a penlight. But you might want to stick it in your crotch.”

“Okay. Can I tell you where to stick yours?”

“This is serious.”

We went through some possible scenarios, some contingencies, and some Plan Bs.

I said to her, “My original plan-which I still like-was to bust in there, through some point in the fence, and take out one or two of the antenna poles, and/or take out the generators.”

She didn’t respond to that.

I continued, “That’s a very direct solution to the ELF problem. That is the weak link in Madox’s plan to detonate these suitcase bombs. Right?”

“What if there are no suitcase bombs? What if that’s not an ELF station?”

“So, we apologize for the damage and offer to pay for the poles and generators.”

I let that sit there awhile as we drove, but Kate wasn’t talking, so I pulled out my map of the Custer Hill property and put it on her lap.

She looked at it. “Where did you get this?”

“Harry gave it to me.”

“You took this from the morgue?”

“It wasn’t inventoried-”

“You took evidence?”

“Cut the FBI crap. I borrowed it. It’s done all the time.” I tapped the map on her lap, and said, “There’s an old logging road there on the east side of the property which runs right up to the fence, then beyond. Okay, we take that road, crash through the fence, then about a hundred yards later, we intersect with this perimeter road that connects all the poles. See it?”

She wasn’t looking at the map, but at me.

I continued, “So, we run along that road, line up a pole with the front of the van, and hit it. Okay? The pole goes down, the wires snap, and the ELF station is off the air. What do you think?”

“Well, aside from this being insane, I don’t think this van would knock one of those poles from the bedrock.”

“Sure it will. That’s why I borrowed it.”

“John, I grew up in rural Minnesota. I’ve seen vans and even pickup trucks hit utility poles, and the pole usually wins.”

“Yeah? Hard to believe.”

“And even if the pole cracks, the wires usually hold, and the pole hangs there.”

“No kidding? I should have spoken to you before I got myself excited about this.”

“And if the wires do snap, and hit this van, we’ll be toast.”

“This is true. Bad idea.” I went on, “Okay, so, if you look at the map, you’ll see the generator house. See? Right there.”

“Watch the road.”

“Okay, now this is a challenge, because the house is made of stone, with steel doors and steel shutters. But the weak link is the chimneys-”

“Wasn’t this in the story of the three little pigs?”

“Yeah. But we don’t go down the chimney. We get on the roof from the top of this van, then we stuff our jackets into the chimney pots, which is what the stupid wolf should have done, and the smoke backs up, and the generators conk out.”

“I see three chimneys and two jackets.”

“There’s a blanket in the back of the van, plus enough other crap to fill six more chimneys. What do you think?”

“Well, technically, it sounds feasible. Did you factor in ten or twenty security guards with all-terrain vehicles and assault rifles?”

“Yeah. That’s why I bought extra ammunition.”

“Of course. So, let’s say this works, or doesn’t work. Do we still show up at the front door for dinner?”

“That depends on the results of the shoot-out with the guards. We’ll play that by ear.”

“Sounds like a plan. Where is this logging road?”

I think she was being sarcastic. There are advantages and disadvantages in having a female partner. The ladies tend to be practical and cautious. The guys tend to be stupid and reckless, which may account for the fact that there are fewer men than women in the world.

I said, “Well, it was just an idea.” I added, “I thought of it before we were invited to dinner.”

“I don’t know how you lived long enough for me to meet you.” She added, “I had hoped that evolution and natural selection had solved the problem of people like you.”

I certainly didn’t reply to that.

She continued, “But you bring up an important point. The ELF system. The weakest link in the ELF station is not the poles, wires, or the generator. It is the transmitter.”

“This is true.”

“I’m assuming the transmitter is in the lodge itself.”

“Most likely. It would be safe and secure there, and hidden from view.”

“Right. It may be in the basement. The fallout shelter.”

I nodded. “Probably.”

“So, if you want to shut down Madox’s ELF station, then that is where we shut it down.”

“Absolutely.” I suggested, “You excuse yourself to go to the ladies’ room-which Madox will know takes fifteen to twenty minutes-find the transmitter, and smash it.”

“Okay. And you can cover me by sticking the BearBanger up your ass and firing it.”

Ms. Mayfield was in a strangely humorous mood tonight. It must be her way of dealing with stress.

I said to her, “As I mentioned earlier, the real purpose of this visit is not social-it is to place Bain Madox under arrest for… give me a Federal crime that fits.”

“Kidnapping. He had to kidnap Harry before he assaulted him.”

“Right. Kidnapping and assault. The state tries him for murder.”

“Correct.”

Actually, if Madox provoked me in any way, he wouldn’t have to worry about any trial. I said to Kate, “It’s good to be married to a lawyer.”

“You need a full-time lawyer, John.”

“Right.”

“Also, to make an arrest, you need something aside from your suspicions.”

“If we don’t arrest him tonight,” I said, “do you want to be responsible for four nuclear explosions tomorrow? Or tonight?”

“No… but, legalities aside, an arrest is not that easy at the Custer Hill Club.” She pointed out, “There are only two of us, and many of them.”

“We are the law.”

“I know that, John, but-”

“Do you have that little card to read him his rights?”

“I think I can recite that without a card by now.”

“Good. Do you have handcuffs?”

“No. Do you?”

“Not on me.” I said, “We should have brought the duct tape. Maybe Madox has the shackles he used on Harry. Or, maybe I’ll just kick him in the nuts.”

“You seem very confident.”

“I am very motivated.”

“Good. By the way, why do we need these BearBangers? We have guns and shields. Right?”

“Well…”

“Yeah, well. Okay, John, I’m with you. But don’t get us into something you can’t get us out of.”

I may already have done that, but I said, “Just be alert, aware, and ready-like any other tricky arrest. We are the law, he is the criminal.”

She had two words for me: “Remember Harry.”

I looked at her and said, “Kate, that’s why we’re doing this alone. I really want to make this bust myself. Just me. And you, if you want.”

We made eye contact, and she nodded. “Drive.”

Kate seemed a little anxious about the evening, but she also seemed to be looking forward to it. I know this feeling very well. We’re not in this business for the money. We’re in it for the excitement, and for moments like this.

Duty, honor, country, service, truth, and justice are good. But you can do that from behind a desk.

In the end, you carry the gun and the shield out into the field for the sole purpose of confronting the bad guys. The enemy. There is no other reason to be on the front lines.

Kate understood that. I understood it. And, in about an hour, Bain Madox would also understand it.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

We passed Rudy’s darkened gas station and continued on into the state park preserve.

We approached Stark Road and saw a power-company truck parked on the side with its lights flashing, and I was sure this was the state police surveillance vehicle. I slowed down to be certain he saw us turning onto Stark Road.

As we continued on through the tunnel of trees, I said to Kate, “Okay, give the state police a call, and tell them that I need to speak to Major Schaeffer, and it’s urgent.”

Kate took her cell phone out of her bag, turned it on, and said, “I have no service.”

“What do you mean? Madox’s relay tower is only about four miles from here.”

“I have no service.”

I took my cell phone out and turned it on. No service. “Maybe we need to get closer.” I gave her my phone.

I turned onto the logging road, and Kate, holding both cell phones, said, “Still no service.”

“All right…” McCuen Pond Road was coming up, and I slowed down and hit my brights, hoping to see a stakeout vehicle, but there was no one at the T-intersection.

I made a left onto McCuen Pond Road and looked at my watch. It was 6:55 P.M. A few minutes later, we approached the lights and warning signs of the Custer Hill gate. I asked Kate, “Service?”

“No service.”

“How could that be?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Madox’s tower is having a problem. Or maybe he shut it down.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Let me think.”

“Oh… yeah. He really is a paranoid asshole.”

“A smart paranoid asshole.” She asked me, “Do you want to turn around?”

“No. And leave the phones on.”

“Okay, but no one will be able to pick up our signal here unless the cell tower at Custer Hill comes back on the air.”

“It could just be a temporary glitch.” But I doubted that. Now that we wanted to be located, we were electronically silent. Shit happens.

I slowed down at the speed bump, then stopped at the stop sign. The gate slid open a crack, and I could see my favorite security guard in the floodlit entrance to the property. He came toward us, and I stuck my Glock in my waistband. I said to Kate, “Be alert.”

“Right. Ask him if you can borrow his landline phone to call the state police to tell them we’re at the Custer Hill Club.”

I ignored the sarcasm and watched the security goon coming toward us at a leisurely pace. I said to Kate, “Anyway, I’m sure we were spotted by the state police stakeout.”

“I’m sure you were, Rudy.”

“Oh… oh, shit. That was pretty stupid.”

She could have been angry or critical, but she patted my hand and said soothingly, “We all have stupid moments, John. I just wish you hadn’t picked this particular time to have one.”

I didn’t reply but gave myself a mental slap on the face.

The neo-Nazi got to the van, and I rolled down the window. He seemed surprised to see me in what he probably knew to be Rudy’s van. He looked at Kate, then said to us, “Mr. Madox is expecting you.”

“You sure about that?”

He didn’t answer but stood there, and I wanted to smash his idiotic face. I noticed his name tag. Mom and Dad had christened their little boy Luther. They probably couldn’t spell Lucifer. I asked him, “Is anyone else coming to dinner, Lucifer?”

“Luther. No. Just you.”

“Sir.”

“Sir.”

“And ma’am. Let’s try again.”

He took a deep breath to show me he was trying to control his temper, then said, “Just you, sir, and you, ma’am.”

“Good. Practice that.”

“Yes, sir. You know the way. Sir. Please drive slowly and carefully this time. Sir.”

“Fuck you.” I proceeded to the gate, which was now fully open.

Kate asked, “What did he mean by ‘this time’?”

“Oh, he and his buddy there”-I slowed down at the gatehouse and blasted the air horn out the window at the other guard, which caused him to jump about five feet-“tried to throw themselves under the wheels of my car this afternoon.” I drove on.

“Why did you do that? You scared the hell out of me.”

“Kate, these two bastards, and their pals, were the guys who grabbed Harry on Saturday. And for all I know, one or two of them helped murder him on Sunday.”

She nodded.

“We’ll see every one of these guys in court.”

She reminded me, “We may see every one of them in the next half hour.”

“Good. I’ll save the taxpayers some money.”

“Calm down.”

I didn’t reply.

As we proceeded up the long winding drive, motion sensors turned on the lamppost lights.

Under one of the lampposts, I saw what looked like a big wood chipper on the lawn, which reminded me of the Mafia expression about putting their enemies through the wood chipper. I always got a laugh out of that for some reason, and I smiled.

Kate asked, “What’s funny?”

“I forgot.” Less funny was that there weren’t any trees or dead branches on the lawn.

Normally, you don’t go into situations like this without backup. But this situation was anything but normal. The irony here was that we’d been hiding from the ATTF, Liam Griffith, the FBI, and the state police-and now that I wanted everyone to know where we were, only Bain Madox knew.

When I get really paranoid, like now, I start to imagine that the CIA is involved. And considering what this was all about, why would they not be involved?

Kate asked me, “What are you thinking about?”

“The CIA.”

“Right. This, as it turns out, would also involve them.”

“It would.” Yet, you rarely see them or hear from them. That’s why they’re called spooks, or ghosts, and if you see them at all, it’s usually at the end. Like about now.

I said to Kate, “In fact, I see Ted Nash’s hand in this.”

She looked at me. “Ted Nash? John, Ted Nash is dead.”

“I know. I just like to hear you say it.”

She didn’t think that was so funny, but I did.

Up ahead in the turnaround circle was a flagpole, and flying from the pole was the American flag and the Seventh Cavalry pennant, illuminated by two spotlights.

I informed Kate, “A pennant or banner means the commander is on the premises.”

“I know that. Didn’t you ever notice my pennant on the bedpost?”

I smiled, and we held hands. She said to me, “I’m a little… apprehensive.”

I reminded her, “We are not alone. We have the full power and authority of the United States government behind us.”

She looked over her shoulder and said, “I don’t see anyone else here, John.”

I was glad to see she was maintaining her sense of humor. I gave her hand a squeeze and stopped the van under the portico. “Hungry?”

“Famished.”

We got out and climbed the steps to the porch. I rang the bell.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Carl answered the door and said to us, “Mr. Madox has been expecting you.”

I replied, “And good evening to you, Carl.”

I’m sure he wanted to say, “Fuck you,” but he didn’t, and showed us into the atrium foyer. He said, “I’ll take your coats.”

Kate responded, “We’ll keep them.”

Carl seemed unhappy about that, but said, “Cocktails will be in the bar room. Please follow me.”

We went through the door near the staircase and walked toward the rear of the lodge.

The house was quiet, and I didn’t see, hear, or sense anyone around.

I still had my Glock in my waistband, but it was covered by my shirt and jacket. My off-duty.38 was in my ankle holster. Kate had slipped her Glock in her jacket pocket, and, like most, if not all, FBI agents, she had no second weapon-except the BearBanger somewhere in her jeans. My BearBanger was clipped like a penlight in my shirt pocket. My two extra magazines were in my jacket, and Kate’s four were in her handbag and her jacket. We were loaded for bear, or Bain.

I wasn’t expecting any funny business while we were in motion-also, I figured that Madox wanted to at least say hello and size up the situation before he made a move.

On that subject, I wondered if he would opt for a macho move, like an armed confrontation. Or, would he take the less confrontational approach, like a Mickey Finn in our drinks, followed by a short trip through the wood chipper?

If Madox was going to go military on us, then I was playing the odds that not all of his security guards were trusted killers, so maybe we’d have to deal with only Madox, Carl, and two or three other guys.

A more positive but probably unrealistic thought was that there wasn’t going to be a poisoning or shoot-out at the Custer Hill Club, and that Bain Madox, when confronted with our evidence and placed under arrest, would realize that the game was up and admit to murdering Federal Agent Harry Muller, then lead us to the ELF transmitter. Case closed.

I glanced at Kate, who looked calm and composed. We made eye contact, and I smiled and winked at her.

I also got a look at Carl’s face. Usually, you can tell by the face and body language if a guy knows that something unpleasant is about to happen. Carl didn’t seem tense, but neither was he relaxed.

Carl stopped in front of a set of double doors, one of which had a brass plate that said BAR ROOM. He knocked, opened one door, and said to us, “After you.”

“No,” I said, “after you.”

He hesitated, then entered and motioned to the left, where Mr. Bain Madox stood behind a mahogany bar, smoking and listening on the phone, which I noticed was a landline, not a cell.

Across the dimly lit room was a burning fireplace, to the right of which was a set of drawn drapes that may have covered a window, or a set of double doors leading outside.

I heard Madox say, “All right. I have company. Call me later.” He hung up, smiled, and said, “Welcome. Come in.”

Kate and I gave the place a quick look, then took different paths around the furniture to the bar. I heard the door close behind us.

Madox put out his cigarette. “I wasn’t sure you’d gotten Carl’s message at The Point, and I hoped you hadn’t forgotten.”

Kate and I reached the bar, and I said, “We’ve been looking forward to the evening.”

Kate added, “Thank you for inviting us.”

We all shook hands, and Madox asked, “What can I get you?”

I was glad he didn’t say, “Name your poison,” and I inquired, “What are you drinking?”

He indicated a bottle on the bar and replied, “My private-label single malt, which you enjoyed yesterday.”

“Good. I’ll take it straight up.” In case you drugged the soda water or ice cubes.

Kate said, “Make it two.”

Madox poured two scotches into crystal glasses, then refreshed his own drink from the same bottle, which may have been his polite way of showing us that the scotch wasn’t going to kill us.

True to his word, Madox was dressed casually in the same outfit he’d worn this afternoon-blue blazer, white golf shirt, and jeans. So Kate and I would feel comfortable when we arrested him.

He raised his glass and said, “Not a happy occasion, but to happier times.”

We clinked glasses and drank. He swallowed. I swallowed. Kate swallowed.

I could see the darkened room in the bar mirror, and there was another set of open doors at the far end of the room that led into what appeared to be a card room or game room.

Also, behind the bar, to the left of the liquor shelves, was a small door that probably led to a storage area or wine cellar. In fact, there were too many doors in this place, plus drapes drawn across what could be doors leading outside. And I don’t like standing at the bar with my back to a room, with a guy behind the bar who could suddenly drop out of sight. So I suggested, “Why don’t we sit by the fire?”

Madox said, “Good idea.” He came around the bar as Kate and I walked to a grouping of four leather club chairs near the fireplace.

Before he could seat us, Kate and I took the chairs facing each other, leaving Madox to take one of the chairs facing the fireplace, with his back to the closed double doors. From where I sat, I could see the open doors to the card room, and Kate could see the bar where the small side door was.

Having claimed my seat, I stood and went to the drapes to the right of the fireplace and said, “Do you mind?” as I pulled them open. There was indeed a set of French doors there, which led to a dark terrace.

I came back to my chair, sat, and noted, “That’s a nice view.”

Madox did not comment.

Basically, all bases were covered, and I was sure that Bain Madox-ex-infantry officer-appreciated our concern about fields of fire.

Madox asked us, “Would you like to take your jackets off?”

Kate replied, “No, thanks. I’m still a little cold.”

I didn’t answer, and I noticed he wasn’t taking off his blazer, probably for the same reason we weren’t taking off our jackets. I didn’t see a bulge, but I knew he was packing something, somewhere.

I surveyed the room. It was more in the style of a gentlemen’s club rather than an Adirondack lodge. There was an expensive-looking Persian carpet on the floor, and lots of mahogany, green leather, and polished brass. There was not a dead animal in sight, and I hoped it stayed that way.

Madox said, “This room is an exact replica of the one in my New York apartment, which in turn I copied from a London club.”

I inquired, “Isn’t that a little confusing after you’ve had a few?”

He smiled politely, then said, “So, let’s get rid of some business.” He turned to me. “I have the duty roster of my security staff who were here over the weekend, and I’ll see that you have it before you leave.”

“Good. And your house staff?”

“I have a complete list of the staff who were working on the weekend.”

“And the security log and the security tapes?”

He nodded. “All copied for you.”

“Terrific.” And this left the sticky question of his rich-and-famous weekend guests. “How about the list of your houseguests?”

“I need to think about that.”

“What’s to think about?”

“Well, obviously, the names of these people are not everyone’s business.” He added, “Which I guess was why the government sent Mr. Muller here to get these names by… devious means. And now you want me to give you these names, voluntarily.”

I reminded him, “Harry Muller is dead, and this is now an investigation into his death.” I added, “You said this afternoon that you’d have those names for us.”

“I’m very aware of that, and I’ve called my attorney, who will get back to me tonight. If he tells me to turn over those names, I will give them to you tonight.”

Kate said, “If he doesn’t, we could subpoena that information.”

Madox replied, “That may be the best way for me to give you those names.” He explained, “That would take me off the hook with my guests.”

Basically, this was all bullshit to make us think he had some serious issues to consider. Meanwhile, all he was really thinking about was his ELF signal to Sandland, and how best to get Corey and Mayfield into the wood chipper.

He informed us, “My attorney tells me that the Federal government has no jurisdiction in a state homicide case.”

I let Kate handle that one, and she said, “Any murder charges that come out of this investigation will be brought by New York State. In the meantime, we’re investigating the disappearance of a Federal agent, and his possible kidnapping, which is a Federal crime, as well as a possible criminal assault on the deceased agent.” She asked Madox, “Would you like me to speak to your attorney?”

“No. I’m sure the United States government can find a Federal law to fit any crime these days, including jaywalking.”

Special Agent Mayfield replied, “I think this is a bit more serious than that.”

Madox let that slide, so I changed the subject to put everyone at ease. “Good scotch.”

“Thank you. Remind me to give you a bottle before you leave.” He said to Kate, “Not many women are single malt drinkers.”

“Around 26 Fed, I’m just one of the boys.”

He smiled at her, and responded, “I think they need eyeglasses at 26 Fed.”

Good old Bain. A man’s man, and a ladies’ man. A real sociopathic charmer.

Anyway, Madox figured we were finished with business and continued to charm Ms. Mayfield. “So, how was your yodeling class?”

Kate seemed a little confused by the question, so I said helpfully, “Yoga class.”

“Oh…” said Mr. Madox. “I thought you said yodeling class.” He chuckled and admitted to Kate, “My hearing is not what it used to be.”

Kate glanced at me. “It was a good class.”

Madox asked her, “How are you enjoying The Point?”

“It’s very nice.”

“I hope you’re staying for dinner. I promised Mr. Corey I could do better than Henri.”

Kate replied, “We’d planned to stay for dinner.”

“Good. In fact, since there’s no one here, and no one would know, you’re welcome to stay overnight.”

I didn’t know if that included me, but I replied, “We may take you up on that.”

“Good. It’s a long trip back to The Point-especially if you’ve been drinking, which you’re not doing enough of.” He smiled at me and expanded on the subject by saying, “Also, you’re not driving a vehicle that you’re familiar with.”

I didn’t reply.

He continued, “Let’s see-yesterday, you had a Taurus; this morning, you had a Hyundai; and tonight, you have Rudy’s van. Have you found something you like?”

I hate wiseasses, unless they’re me. I said to him, “I was just about to ask you to loan me a Jeep.”

He didn’t respond to that but inquired, “Why are you changing vehicles so often?”

To confuse him with the truth, I replied, “We’re on the run from the law.”

He grinned.

Kate said, “We’ve had problems with our two rental vehicles.”

“Ah. Well, I’m sure they would have given you another one-but that was good of Rudy to loan you his van.” He returned to the investigation. “I’ve made some inquiries, and this suspected homicide hasn’t even come to the attention of the sheriff’s office.” He informed us, “They’re still ruling it an accident.”

I noted, “This investigation is Federal and state, not local. What’s your point?”

“No point. Just an observation.”

“I think you should leave the jurisdictional aspects of this case to the law.”

He didn’t answer, and neither did he seem annoyed at the rebuke. Obviously, he wanted us to know that he knew more than he should know-including, possibly, that Detective Corey and FBI Agent Mayfield were not in close contact with their colleagues, and wanted to stay that way by switching vehicles every twelve hours.

I didn’t know if Bain Madox knew that for sure, but he definitely knew that we hadn’t made a cell-phone call within ten or fifteen miles of here.

So we sat in neutral for a minute-logs blazing, scotch and crystal glistening in the fire-then Madox said to Kate, “I expressed my condolences to Mr. Corey, and I’d like to do the same to you. Was Mr. Muller a friend of yours, also?”

Kate replied, “He was a close colleague.”

“Well, I’m truly sorry. And I’m very upset that Mr. Corey believes that one of my security staff may have been involved in Mr. Muller’s death.”

“I also believe that. And on the subject of upset, you can imagine how upset Detective Muller’s children are to learn that their father is not only dead but was probably murdered.” She stared at our host.

Madox returned the stare but did not respond.

Kate continued, “And the rest of his family, and his friends and colleagues. When it’s murder, the grief turns to anger very quickly.” She informed our host, “I’m damned angry.”

Madox nodded slowly. “I can understand that. And I sincerely hope that none of my security people were involved, but if they were, I also want to see this person brought to justice.”

Kate said, “He will be.”

I opened a new possibility and said, “It could even have been one of your house staff… or your houseguests.”

He reminded me, “You thought it was one of my security guards. Now, it sounds as though you’re on a fishing expedition.”

“A hunting expedition.”

“Whatever.” He asked me, “Can you be more specific about why you think one of my staff-or houseguests-was involved in what you believe is a homicide?”

I think we all knew that we really meant Bain Madox-and somehow, I didn’t think he really gave a shit.

Nevertheless, I thought that some inside information about the case might shake him up, so I said to him, “Okay, one, I have solid evidence that Detective Muller was actually on your property.”

I looked at Madox, but he had no reaction.

I continued, “Two, we believe through forensic evidence that Detective Muller was actually in this house.”

Again, no reaction.

Okay, asshole. “Three, we have to assume that Detective Muller was detained by your security people. We also have evidence that his camper was originally close to your property, then moved.” I explained all of that in detail.

Still no reaction, except a nod, as though this were interesting.

I outlined some of the case to Mr. Bain Madox, describing how the murder was done by at least two persons-one driving the victim’s camper, the other in a separate vehicle that I said could have been a Jeep, or an all-terrain vehicle, based on two separate sets of tire marks, which we actually didn’t find, but he wouldn’t know that for sure.

I lied that the initial toxicology report showed strong sedatives in the victim’s blood, then I described how I thought the actual murder took place with the victim drugged, and held in a kneeling position with the binocular strap, and so forth.

Madox again nodded as though this were still interesting but somehow abstract.

If I expected some reaction-like shock, disbelief, discomfort, or amazement-then I was going to be disappointed.

I took a sip of scotch and stared at him.

The room was silent, except for the crackling fire, then Madox said, “I’m impressed that you could gather so much evidence in so short a time.”

I informed him, “The first forty-eight hours is the critical period.”

“Yes. I’ve heard that.” He asked me, “How did forensic evidence point back to this lodge?”

“If you really want to know, I collected rug fibers, plus human and dog hairs when I was here, and they matched what was found on Detective Muller’s clothes and body.”

“Did they?” He looked at me and said, “I don’t recall giving you permission to do that.”

“But you would have.”

He let that alone, and said to me, “That was very quick lab work.”

“This is a homicide investigation. The victim was a Federal agent.”

“All right… so, from these fibers…?”

I gave him a quick course in fiber analysis. “The fibers on the victim match the ones I found here. The dog hairs will probably match the hairs on your dog, what’s-his-name-”

“Kaiser Wilhelm.”

“Whatever. And the human hairs found on Detective Muller’s body, plus whatever other DNA turns up on the victim’s clothes or body, will lead us to the killer or killers.”

We made eye contact, and he still wasn’t blinking, so I said, “With your help, we can make a list of everyone who was here over the weekend, then get hair and DNA samples from them, and some fibers from clothing, such as those camouflage uniforms your security people wear. Understand?”

He nodded.

“Speaking of your army, where and how did you recruit these guys?”

“They’re all former military.”

“I see. So, we have to assume they’re all well trained in the use of weapons, and other types of force.”

He informed me, “More important, they’re all well disciplined. And as any military man will tell you, I’d rather have ten disciplined and well-trained men than ten thousand untrained and undisciplined troops.”

“Don’t forget loyal, and motivated by a noble cause.”

“Goes without saying.”

Kate asked our host, “How many security guards are actually here this evening?”

He seemed to read the subtext, and smiled slightly, the way Count Dracula would do if his dinner guest inquired, “So, what time does the sun rise around here?”

Madox answered, “I think there are ten men on-duty tonight.”

There was a knock on the door, and it opened, revealing Carl wheeling in a cart, atop which was a large covered tray.

Carl carried the tray to the coffee table, set it down, and removed the cover.

And there, on a silver tray, were dozens of pigs-in-the-blanket, the crust slightly brown, just the way I like it. In the center of the tray were two crystal bowls-one holding a thick, dark deli-style mustard, and the other, a thin, pukey yellow mustard.

Our host said to us, “I have a confession to make. I called Henri and asked him if either of you had expressed any food preference, and-voilá!” He smiled.

That wasn’t the confession I was hoping for, and he knew that, but this wasn’t bad either.

Carl asked, “Is there anything else?”

Madox replied, “No, but”-he looked at his watch-“see how dinner is coming along.”

“Yes, sir.” Carl left, and Madox said, “No woodcock tonight-just plain steak and potatoes.” He turned to me. “Have one of these.”

I caught Kate’s eye, and clearly she didn’t think I could resist a little piggy, drugged or not. And she was right. I could smell the aroma of the crust and the fatty beef hot dogs.

They all had toothpicks stuck in them-red, blue, and yellow-so all I had to do was guess which color marked the safe piggies. I chose blue, my favorite color, and picked one up, then dipped it in the deli mustard.

Kate said, “John, you should save your appetite for dinner.”

“I’ll just have a few.” I popped the pig in my mouth. It tasted great-hot, firm crust, spicy mustard.

Madox said to Kate, “Please help yourself.”

“No, thank you.” She shot me a concerned look and said to him, “You go ahead.”

Madox also picked a pig with a blue toothpick, but chose the yellow mustard. So maybe I picked the wrong mustard.

Actually, I felt fine and had another, this one with the yellow mustard, just to be on the safe side.

Madox chewed, swallowed, and said, “Not bad.” He chose a red toothpick and offered the piggy to Kate. “Are you sure?”

“No, thank you.”

He ate it himself, this time with deli mustard. So I had another.

Hot dogs made me think of Kaiser Wilhelm. His absence at his master’s side was a case of The Dog That Did Not Fart in the Night.

Dogs alert their masters, and everyone else, that someone is approaching-and I had the strong feeling that Madox did not want Kate and I to know if anyone was outside those doors.

Also, if Kaiser Wilhelm was here, I’d feed him about twenty pigs to see if he keeled over, or if Madox stopped me.

On the other hand, maybe I was over-analyzing this, as I tend to do when my bloodhound instincts are aroused.

I thought it was time to increase the discomfort level, so I said to Madox, “I, too, have a confession to make. You know about the Borgias. Right?”

He nodded.

“Well, after you invited us here, we got this toxicology report on Harry Muller showing high levels of sedatives in his blood. And, Kate has been… well, concerned about… you know.”

Madox looked at me, then Kate, then back at me, and said, “No. I don’t know.” He added in a curt tone, “And perhaps I don’t want to know.”

I continued, “I guess this comes under the category of being bad dinner guests, but Kate… and I guess I… are a little concerned that you may have… a staff member who has access to powerful sedatives, and this could be the person who used them on the deceased victim.”

Mr. Madox did not comment on that, but he did light a cigarette without asking if anyone minded.

I made eye contact with Kate, and she seemed more uncomfortable than Bain, who actually appeared offended.

To make him feel better, I took another pig-in-the-blanket-blue toothpick, yellow mustard-and popped it in my mouth. “On the other hand,” I went on, “it appears that Detective Muller was sedated by means of a tranquilizer dart, followed by two hypodermic injections to keep him sedated.” I looked at Madox, but there was no reaction. “So, maybe we can rule out a Mickey Finn in the scotch or knockout drops in the mustard tonight.”

Madox sipped his scotch, drew on his cigarette, then asked me, “Are you suggesting that someone here is trying to… sedate you?”

“Well,” I replied, “I’m just extrapolating from the evidence at hand.” I made a little joke to lighten the moment. “A lot of people say I need sedating, and maybe it would do me some good-if it wasn’t followed by a bullet in my back.”

Madox sat quietly in his nice green leather chair, blowing smoke rings, then he glanced at Kate and pointed out to her, “I think if you believe that, then dinner is not going to be much fun.”

Good one, Bain. I really liked this guy. Too bad he had to die, or if he was lucky, spend the rest of his life in a place less comfortable than this.

Kate decided to take the offensive. “I’m interested in Carl.”

Madox stared at her, then said, “Carl is my oldest and most trusted employee and friend.”

“That’s why I’m interested in him.”

Madox replied sharply, “That’s almost the same as an accusation against me.”

“Perhaps Detective Corey and I should have informed you that no one who was on this property this weekend is above suspicion. And that includes you.”

At this point, Madox should have told us to forget dinner and asked us to leave his house. But he wasn’t doing that because he was no more through with us than we were with him.

In fact, this is the point where you’ve crossed the threshold, and now you begin the transition from the unknown suspect to the person you’re speaking to. Hopefully, the suspect has already said something incriminating, or will when you start to bully him. Lacking that, you need to rely on the existing evidence and good hunches. It all ends with me saying something like, “Mr. Madox, I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Federal Agent Harry Muller. Please come with us.”

Then, you take the guy downtown and book him. Or, in this case, I’d have to take him to state police headquarters, which would make Major Schaeffer happy.

On that subject, I was starting to think that Schaeffer’s surveillance team hadn’t seen us going to the Custer Hill Club, or if they had, and reported it, Schaeffer was not doing anything about it. And why would he? More important, I pictured Tom Walsh having dinner or watching TV instead of reading Kate’s e-mail to him. Actually, I had the feeling that the cavalry would not be arriving soon, or ever. So, it was up to us to make the arrest.

This case, however, had some unique problems, like the suspect’s private army, and some familiar problems, like the suspect’s status as a rich and powerful man.

And, of course, aside from the homicide, there was the suspicion that the suspect was involved in a conspiracy to nuke the planet. And that was my more immediate concern, and my and Kate’s jurisdiction.

So, with that in mind, it was time to go nuclear, and I said to Bain Madox, “Speaking of houseguests, you had a guest who arrived Sunday, and has apparently not left yet. Will he be joining us for dinner?”

Madox stood suddenly, then walked to the bar. As he poured a short one, he remarked, “I’m not sure what-or who-you’re talking about.”

I didn’t like him being behind me, so I, too, stood, and motioned for Kate to stand. As I turned toward the bar, I said to Madox, “Dr. Mikhail Putyov. Nuclear physicist.”

“Oh. Michael. He’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“I have no idea. Why?”

“Well, if he’s not here,” I said, “then he seems to be missing.”

“Missing from where?”

“Home and office.” I informed him, “Putyov’s not supposed to leave home without telling the FBI where he’s going.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“I think it’s in his contract.” I asked, “Is he a friend of yours?”

Madox leaned back against the bar with his glass in his hand, and seemed to be in deep thought.

I asked, “Was that a tough question?”

He smiled, then said, “No. I’m considering my reply.” He looked at me, then at Kate. “Dr. Putyov and I have a professional relationship.”

It sort of surprised me that he’d say that, but I guess we all realized that it was time to be honest, open, and sensitive to one another’s needs and feelings. Then we could all hug and have a good cry together, before I arrested or shot him.

I inquired, “What kind of professional relationship?”

He waved his hand in dismissal. “Oh, John-can I call you John?”

“Sure, Bain.”

“Good. So, what kind of professional relationship? Is that the question? Okay, how can I describe this…?”

I suggested, “Start with nuclear weapons miniaturization.”

He looked at me, nodded, and said, “Well, that’s a good start.”

“Okay. Can I also say suitcase nukes?”

He smiled and nodded again.

Well, this was easier than I expected, which might not actually be a good sign, but I continued, “Two more houseguests-Paul Dunn, adviser to the president on matters of national security, and Edward Wolffer, deputy secretary of defense.”

“What about them?”

“They were here-correct?”

“They were.” He added, “You can see why I don’t want people snooping around.”

“You’re allowed to have famous and powerful friends over for the weekend, Bain.”

“Thank you. The point is, it’s no one’s business.”

“But in this case, it might be my business.”

“Actually, John, you may be right.”

“I am right. Also, James Hawkins, Air Force general and member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He was here, too. Right?”

“Right.”

“Who else?”

“Oh, about a dozen other men, none of them important to the business at hand. Except Scott Landsdale. He’s the CIA liaison to the White House.” He added, “That’s secret information, so it can’t leave this room.”

“Okay…” I didn’t have that name, but I’d be disappointed if there wasn’t a CIA guy involved in… whatever. I said, “Your secret’s safe with us, Bain.”

Madox explained to Kate and me, “Those four men make up my Executive Board.”

“What Executive Board?”

“Of this club.”

“Right. So, what did you guys talk about?” I asked.

“Project Green and Wild Fire.”

“Right. So, how’s that going?”

“Fine.” He looked at his watch, so I looked at mine. It was 7:33, and hopefully Walsh was getting around to reading his personal e-mail. Hopefully, too, the state troopers would be arriving soon. But I wasn’t counting on that.

Madox said, “Well, now I have some questions for you. Are you alone tonight?”

I did a good imitation of a laugh. “Sure.”

“Well,” he said, “it doesn’t matter at this point.”

I didn’t want to hear that.

He asked, “How did you figure this out?”

I was happy to reply, “Harry Muller. He wrote us a note on the lining of his pants pocket.”

“Oh… well, that was smart.”

I said to him, “Fuck you.”

He completely ignored that and asked me, “Have you ever heard of Wild Fire?” He gave me a hint. “Highly sensitive government protocol.”

“To be honest with you, Bain, I don’t read all my memos from Washington.” I glanced at Kate, who was standing with her back to the fireplace, her hand in her gun pocket, and asked her, “Kate? You ever hear of Wild Fire?”

“No.”

I turned back to Madox, shrugged, and said, “I guess we missed that memo. What did it say?”

He seemed impatient with me and responded, “It wouldn’t be in a memo, John. I think you have most of what you need, so don’t be intellectually lazy and expect me to put it all together for you.”

I said to Kate, “He’s calling us lazy. After all the work we’ve done.”

Madox admitted to both of us, “Actually, you seem to have solved the homicide case, and you’re closer to the other thing than I’d thought. But you need to put it together.”

“Okay.” I went to the French doors and opened them.

It was a nice night, and a bright half-moon was almost directly overhead, lighting up the clearing behind the lodge.

Off in the distance, I could see the metal roof of the generator building, and the three chimneys belching smoke into the air. Also, there were two all-terrain vehicles and a black Jeep prowling around back there, as though they were guarding the building.

I said to Madox, “I see the diesel engines are running.”

“That’s right. I just had them serviced.”

I turned from the double doors and walked back to where Madox was still leaning against the bar. “Six thousand kilowatts.”

“Right. Who told you that? Potsdam Diesel?”

I didn’t answer his question. “Where’s the ELF transmitter?”

He didn’t seem surprised and replied, “I’m not overly impressed that you figured out this was an ELF station. It’s all there for anyone to see-the generators, the cables, the location here in the Adirondacks-”

“Where’s the transmitter, Bain?”

“I’ll show it to you. Later.”

I said to him, “Now would be a really good time.”

He ignored that, and we eyeballed each other. He didn’t look like a man with a serious problem. He asked me, “So, have you come to any startling conclusions?” He turned to Kate. “Kate? A eureka moment?”

Kate said to him, “Four suitcase nuclear weapons were flown on your two aircraft to LA and San Francisco.”

“Correct. And?”

She continued, “And your ELF transmitter will send a signal to detonate those devices when they reach their final destinations.”

“Well… close.”

I was getting a little tired of this bullshit, so I said to Madox, “The game’s over, pal. I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Federal Agent Harry Muller. Turn around, put your hands on the bar, and spread your legs.” I said, “Kate, cover me.” I stepped toward Madox, who wasn’t doing what I told him to do.

I heard Kate say, “John…”

I glanced back and saw Carl at the door with a raised shotgun directed at Kate.

Across the room, another man stood at the open doors of the game room with an M16 rifle raised and pointed.

A third man walked in through the doors from the terrace, aiming an M16 at me.

As they both moved closer into the room, I saw that the guy who’d come from the game room was Luther, and the guy from the terrace was the guard at the gatehouse, whom I’d blasted with my air horn.

I glanced back at Madox and saw he was holding a big Army Colt.45 automatic, pointed at my face.

Well, I couldn’t say I hadn’t seen this coming, but it still seemed unreal.

Then Madox said to us, “You knew you weren’t getting out of here alive.”

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Kate and I made eye contact, and she didn’t look frightened; she looked pissed off about something. Maybe me.

Madox said, “All right, both of you, facedown on the floor.” He added, in case we didn’t know, “One false move and you’re both dead.” He further added, “No kidding.”

So we got facedown on the floor, which was the correct police and military procedure for disarming prisoners. Obviously, we were dealing with people who knew how this was done.

I heard Madox say, “Kate, you first. Weapons. Slowly. John, keep your face in the carpet, and don’t even breathe.”

I couldn’t see what was going on, but I heard what I thought was the sound of a boot or shoe kicking Kate’s Glock across the carpet, and Madox said to her, “Do you always carry your gun in your pocket?”

She didn’t reply, and Madox continued, “A lot of good it did you.” Then, he asked her, “Any more weapons?”

“No.”

“Where’s your holster?”

“Small of my back.”

He ordered, “Take her holster, and take off her watch, her shoes, socks, and jacket, then wand her.”

I heard the sounds of these items being removed and tossed aside, then Madox said, “Frisk her.”

Next, I heard Kate say, “Get your fucking hands off me.”

Madox retorted, “Do you want a strip search, or a frisk and wanding?”

No reply. Then Luther’s voice said, “Clean.”

Madox ordered, “Turn over.”

I heard her turn over, then a few seconds later, the wand made a hit, and Carl asked, “What’s that?”

Kate replied, “My fucking belt and zipper. What’s it look like?”

Madox said, “Take your belt off.”

I didn’t know if they wanded her again, but I didn’t hear a buzz, so the BearBanger hadn’t been detected.

Madox instructed, “Carl, pat her down.”

I couldn’t see where he patted her, but she said to Carl, “Having fun?”

A few seconds later, Carl said, “Clean.”

I didn’t know where that BearBanger was on Kate’s body, but either it had escaped detection or they had it and didn’t know what they had.

Madox said to the other security guy, “Derek, put the shackles on her.”

I heard metallic sounds as the shackles were clamped and locked, then Madox said, “Your turn, John. You know the drill. Gun first.”

Still lying facedown, I brought my hand under my chest as though reaching for my gun, and I pulled the BearBanger out of my shirt pocket, then laid it on the carpet under my stomach.

Madox had apparently moved behind me, near my feet. “Don’t even think about being a hero, or your wife is dead.” He added, “Yes, I know she’s your wife.”

“Fuck you.” I pulled my Glock from my belt and slid it across the carpet.

“What else? No lie, John, or I put a.45 slug in your ass.”

“Ankle holster. Left side.”

Someone pulled up my pants leg and took my holster and.38 revolver.

Then, two guys pulled off my shoes and socks, and my leather jacket and watch. Madox said, “Wand him.”

One guy, I think Luther, walked around me with the wand, but nothing set it off.

Madox continued, “Frisk him.”

Someone patted down my legs, took my wallet, then patted down my back. Luther reported, “Clean.”

I said, “Bain, Luther was squeezing my ass.”

Luther wasn’t amused and said, “Shut your fucking mouth, sir.”

“You’re supposed to pat, not squeeze.”

I felt a heavy boot smashing into my right rib cage as Luther shouted, “Asshole!”

Madox warned Luther, “Don’t ever do that without my permission.”

After I caught my breath, I couldn’t resist pointing out, “Not that well disciplined, Bain.”

Madox said, “Shut up.” He informed me, “I really don’t like your sarcasm.” He snapped, “Roll over!”

I needed to roll over without exposing the BearBanger on the carpet under my stomach. So, instead of doing a simple sideways roll, I made a pretense of being in pain from the kick in the ribs and did a passable imitation of a beached whale flopping around so that I wound up in the same place on the carpet with the BearBanger under my back.

I could see Madox now, standing near my feet, and Carl standing near Kate, pointing the shotgun at her.

Luther was off to my right side, holding the wand, which he was slapping into his hand, as though it were a billy club that he was thinking about swinging at my head.

The other security guy, Derek, was someplace I couldn’t see from where I was lying, but I figured he’d repositioned himself behind my head with his M16 pointing down at me.

The only good news here was that Madox, for some reason, hadn’t just opened fire.

He seemed to sense what I was thinking and said to me, “If you’re wondering why I’m taking all this time and trouble with you two, the answer is I need some information from you. Also, I don’t want blood on this Persian carpet.”

Both those reasons sounded good.

Madox instructed, “Take off your belt.”

I unbuckled it, pulled it through the loops, and tossed it aside.

He said to Derek, “Shackle him,” and Derek ordered, “Raise your legs.”

I raised my legs, and Derek slapped the ankle bracelets on and locked them in place. I was surprised how heavy they were, and I dropped my legs, causing the shackles to rattle.

Luther pulled the pen out of my shirt pocket, then passed the wand over me. My zipper also set it off, so Luther stuck the wand down my pants and said, “No brass balls, Colonel.”

Everyone got a little chuckle out of that, except me and Kate.

It occurred to me that I’d pissed off everyone in this room-maybe including Kate-and that though they’d been mostly professional so far, it could get very personal very quickly. So I thought, for my wife’s sake, I should try to keep my mouth shut.

I looked over at Kate, who was lying about ten feet from me, also on her back, and also wearing shackles. We made eye contact, and I said to her, “It’s going to be okay when they get here.”

“I know.”

Of course, it wasn’t a matter of “when” but a matter of “if.”

Madox barked, “Shut up. Speak only when spoken to.” He said to Luther, “Frisk him again.”

Luther did a rough frisk, going so far as to stick his thumb in my testicles, then said, “Clean.”

Madox moved to the bar and started going through our jackets, credentials, shoes, and belts, then he dumped the contents of Kate’s handbag on the bar and rummaged through the items. He said to us, “I count six fully loaded magazines. Did you think you were going to have a firefight?”

The other three idiots laughed.

I couldn’t resist saying, “Fuck you.”

Madox informed me, “That’s what your friend Harry kept saying. Fuck you. Fuck you. Do you have anything intelligent to say?”

“Yeah. You’re still under arrest.”

He thought that was funny and said, “So are you.”

Madox was still going through our things on the bar, and I saw him take the batteries out of our cell phones, then examine my pen. He still hadn’t found Kate’s BearBanger, so I hoped she still had it.

Madox said, “Well, here’s Detective Muller’s credential case. John, why do you have that?”

“To give it to his family.”

“I see. And who’s going to give your badge to your family after you’re dead?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“You wish it was.”

He had our notebooks now, and I knew he couldn’t read my notes because no one, myself included, can read my handwriting. But he said to Kate, whose handwriting is very neat, “I see you have a logical mind. Rare for a woman.”

She replied, of course, “Fuck you.”

He ignored that as he flipped through her notebook. “Kate, does anyone know you’re here?”

“Just the FBI and the state police, who are on their way.”

“If there was anything like that happening at state police headquarters, I’d know about it.”

That was not what we wanted to hear.

He asked me, “John, what do they know at 26 Fed?”

“Everything.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then don’t ask.”

“You were seen speaking to Harry, Friday afternoon as you both got on the elevator at 26 Fed. What did you speak about?”

I really didn’t want to hear that Bain Madox had a source inside 26 Federal Plaza.

“John?”

“We didn’t talk business.”

“All right… I’m a little pressed for time, John, so we can continue this later.”

“Later is good.”

“But I’m not going to be so nice later.”

“You’re not so nice now, Bain.”

He laughed and said, “You ain’t seen nothing yet, pal.”

I advised him, “Go fuck yourself.”

He was standing directly over me now, with those hawk eyes staring down at me like he was in flight and he’d spotted an injured animal on the ground.

He said to me, “There are two kinds of interrogations. I don’t know about you, John, but I actually prefer the kind without blood and broken bones, and screams for mercy.” He turned from me and said, “Kate? How about you?”

She didn’t reply.

He continued on that subject. “Also, there are two ways to go through the wood chipper-dead or alive.” He informed us, “Putyov went through dead because that was just a killing of convenience. But you two piss me off. However, if you cooperate, I’ll give you my word of honor that you’ll have a quick, merciful death by a gunshot to the head before you go through the wood chipper and become bear food. Okay? Deal? John? Kate?”

I couldn’t quite see what was in that deal for me, but to buy a little time, I said, “Deal.”

“Good.” Madox said, “All right, you asked to see my ELF transmitter. So, I’ll show it to you.”

“Actually,” I said, “I’ll just take those lists of your houseguests and staff, and we’ll be on our way.”

“John, this is not funny.”

It was Madox speaking, but it could just as well have been Kate.

I could see and hear all four men moving around the room, then Madox said, “Okay, Mr. and Mrs. Corey, you can stand now. Hands on your heads.”

I began to sit up and grimaced from the pain in my ribs, which was not imaginary anymore. I put my hand behind my back to push up, palmed the BearBanger, and stuck it in the back of my tightie whities, then got to my feet. So far, so good.

I turned toward Kate, who was standing and looking at me. I said to her, “You’re going to have to bear up later.”

She nodded.

Madox reminded me, “Shut up.” He glanced at his watch, then said to Carl, “Let’s move out.”

Carl ordered, “Follow me. Ten-foot intervals.”

Carl headed toward the open doors of the card room, and Madox said to us, “Move. Hands on your heads.”

We followed Carl.

I had never walked in shackles, and even though there was some slack in the chain, it wasn’t easy to put one foot in front of the other, and I found myself shuffling, like the men on the chain gang. Plus, the metal was already chafing my bare ankles.

Also, my beltless pants were dropping, and I had to hitch them up a few times, which caused Luther to shout, “Hands on your head!”

I could see that Kate, ahead of me, was having a lot of difficulty walking, and she almost stumbled. But her tight jeans held up, and she kept her hands on her head.

I didn’t know who was following, so I glanced over my shoulder and saw Madox about ten feet behind me, his Colt.45 in his hand, swinging at his side.

Luther was bringing up the rear with his M16 rifle at the ready. Derek, the air horn victim, had stayed back in the bar, and he was collecting everything that was taken from us.

Madox said to me, “The next time you turn around, you’ll be sprouting a third eye in the middle of your forehead. Understand?”

I think I understood what he was saying.

So, as it turned out, Mr. Bain Madox was not so charming, well mannered, or even civilized. Goes to show you. Actually, I think I liked him better this way-gloves off, all pretenses dropped, and, more important, he was taking us to the ELF transmitter.

Carl halted in the middle of the card room, and Madox said, “Stop.”

Kate and I did as we were told, and I looked around. On one wall was a big dartboard whose target was a full-color photo of Saddam Hussein’s face.

Madox reminded me, “You asked when the war was going to start. Well, the operational date is March 15-the ides of March-give or take a day or two for glitches. But I’m starting it early. In less than an hour.”

“Are we getting dinner first?”

Luther, at least, thought that was funny.

Madox, who was ahead of me now, seemed a little tense, or maybe preoccupied, and didn’t reply to my question.

Anyway, Carl had slung his shotgun over his shoulder, and I got a good look at it. It was a Browning automatic shotgun, probably 12-gauge, and it would fire five rounds as quickly as you could pull the trigger and stay on your feet. For Carl, that would be no problem.

Madox’s Colt.45 automatic held seven rounds in the clip and one in the chamber. The gun was notoriously inaccurate, but if a blunt-nosed.45 slug hit you anyplace, you’d go airborne, and as my ex-military buddies liked to say, “It’s the fall that kills you.”

Luther’s M16 was another animal altogether. Very accurate at medium distances, and if Luther was carrying the fully automatic version, it could spray twenty steel-jacketed rounds at you in less time than it took to say, “Holy shit, I’m dead.”

In any case, we’d lost Derek, the air horn guy, who probably had an appointment with an ear doctor, and now Kate and I had to contend with only three guys. But they weren’t your normal run-of-the-mill street scum-like my Hispanic friends who sort of closed their eyes when they fired at me, or the Mideastern gentlemen who, I honestly believe, can’t be trying to hit anyone when they fire their AK-47s.

Anyway, not only were these three guys paramilitary but Kate and I were shackled, beltless, barefoot, and in a tight spot.

Bottom line, this was not the time to go BearBanger. And I hoped Kate understood that.

Also, we needed to get to the ELF transmitter.

I noticed that Carl was reaching under the big, round card table. Then he stepped back. As I watched, the table began to lift, and I could hear the humming of an electric motor as the table continued to rise along with the round rug beneath it and the circular section of the floor beneath the rug. I could see now the hydraulic piston that was lifting everything, and when the table legs, rug, and floor section were about five feet from floor level, it stopped, leaving a hole in the floor about four feet in diameter.

Carl sat on the floor with his legs dangling into the hole, then disappeared. Soon, a light came out of the dark space.

Madox said, “Kate, you first.”

She hesitated, and he moved quickly toward her, grabbed her arm, and propelled her forward toward the opening in the floor.

She almost fell because of the shackles, and I said to Madox, “Take it easy, asshole.”

He looked at me and said, “One more word out of you, and she will be sorry. Understand?”

I nodded.

Madox held Kate’s arm and maneuvered her to the edge of the opening, saying, “It’s a spiral staircase. Hold the rails and move quickly.”

Kate sat on the floor and grabbed a rope handle hanging from the underside of the elevated floor, then descended into the hole.

Madox motioned me toward the opening. “Let’s go.”

I felt Luther give me a shove, and I realized that this half-wit was too close for his own safety, and Madox yelled at him, “Get back, you idiot!”

I said to Madox, “I won’t hurt him.”

As I started toward the hole, Madox, who was no idiot, moved away from me and aimed his Colt.45. “Stop.”

I stopped.

A few seconds later, Carl’s voice called out, “Clear.”

Madox informed me, “Kate is on the floor, and Carl has his shotgun aimed at her head. Just so you know.” He pointed to the opening. “Go.”

I sat on the floor and lowered myself, feet and shackles first, into the hole until I felt the first step. I knew that once Kate and I were down in this subterranean area, no one on the ground was going to find us.

Madox said, “Let’s go, John. I’m on a tight schedule.”

I descended the spiral staircase, which wrapped around the hydraulic piston. It was not that easy to move in shackles, but my hands were free, so I held both rails and mostly slid down.

On that subject, if Madox intended to handcuff us at some point, then I’d have to make a move before that happened. I knew Kate also understood that.

It was about twenty feet to the floor below, the height of a two-story building, and I guessed without too much thinking that this was the fallout shelter.

At the bottom of the spiral staircase was a round, concrete room, lit with bare fluorescent bulbs.

Opposite the last step, about ten feet away, was a shiny steel bank-vault door embedded in the concrete wall.

Behind me, Carl said, “Facedown.”

I turned and saw Carl at the other end of the round space, pointing his shotgun at Kate, who was lying facedown on the floor.

This might have been a good time to make a move, but before I could decide, Carl aimed his shotgun close to Kate’s head and shouted, “Three! Two-!”

I got down on the cold concrete floor, and Carl yelled, “Clear!”

I heard Madox scrambling down the spiral staircase as though he’d practiced this a few times.

He said, “John, I think one of you has to go.”

I didn’t reply.

A few seconds went by, and I heard Luther’s boots on the stairs, then the hissing sound of the hydraulic piston, and finally the table and floor dropping into place.

Luther was down the spiral stairs, and Madox said to him, “Open the door.”

I heard the vault wheel click, then a small squeak as the heavy door swung open.

Madox told me, “John, no matter what move you make, or try to make, Kate is the first to get shot.” He said to Carl and Luther, “You got that? If Corey makes a move, you shoot Kate. I’ll take care of Mr. Corey.”

Carl and Luther both replied, “Yes, sir.”

Then, Madox warned, “You’re trying my patience, and I’m running almost ten minutes behind schedule. So, you either behave and do what you’re told, quickly, or I shoot one of you so we can get back on schedule. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“Good. You’re never a hero to your wife, anyway, so don’t even try.”

“Good advice.”

The next thing I heard was Madox saying, “Kate. Stand. Hands on head.”

She stood, and Madox instructed, “Follow Carl.” Then to me, “John. Stand. Hands on head. Follow at twenty feet.”

I stood, put my hands on my head, and noticed now a big canvas bag on the floor. It was partly unzipped, and I could see the sleeve of my leather jacket peeking out. Apparently, Derek had given Luther all our things, and the last trace of our being at Custer Hill-except for Rudy’s van, which they’d get rid of-was now gone.

Madox saw what I was looking at and said to me, “They won’t even find your DNA in the bear shit.” He motioned toward the door. “Go.”

I went through the vault door, which was embedded in about three feet of concrete.

Madox, behind me, said, “Welcome to my fallout shelter.”

Luther brought up the rear, and I could hear the vault door closing and locking.

I had the sense that we were under the back terrace, deep in the bedrock, and not connected to the basement of the house. I also had the sense that there wasn’t anyone on the surface who could ever find us.

CHAPTER FIFTY

We were now in a wide corridor whose concrete walls were painted a light green that changed into sky blue about a third of the way up the ten-foot height. The ceiling was covered with frosted glass panels, behind which were bright violet lights that, I guessed, were grow lights, though I didn’t see any vegetation, unless you counted the horrid 1980s Astroturf on the floor.

I suppose someone was trying to create the illusion that you were outdoors in a sunlit meadow that happened to look like an underground concrete corridor.

Madox said, unnecessarily, “You’re supposed to think you’re aboveground.”

I asked, “Aren’t we?”

He didn’t answer my question. “My idiot ex-wife’s idea.” He added, “She had an irrational fear of atomic war.”

“Silly woman.”

He seemed in a better mood, and he motioned to an open door to the right, which I could see was a children’s playroom. “The children were young then, and she thought they’d thrive down here.”

I commented, “The grow lights might help, but their playdates might be somewhat limited.”

He wasn’t paying any attention to me, and he actually seemed to be talking to himself. “She saw On the Beach and Dr. Strangelove about twenty times, and I don’t think she realized one was a serious film, and the other was gallows humor.” He added, “Nuclear Armageddon movies sent her to her therapist for months.”

I had the impression that Bain Madox had some issues with his ex-wife’s obsession with nuclear holocaust, and maybe what he was trying to do now was work through that by starting a nuclear war of his own. I was sure that Mrs. Madox would be one of the first people he called after it was over.

Anyway, Kate and I moved slowly down the passage in our shackles, and every time I hitched up my pants, Luther yelled, “Hands on your head,” and I replied, “Fuck you.”

I could hear the vents blowing, but the air smelled damp and slightly unpleasant.

On either side of the passage were open doors that revealed furnished rooms-bedrooms, a sitting room, a kitchen, and a long dining room with paneled walls, heavy drapes, a coffered ceiling, and plush carpets. Behind one closed door, I distinctly heard talking, then I realized it was a radio or television-so maybe someone else was down here.

Madox, again talking to himself, said, “She spent a fortune decorating this place. She wanted to sit out the half-life of radioactive fallout in the style to which she’d become accustomed.”

He was on a roll, so I didn’t comment.

He continued, “On the other hand, I find this space useful. First, for my ELF transmitter-and also as a place to store a fortune in art treasures, gold, and cash.” He made a joke. “The last IRS agent who came snooping around is still locked in a room down here.”

Good one, Bain. Actually, this place looked like the Führerbunker, but this might not be the right time to make that comparison.

We reached the end of the passageway, which must have run for fifty yards, and Carl unlocked a steel door, opened it, and turned on the lights.

Madox said, “Kate, follow Carl. John, stop.”

Kate disappeared into the doorway, and I stood there.

Carl called out, “Clear.”

Madox said, “John, follow.”

I was getting a little tired of these doggie commands, but it wasn’t worth mentioning now that we were so close to… the end.

I entered the room and saw that Kate again was on the floor, and Carl stood against the far wall, covering her and me as I entered.

Madox instructed, “John, down.”

I lay facedown on a plush blue carpet. On a professional level, I appreciated Carl and Bain’s military precision, and their textbook handling of two prisoners who, though shackled, unarmed, and outnumbered by three armed men, they understood to be potentially dangerous.

On the downside of that, these guys weren’t giving me an inch to wiggle out of this.

Using shackles instead of handcuffs was a judgment call, and I could see why Madox had gone with the shackles up to this point.

The only real mistake they’d made so far was not finding the BearBangers, which was why the police strip-searched prisoners and examined the body cavities. Now that we were in the dungeon, that might very well be Madox’s next move, along with handcuffs-and that would be our signal to act.

Meanwhile, Madox and Carl seemed to be busy with something other than us, but I caught a glimpse of Luther near the door with his M16 raised and pointed, and the muzzle sweeping back and forth between me and Kate. I didn’t see the canvas bag, which Luther had apparently stowed somewhere along the way. Therefore, the only weapons in this room were the ones we saw pointed at us.

On the subject of weapons, Carl’s choice of an automatic shotgun in confined quarters was also very professional-bullets from high-powered rifles have a tendency to pass through people and hit other people you don’t necessarily want to hit, then ricochet and become dangerous to the shooter and his friends.

In fact, down here, Luther’s M16 was almost as dangerous to him as it was to us. Nevertheless, I didn’t want him firing it at us.

As for Madox’s Colt.45, it was okay in confined quarters with masonry surfaces. It would put a big hole in you at close range, and its exit velocity wasn’t usually fatal to anyone on the other side of the intended victim. Also, if it hit a concrete wall, its blunt-nosed bullet was more likely to splatter than ricochet.

Having analyzed all that, my conclusion was that Kate and I were basically fucked. In fact, the BearBangers were getting smaller and smaller in my mind.

Madox said, “On your knees. Hands on your heads.”

I lifted myself into a kneeling position, with my hands on my head, and I saw Kate do the same. We were about ten feet apart in the dimly lit room, and we made eye contact. She dropped her face and eyes down toward where the BearBanger was stuck, somewhere in her jeans or panties, and probably behind her zipper. She glanced at me, and I gave a slight shake of my head. Not the right moment, I wanted to say. You’ll know when.

I looked around the room as my eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Madox was sitting with his back to us at some sort of electronic console that was against the far wall. I assumed that was the ELF transmitter. Eureka. Now what?

Luther was still standing near the door, covering Kate and me with his rifle.

Carl wasn’t visible, but I heard him breathing behind us.

The room itself was a sparsely furnished and functional-looking office. This was obviously Bain’s atomic-war headquarters, where he could spend the day making phone calls to see if anyone was alive out there after the Big One. He probably had a ticker tape, too, to see how his defense and oil stocks were doing.

I never understood, during the ’70s and ’80s, why people wanted to survive a nuclear holocaust. I mean, other than some cans of chili and a case of beer, I never made any long-range, post-nuclear war plans.

But to be fair to Bain, this was mostly his ex-wife’s idea. I wondered what became of her. Wood chipper?

Anyway, I noticed, too, that mounted on the paneled wall to the right of the electronic console were three flat screen television monitors on swing arms. They looked new and out of place in this 1980s time capsule.

To the left of the console was a bank of six older television sets, and they were all lit, but it was hard to see the black-and-white images on them, which kept shifting. I realized these were security monitors, and I made out the gatehouse on one screen, then an image of the lodge taken from the gatehouse, which then shifted to an image of the generator building, and so forth.

Therefore Madox would know if the cavalry arrived, and so would Kate and I. But so far, everything out there in Custer Hill land looked normal, peaceful, and quiet.

A recurring unhappy thought was that even if the state police and the FBI busted through the gate and kicked in the doors of the lodge, no one would find us down here.

And even if Schaeffer remembered that there was supposed to be a fallout shelter somewhere, he’d probably be looking in the basement of the lodge itself, and he might very well mistake some room down there for a fallout shelter.

For damned sure he wasn’t going to find the hydraulic floor under the card table, and even if by some miracle he did, it would take hours or longer to get an explosive ordnance team down here to blast open that vault door.

Wow. We were double fucked. There was only one way out of this mess, and that was the way I should have chosen this afternoon-this bastard and his buddies had to die, here and now, before they killed us, and before Madox detonated those four nukes in Sandland.

Madox swiveled around and asked me, “Do you understand what’s happening? John?”

“I think we established that you’re going to send an ELF wave to four receivers that are attached to nuclear detonators in four suitcase bombs.”

“Correct.” He added, “I’ve actually begun the transmission.”

Shit.

He said, “Come closer. On your knees. Come on.”

Kate and I moved on our knees closer to the console, then Carl, behind us, ordered, “Stop.”

We stopped.

Madox asked, “Can you see these three little windows?”

We looked to where he was pointing to a black box on top of the console. The first window in the box was spinning a dizzying array of red LED letters, and Madox said, “I’ve sent out the first letter of the three-letter code that will detonate the four devices.” He explained, “I could have put a time clock in each of the nuclear suitcases, but then the detonation time would be preset, and out of my control. So I chose a command-detonation mode, meaning my ELF radio, which is perfect for this task, and foolproof.” He added, “I finally got my money’s worth out of this ELF station.”

I told him, “You know, Bain, you can explore for oil with ELF waves.”

He smiled and said, “I see you’ve done some homework.” He informed me, “I don’t need to explore for oil. I already know where it is, and the present owners are about to be nuked.”

“Why are you doing this?”

He looked at me and replied, “Ah, the ‘why’ question.” He lit a cigarette. “Why? Because I’m fucking sick and tired of a succession of ball-less presidents kissing Arab ass. That’s why.”

I figured he’d kissed a little Arab ass himself, and this was payback. I figured, too, I’d go along with him, and said, “You know, Bain, Kate and I see this shit every day in our job. Illegal Muslim immigrants being treated like they were constitutional lawyers, suspected terrorists all lawyered up and threatening to sue for false arrest.” I went on with my litany of problems on the job, but oddly, Madox didn’t seem that interested. I concluded with, “I understand your frustrations, but exploding four nuclear weapons in Sandland is not going to solve the problem. It’ll make it worse.”

He laughed, which I thought was strange.

Then, he swiveled around again and punched a few keys on his keyboard. He explained, “Each letter needs to be encoded with a four-letter code group.”

“Right,” I agreed. “Can we talk about this?”

He didn’t seem to hear me, and he appeared intent on reading his dials and listening to something on a set of headphones that he held briefly to his ear.

I noticed that the first window in the black box had stopped spinning letters, and it was locked into a bright red “G.”

Kate spoke up. “When the state police and FBI get here, they’re going to knock out your generators, and the antenna poles.”

Madox was still playing with his electronics, and replied without turning around, “Kate, first, they haven’t even left police headquarters yet, which is over an hour from here. Second, they really don’t know what’s happening here. Third, even if they got here in the next thirty minutes, they’d be too late.” He explained, “This will all be over in less than twenty minutes.”

I noticed now that the second window in the black box was spinning red letters.

Madox swiveled in his chair and said to us, “The second letter is sent, and the four receivers in the suitcase nukes will pick it up in about fifteen minutes.”

I thought maybe he was juking and jiving us about how much time we had left, so to show him we’d done our homework, I said, “About thirty minutes.”

“No, fifteen. That’s how long each repetitive ELF wave will take to reach San Francisco and Los Angeles, and have its signal decoded in the receiver.”

“The Mideast,” I corrected. “Thirty minutes.”

“No,” said Mr. Madox impatiently. “You still don’t get it-which is good news for me.”

Kate asked, “Get what?”

“Get Project Green and Wild Fire.”

Madox swiveled around again and read his electronic dials, commenting, “The generators are maintaining six thousand kilowatts.” He put his hand on the keyboard. “Now, all I have to do is type the encryption for the last letter in the three-letter code.”

As he said that, the second letter on the black box froze at “O.” So now it read “G-O.”

He noticed it and said, “We have a G and O. So, what’s the code word? I can’t remember. G-O-B? G-O-T?” He laughed over his shoulder at us. “G-O-C-O? No, too many letters. Help me. John? Kate? Please, God, let me remember… ah! That’s it. G-O-D.”

The man was clearly having fun, while losing his marbles.

He typed on his keyboard, and the last window began spinning letters.

He swiveled back to us and said, “So, what’s happening is that my encryption software has successfully sent the letters G and O via ELF wave toward the four receivers, which is confirmed by the G and O on the black box. But, as you know, it takes a while for these repetitive waves to actually reach the receivers and for them to properly decode. Understand?”

I didn’t think he really gave a shit if we understood, unless he was trying to see what we knew, so I said, “We understand.”

“Really?” He informed us, “I’ve used a repeating, self-correcting code, which is continuously transmitted until the initiating sequence is received. In other words, D-O-G won’t work. Only G-O-D can make an explosion. Follow?”

I reminded him, “Don’t forget to activate your isotopes.”

“To… what?” He looked at me like I was crazy, then continued, “This is the same software system that the Navy uses for their nuclear submarine fleet. But maybe you knew that. Do you know about my little experiment back in the 1980s?”

Kate replied, “We do. And so does everyone in the FBI.”

“Really? Well… that’s too bad. But not relevant now. In any case, when that black box spells G-O-D, about fifteen minutes later, the four receivers will have the entire three-letter code in proper sequence. GOD. Then, after two minutes, if there’s no change in the continuous transmitted signal, the four receivers will send an electronic pulse to the four detonators, which are attached to the receivers, and we have four nice nuclear explosions, thanks to Dr. Putyov.”

Neither Kate nor I responded to that.

Madox lit another cigarette and watched the black box as the last window kept spinning letters. Then, the window read “D,” and the box read, “GOD.” Madox, who thought that meant him, said, “So, all three letters are now being sent across the country in a continuous pattern.”

I still wasn’t understanding why he was saying “across the country,” but maybe I did understand, and I didn’t want to know.

Madox pushed a few buttons on the console, and four green LED numbers-15:00-appeared on a big screen, then he hit another button, and the numbers began to count down. He told us, “It’s hard to say exactly how long the ELF wave will take to get properly decoded by the receivers, but about fifteen minutes is a good guess. Then, as I said, the receivers need to hold these letters for precisely two minutes to be certain they’re reading the continuous, self-correcting code correctly. Then”-he slapped his hands together-“BOOM!”

I saw that coming, but poor Luther almost wet his pants.

Madox thought that was pretty funny, so he did it three more times. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! But the surprise was gone, and no one jumped.

I mean, this guy was out of his fucking mind, and I hoped that Carl and Luther were getting it. I was sure that Harry had gotten it at some point, and maybe Carl and Luther would remember what happened to Harry.

I focused on the countdown clock, which now read 1:36, then :35, and so forth, on the way to nuclear ecstasy for Bain Madox.

Madox chain-lit another cigarette, looked at his watch and then the countdown clock, then checked some of his instruments, then glanced at the six security monitors.

Madox seemed to be in a manic state, and I could understand that this was his payoff moment for years of work and planning.

I, on the other hand, didn’t have much to do except kneel with my hands on my head, watching and listening. I mean, I wasn’t exactly bored observing a nuclear event unfolding, but I’m more of an action guy.

On that subject, Carl was still behind us, so going for the BearBanger, which had dropped a bit south in my tightie whities, was not an option. I might get the BearBanger out, but I’d be dead before I could figure out which way was up and press the button on the other end of it.

Kate had a better chance of reaching into the front of her jeans and pulling the thing out before Carl or dim-witted Luther noticed. And I could see she was getting tense just thinking about it.

She was watching Luther as much as she could get away with it, but we couldn’t watch Carl, and I had no idea how closely he was focused on us. Plus, just when Luther’s dim brain seemed to be wandering, Madox would suddenly swivel around and chat with us.

In fact, he now turned toward us. “You probably think I’m crazy.”

I replied, “No, Bain, we know you’re crazy.”

He started to smile, but then realized his troops were present, and he didn’t want to put any ideas into their heads, so he got serious, like he was sane, and said to me, “There’s not one major figure in the history of the world who has not been called crazy. Caesar, Attila, Genghis Khan, Napoleon, Hit-. Well, maybe he was a little unbalanced. But you understand what I’m saying.”

“I understand that if you think you’re Napoleon, you may need to speak to someone.”

“John, I don’t think I’m anyone except who I am.”

“That’s a good start, Bain.”

He informed us, “I don’t think you appreciate what I’m doing.” He thereupon went into a whole riff about great men who changed the course of history, including some guy named King John of Poland, who saved Vienna from the Turks and didn’t get anything out of it. I mean, who gives a shit, Bain?

Meanwhile, the countdown clock read 11:13, and counting.

Kate took advantage of Madox’s pausing to light a cigarette and asked him, “What is Wild Fire?”

He blew a few smoke rings, then answered, “It’s a top secret government protocol that goes into effect if and when America is attacked with a weapon or weapons of mass destruction. It’s the only good and sane thing we’ve ever done since MAD-Mutually Assured Destruction.”

Kate followed up with, “What does that have to do with… with what’s happening now?”

He looked at her through his smoke and asked, “So, you really don’t know, do you?”

I had the impression that if we answered some of these questions wrong-if he thought we were really clueless-then we’d be joining Putyov and the IRS guy sooner rather than later, so I replied, “We were briefed, but-”

“Good. Tell me.”

“Okay… well… Wild Fire is a secret government protocol that goes into effect-”

“John, you’re such a bullshitter.” He said, “I’ll tell you.” He launched into an explanation of Wild Fire, which I found scary but at the same time strangely reassuring. The scariest thing was that Bain Madox knew the intimate details of a secret that was right up there with the most sensitive national secrets in the country, including where the Roswell aliens were hidden.

Meanwhile, the countdown clock read 9:34, and as I watched while Madox spoke, it went to 9:00, then 8:59.

I was catching most of what Madox was saying, and when he began to recite the cities in the world of Islam that were going to be nuked if Wild Fire was ever triggered, I thought the guy was going to have an orgasm.

I mean, he was in total ecstasy, and I sort of hoped he would swoon or something.

When he got to the part of the Wild Fire plan about nuking the Aswan High Dam, he became animated, threw his arms into the air, and said, “Billions of gallons of water. The entire Lake Nasser and the Nile will sweep away Egypt and deposit sixty million bodies in the Mediterranean.”

Jeez. Bain. Tell me you’re not nuts.

As riveting as this was, I did notice two things: one, Madox had his Colt.45 stuck in the inside pocket of his blue blazer, and two, Luther was looking a little concerned, as though this were all new to him. In fact, he lit a cigarette, which you’re not supposed to do on-duty. Especially if it means leaving your rifle dangling by its sling over your shoulder while you screw around with your cigarettes and lighter.

Meanwhile, the room was getting smoky, and I was going to point out that secondhand smoke was not healthy for any of us, but then Bain would point out that neither Kate nor I should be thinking long-range.

The countdown clock read 7:28.

A phone rang somewhere in the room, and it was actually Madox’s cell phone, which he pulled out of his pocket. He said, “Madox,” then he listened and confirmed, “Project Green is go,” followed by, “Kaiser Wilhelm,” who must be in on this, or more likely that was a code word that meant everything was fine, and he-Madox-was not under duress.

Madox listened again, then responded, “Good.” He glanced at the countdown clock and said into his cell phone, “About five or six minutes, give or take, then the two minutes for the lock-in. Yes. That’s good. What are they having for dinner?” He listened, laughed, and said, “I may be saving you all from a fate worse than death. Okay. Good. Thanks, Paul.” He added, “God bless us all.” He hung up and told me, “You’ll appreciate this, John. The president and his guests are having French cuisine-poached truite saumonée with sauce relevée for dinner. So, where was I?”

I said, “Excuse me, Bain. I must not have been paying attention, but-”

“Oh, sorry. That was Paul Dunn. The special assistant to the president on matters of national security.” He explained, “They’re having a small, intimate dinner at the White House tonight. This is good because the president and first lady can be quickly evacuated from Washington. Along with Paul.”

“Is the food that bad?”

Madox laughed and said, “You actually are funny.” He put the cell phone back in his pocket. “FYI, I have a cell antenna down here, and my relay tower is again activated, but unfortunately for my non-paying customers in the vicinity, the system is now voice scrambled.” He asked me, “Where was I?”

“Sixty million bodies floating down the Nile.”

“Right. The biggest single loss of life in the history of the world. Plus, don’t forget another hundred million or more of our Muslim friends incinerated in a hundred more nuclear explosions.”

I still wasn’t quite following this. I understood what Wild Fire was-which sounded a little extreme as a retaliation for a terrorist nuke going off in America-but who was I to judge? What I didn’t understand was how Madox, by nuking four Islamic cities, was going to trigger Wild Fire… then I got it. It wasn’t four Islamic cities. It was two American cities. The cities where the nukes were right now-LA and San Francisco. Holy shit. I looked at Kate, who I could see was white as a ghost.

Madox grabbed a remote clicker from his console and turned on the three flat screen televisions.

The first one brightened, and I could see a news studio, and a weather lady was pointing at a national weather map. Madox said, “Washington,” then he hit the Mute button as the sound came up.

The second screen showed another news studio and some guy was giving a sports roundup. Madox noted, “San Francisco,” then muted that TV as well.

The third screen showed two news anchors yakking it up with a daytime skyline behind them, and it took me a few seconds to recognize it as downtown Los Angeles. Madox listened for a few seconds, then looked at his watch. “Okay, it’s seven fifty-six here, so on the Left Coast, it’s four fifty-six P.M.” He looked at his countdown clock that read 4:48,:47,:46,:45-.

He said, “So, we have five or six minutes for the last letter-D-to reach the receivers. Then, two minutes for lock-in.” He paused. “GOD.”

I cleared my throat and said to him, “Are you…? I mean, are you…?”

“Spit it out, John.”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“What’s it look like I’m doing?”

I didn’t reply, and neither did Kate.

He sat back in his swivel chair, crossed his legs, and lit yet another cigarette. “Project Green. That’s the name of my plan to trigger Wild Fire. Get it? Four suitcase nukes-two in LA, two in San Francisco.” He added, “They cost me ten million bucks, plus maintenance.”

Madox glanced back at the countdown clock. “They’ll all blow in less than six minutes.” He turned toward us and said, “Then, the Wild Fire retaliatory response kicks in, and we blow those Islamic sons of bitches off the face of the Earth for what they did to Los Angeles and San Francisco-” He stopped abruptly, as though something just dawned on him, then said, “I forgot. I’m blowing up San Francisco and Los Angeles.” He laughed.

Holy shit. I said to him, “Bain, for God’s sake, you can’t-”

“John, shut up. You sound like Harry now. And while you’re shutting your mouth, think about how beautiful this is. Project Green. Wild Fire. Why green? Because…” He looked at the flat screens. “See that ribbon running across the bottom on the LA channel? What’s that say? Alert Level Orange. Do you know what it’s going to say in the very near future? Green. Permanent Green. Get it? You’ll never again be wanded at an airport… well, actually, you’ll never again be at an airport. But think of all our fellow Americans who are inconvenienced at the airport.”

He rambled on a bit, and I looked at the news shows from LA and San Francisco, hoping I’d see some indication that some dangerous plot had been uncovered in those cities. But the anchors were starting to wrap it up. I hoped-prayed, actually-that both pilots and co-pilots in both cities had been found. But the chances of all four of those guys being found by now, along with the suitcase nukes, were not good.

I said to Madox, “Bain, the government will know it was you and not the terrorists who-”

“John, even if they did figure it out, it would be too late. Wild Fire is hardwired and on a hair trigger.”

“Bain, they’ll be here looking for you-”

“You know what? I don’t give a shit as long as I know that the world of Islam is lying in nuclear ruin. I don’t mind being a martyr for my country, my faith-”

“Are you out of your fucking mind? You’re going to murder millions of Americans, millions of innocent Muslims-”

“John, shut the fuck up.” He glanced quickly at Carl and Luther, then said to me, “The ends justify the means.”

“No, they do not-”

He raised his voice. “They do! This is a whole New World we’re talking about. Are you too stupid to understand-?”

“I have to pee.”

Madox looked at Kate. “What?”

“I have to pee. Please, I can’t hold it in. I don’t want to… to wet myself here-”

Madox seemed annoyed, thought a moment, then said, “Well, I don’t want you wetting yourself here either, considering the lousy job the air-purification people did.” He instructed Carl, “Watch her.”

Carl ordered Kate, “Down on all fours. Turn around.”

Kate did as she was told, then Carl said, “Over there.”

I lost sight of her, but I heard Carl move across the floor, and then I heard a door opening behind me.

Madox watched what was happening, as did Luther, who again took out his cigarettes.

Carl said to Kate, “Go ahead. I’m not closing the door.”

The moment had arrived. Carl was watching Kate with his back to me, and Madox was dividing his attention between his countdown clock, which now read 3:26, his security monitors, which still showed no problems, and his flat screen TVs, where news shows were still wrapping up their hours.

Luther was fixated on the open bathroom door.

I turned my head and looked behind me. Carl was standing at the door with his shotgun at his hip, pointed at Kate, whom I could see standing in front of the toilet bowl, unbuttoning her jeans, then unzipping her fly.

I don’t know what Carl thought he was going to see, but he was about to see something else.

Madox said, “John, you don’t need to watch your wife peeing. Turn this way.”

I turned away from what was going to be a very bright light, held my breath, and shut my eyes. I was prepared for it, but when it happened, I almost peed my pants myself.

There was a deafening explosion that filled the room as if the noise were solid. Simultaneously, the room was lit with a blinding light, which I could actually see through my closed eyelids, and I heard Carl screaming in pain.

I was flat on the floor now, with my BearBanger in my hand, but the room was full of smoke, so I couldn’t see Madox or Luther, and I hoped they couldn’t see me. I’d already decided that Luther presented the biggest threat with his M16, so I pointed the BearBanger at where I could see movement near the door and fired.

Another huge explosion filled the room as the flare shot out of the BearBanger like a red laser beam and exploded on the wall-or on Luther.

It didn’t matter if I hit him or not because by now everyone was half blind, deaf, and definitely fucked up.

I spun around and lunged across the floor where I saw Carl lying on his back. I reached around for his shotgun but couldn’t find it.

Then Kate shouted something, but I couldn’t hear her.

I looked at her and saw she already had the shotgun.

There were small fires on the carpet from the BearBanger flares, and I also noticed a couch blazing.

I caught a glimpse of Carl’s face-or what used to be his face-then I got into a crouch and charged at Madox, whom I could now see on the floor near his swivel chair, moving around, obviously disoriented, but nowhere near out of action. I took too long a stride for the shackle chain, and I fell forward, then scrambled on my hands and knees toward him.

Before I could get to Madox, Luther stood and brought his rifle up to his shoulder and was about to fill me with holes when a shotgun blast filled the room, and Luther seemed to defy gravity as he lifted off his feet and slammed into the wall.

Before he dropped, Kate fired a second time, and Luther’s lower jaw disappeared.

I again lunged at Madox, who was now on one knee, facing me with his Colt.45 in his hand.

He started to raise his gun, and Kate shouted, “Freeze! Freeze! Drop it! Drop it or you’re dead!”

There was this long moment while Bain Madox considered his options. Kate helped him decide by blowing a hole in the ceiling above his head. Before the plaster even hit him, he dropped his gun.

Time sort of hung there for a while, with Madox and I both on our knees facing each other from about five feet away. Kate was standing about ten feet away, the shotgun pointing at Madox’s head.

The room smelled of burned explosives, and a blue smoke hung in the air. My eyesight was returning, but black specks danced around wherever I looked. As for my hearing, I’d heard the shotgun blasts, but they’d sounded far away, and if there was any other noise in the room, I couldn’t detect it.

I stood slowly and got my footing, then grabbed Madox’s.45 off the carpet and went over to Luther, who was sitting against the wall near the door. He was not dead but would wish he was if he survived without a lower jaw. Kate’s first shot had shredded his arm, but his rifle was still hanging by its sling across his chest, so I pulled it away from him and set the selector switch from full automatic to safety, then I slung the rifle over my shoulder.

Kate had motioned Madox onto the rug, where he was lying with his face buried in the thick, blue plush carpet, which I could tell him firsthand was not comfortable.

I glanced at the countdown clock and saw we had two full minutes before 00:00.

I needed to do this by the book, to be sure there was no one left who presented a danger to Kate or me. So I went over to Carl, who was still alive, and who also had some parts of his face where they didn’t belong.

I started to frisk him, but amazingly, he sat up, like Frankenstein on the laboratory table, and I backed off.

I watched him get to his feet. Clearly he was blind-not temporarily blinded, but, judging from the burns around his eyes, permanently blind. Nevertheless, he put his hand inside his jacket and brought out a Colt.45 automatic.

I was going to say, “Drop it!” but then he’d know where to fire, so with time running out, I made a difficult decision and put a.45 bullet through his forehead.

He was too big to be lifted off his feet, and he fell backward, like a huge tree toppling.

Kate said, “Fifty-eight seconds.”

I walked over to Madox, who was staring at Carl’s body, and asked him, “How do I stop this?”

He turned his head toward me and replied, “Fuck you.”

“Do you have anything intelligent to say? Come on, Bain. Help me. How do I stop this?”

“You can’t. And why do you want to? John, think about this.”

I have to be honest and admit that I had been thinking about it. I mean, God help me, but I did think about letting it happen.

Kate called out, “Forty seconds.”

I got my head back on straight and remembered what Madox had said about the ELF signal, and I seemed to recall something about a continuous signal, and a lock-in period, so I thought that if I stopped the ELF wave, right here at the transmitter, the receivers wouldn’t or couldn’t lock in and send a signal to the nuclear detonators. Electronics is not one of my strong points, but destruction is, and there was nothing to lose, except two cities, so I stepped back and told Kate to do the same.

The countdown clock read :15 seconds, but I recalled from Bain that the ELF wave and the decoding could be a minute or two faster or slower in reaching the receivers, and for all I knew, the two-minute lock-in time was already running-or finished.

I glanced at the three flat screen TVs, but there was nothing unusual happening in San Francisco, Los Angeles, or Washington.

Kate said, “John.”

I looked where she was staring and saw that the countdown clock read 00:00, and the black LED box was now flashing “GOD-GOD-GOD.”

I raised the Colt.45 and pointed it at the ELF transmitter.

Madox had gotten up and was on his knees now, in front of the transmitter, as though he were protecting it. He held his hands up and shouted, “John! Don’t do it! Let it happen. I beg you. Save the world. Save America-”

I fired three rounds over Madox’s head into the transmitter, and three more into the rest of the electronic console, just to be sure. Then Kate blasted the last two shotgun rounds into the smoking electronics.

The lights, dials, and instruments blinked off, and the big metal console smoked and sparked. The word “GOD” blinked out.

Madox had turned his head and was looking at the dying ELF transmitter, then he turned to me, then Kate, then back to me, and said in almost a whisper, “You ruined everything. You could have let it happen. Why are you so stupid?”

I had a few good replies for him about duty, honor, and country, and also about “If I’m so stupid, why do I have your gun?” but I got right to the point and said, “This is for Harry Muller,” and fired my last bullet into his brain.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

We found the key in Carl’s pocket and removed our shackles. We also found his Colt.45 on the floor, and Kate stuck it in her waistband.

Kate and I stood side by side in the smoky room, as mute as the three televisions that we were watching. My heart, and I'm sure hers, was thumping.

After a few minutes of commercials-with no urgent bulletins or screens going black in LA or San Francisco-I said to Kate, “I guess everything is okay.”

She nodded.

I asked her, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine… I’m just… stunned.”

I let a few minutes go by, then said to her, “You did a good job.”

“Good? I did a fucking excellent job.”

“Excellent job.” I asked, “Hey, where did you hide the BearBanger?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Right.”

After another minute of silence, she asked me, “Do you believe this? Do you believe what Madox was going to do?”

I looked at the electronic console and said, “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

She didn’t respond for a second, then said, “John… for a minute there… I thought you were… wavering a little.”

I thought about that. “Honestly?”

“Don’t answer.”

But I had to say something, so I said, “It’s going to happen anyway.”

“Don’t say that.”

I tried a joke. “Why don’t we stay down here for a few years?”

She didn’t reply.

I glanced at Bain Madox, who was still in a kneeling position, but now with his head thrown back, resting on the edge of his electronic console table. Those gray hawk eyes were wide open, as unblinking and emotionless as ever. And, except for the red hole in the middle of his forehead, I could hardly tell he was dead, which was creepy.

Kate saw me staring at him. “You did what you had to do.”

Which we both knew was not true. I did what I wanted to do.

I looked away from Madox and watched the six security monitors, but I didn’t see anyone, except for a shadow moving around in the gatehouse, and I guessed that was Derek. Then I saw a Jeep pass in front of the generator house.

I said to Kate, “They’re still out there, and no one has arrived from state police headquarters.”

She nodded. “So, we’ll stay here awhile.”

I really didn’t feel like hanging around this room much longer with two stiffs on the floor, and a smoldering carpet and couch, plus the smell of burnt electronics.

Also, Luther was gurgling, and I recognized that sound. There wasn’t much I could do for him, but I thought maybe I should try, so I looked around for a landline phone to call state police headquarters to get an ambulance, not to mention some state troopers to arrest Derek, and whoever else needed to be arrested, and get us the hell out of there.

Kate kept staring at the three television sets, and glancing at a clock on the wall. “I really think it’s okay.”

“Yeah.” I couldn’t find a phone, and I thought about trying another room, and that reminded me of the room with the closed door where I’d heard a television.

I mean, I was still a little punchy from the BearBangers, but I should have been more alert.

Also, my hearing had not fully returned, and neither had Kate’s, so we never heard anyone coming down the corridor, and the first I knew that we weren’t alone was when I heard a voice say, “Well, I didn’t expect this.”

I spun around, and standing by the door was the ghost of Ted Nash. I was speechless.

Kate, too, stood across the room, staring, and her mouth actually dropped open.

Finally, I said, “You’re dead.”

He replied, “Actually, I’m feeling fine. Sorry to upset you.”

“I’m not upset. I’m disappointed.”

“Be nice, John.” He looked at Kate and asked her, “So, how are you?”

She didn’t answer.

I knew I saw the hand of the CIA in this, but in my worst nightmare, I never thought I’d see Ted Nash again. Or, maybe I did.

Nash scanned the room, but didn’t comment on the destruction, the blood splattered all over, Luther dying a few feet from him, or Carl lying dead in the middle of the floor. Ted was a cool guy. He did, however, look at Bain Madox and said, “That’s a real shame.”

Apparently, we had different opinions of the deceased.

Nash said, not to us but to himself, “Well, there are going to be a lot of disappointed people in Washington.”

Neither Kate nor I responded, but I thought about getting the M16 unslung from my shoulder and into the firing position.

I wasn’t being totally paranoid because Ted Nash is probably a killer, and for sure not a big fan of John Corey. Plus, he was wearing a sport jacket, and he had his right hand stuck inside, like the pretty-boy fashion models in the catalogs. This was the nonchalant, gun-in-my-pocket look.

Kate finally spoke. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m working.”

“You… you were in the North Tower…”

“Actually, like you, John, and other people, I was late.” He said philosophically, “Isn’t it funny how fate works?”

I replied, “Yeah. Fate is a barrel of laughs. What’s the deal, Ted? Are you going to tell me you’re here to stop Madox, but once again you were a few minutes late?”

He smiled and replied, “I’m not here to stop Madox.” He glanced again at the late Mr. Madox. “But apparently you were.”

“I was just here for dinner.”

Then, before we could engage in any more witty repartee, he pulled his pistol, which was a Glock similar to my own, and said, “You guys really fucked things up.”

“No, Ted. We just saved San Francisco and Los Angeles.” I said, to be sure he understood, “We’re heroes. The bad guys are dead.”

He was getting a little pissed, the way he always does with me, and now that he had his gun out, and we all knew where he stood on this issue, he said, “You have no idea how you’ve fucked things up.” He stared at me, and glanced at Kate. “The world as we know it was about to be forever changed. Do you understand that? Do you?”

He was getting himself all worked up, so I didn’t answer his stupid question.

He went on, “This was the best, most ingenious, most daring and courageous plan we have ever come up with. In one fucking day-one day, John-one fucking day, we could have wiped out a major threat to America. And you-you and this bitch, here, fucked it up.”

“Hey, I’m really sorry.”

Kate took a deep breath and said sharply, “First of all, Ted, I’m not a bitch. Second, if this government wants to destroy Islam with atomic weapons, or threaten to destroy them, then they should have the balls to do that without faking a fucking terrorist attack on two American cities, and killing millions of Americans-”

“Shut the fuck up! Who gives a shit about Los Angeles and San Francisco? Not me. Not you, either. Don’t take the moral high ground with me, Kate. We had a chance here to bring this Muslim shit to a happy conclusion, but you and this fucking clown you’re married to-” He glanced at me, and for the first time noticed the sling on my shoulder, and the black muzzle of the M16 peeking up from behind my back. He pointed the Glock at me. “Get that fucking rifle off your shoulder. Don’t touch it. Don’t touch anything. Let it slide to the floor. Now!”

I leaned left so that the sling started to slide off my shoulder and down my arm, while trying to figure out how to get a grip on the rifle, click off the safety, aim from the hip, and get off one good shot.

Apparently, Mr. Nash was tired of my slow response and said, “Don’t bother. Just stand there and die.” He aimed his Glock at my chest. “Just so you know, I pulled some strings to get you sent here, and hopefully killed, instead of poor Harry Muller, who you will be joining in about three seconds. Also”-he nodded toward Kate-“I did screw her-”

I heard a loud blast but didn’t see his muzzle flash. He did, however, toss his gun into the air. Or so it seemed. His body went straight back, as though he’d been kicked in the chest, and he slammed into the wall next to Luther. As he was sliding to the floor, Kate emptied Carl’s Colt.45 into Ted Nash’s body, which jerked violently each time another bullet hit him.

I watched her get off the last three shots, and there was nothing hysterical or frenzied about the way she was shooting. She was holding the big automatic with both hands in the correct grip, knees bent, arms straight, aim centered, squeeze, fire, breathe, hold it, squeeze, and so forth. Until the slide locked in the empty position.

I went over to her to take the pistol, but she threw it aside.

I said, “Thanks.”

She kept staring at Nash’s body, covered now with blood and gore from a head wound.

She said, “Not a bitch, Ted.”

I’d have to remember not to use that word when we argued.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Ifound a landline phone and called Major Schaeffer, who, as it turned out, was totally clueless about where we were or what was going on.

I gave him a very edited, need-to-know briefing, mentioning murder and mayhem, and requesting troopers, an ambulance, a CSI team, and his presence.

Kate and I, carrying Luther’s fully loaded M16 and Nash’s thankfully fully loaded Glock, explored and secured the other rooms in the subterranean living quarters, which could have been featured in Better Homes and Fallout Shelters.

We found the canvas bag with our stuff in it, and got ourselves back together.

There’s nothing interesting or educational about being a helpless prisoner, especially if your jailers are psychotic and homicidal, so I never quite understood the Stockholm syndrome thing where the prisoner starts to identify with his or her captor and begins to sympathize with whatever bullshit the captor is using as an excuse for his bad behavior.

Now and then, however, what the psycho is doing or saying actually does appeal to what the prisoner already believes, or has thought about himself in the dark parts of his mind.

But enough about that.

Kate and I found Mr. Madox’s barroom, which was actually a smaller version of the one upstairs, and she liberated a bottle of Dom Pérignon, vintage 1978, which she opened and drank from a water tumbler.

I found some warm bottles of Carlstadt beer, which doesn’t improve with age, and, in fact, had gotten a little cloudy since 1984. But it hit the spot.

Regarding Mr. Ted Nash, this was his second and hopefully last time back from the dead. I counted seven-count ’em, seven-holes in him, which was not bad for eight shots. In fact, I felt silly feeling for a pulse, and Kate asked me what the hell I was doing. But I needed to be really sure.

Also regarding Ted Nash, in less than three minutes, he’d managed to totally piss me off. First, I’m not a clown, Ted, and my wife is not a bitch. As for the other thing… well, it happened. Even Kate can make a mistake with men. I’m sure not all of her boyfriends were John Coreys.

She must have guessed what I was thinking about, and she finished another glass of champagne and said, “It never happened. He was lying.”

Well, I couldn’t ask Dead Ted, so I let it go. “CIA guys lie,” I said.

“Believe me.”

She had Ted’s Glock, so I said, “I believe you, sweetheart.”

Being a lawyer and an FBI agent, she informed me, “I can explain the first and second shot as self-defense. I can’t explain the other six shots.”

I suggested, “Let’s say Ted challenged you to hit him eight times.” I added, “Actually, I’d be happy to take the rap-or the credit-for killing him.”

“Thanks, but… I’ll handle it.”

We moved back into the ELF room to check the security monitors, and we saw Schaeffer’s guys arriving in marked and unmarked cars, with an ambulance, all lined up on McCuen Pond Road behind the closed gate.

Oddly, the gate wasn’t opening, and the lead car smashed through it.

Then, two uniformed troopers went into the gatehouse, and a few minutes later, two EMS guys from the ambulance carried a body on a stretcher out of the gatehouse and back toward the ambulance.

Kate asked me, “What’s that about?”

“I’m pretty sure Derek is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yeah. Madox needed him to tidy up the lodge and get rid of the van I borrowed from Rudy. But Madox didn’t want Derek talking about that, or talking about where everyone was in the fallout shelter… so he got someone to get rid of Derek.”

Kate commented, “Bain Madox seems to think of everything.”

“Not everything, and not anymore.”

We gave it fifteen minutes to be sure that the right people were in charge upstairs, then made our way to the spiral staircase, found the hydraulic switch to raise the card table, and ascended into the card room, where the air was fresh.

We had our creds out, and we were passed from one state trooper to another, until we found ourselves in the great room, where Major Schaeffer had set up his command post with a radio and a few troopers. Kaiser Wilhelm was sleeping and farting near the hearth.

Schaeffer asked us, “What in the name of God is going on here?”

I replied, “The murder of Harry Muller is solved. Bain Madox and Carl the butler did it.”

“Yeah? Where’s Madox?”

“In the fallout shelter.”

“We searched the whole basement.”

I explained how to find the fallout shelter and added, “You got three dead down there, and one seriously wounded.”

“Who’s dead?”

“Madox, Carl, and some other guy.”

“Madox is dead? How did he die?”

I answered, evasively, “Get your CSI team there and let them get to work. Also, the wounded guy needs help fast.”

Schaeffer picked up his radiophone and gave instructions regarding the fallout shelter.

I also advised Schaeffer, “You should disarm and restrain the security guards.”

“They’re disarmed and confined to their barracks under guard.”

“Good.”

“What do we have on them?”

“Accessories or witnesses to Harry’s murder. Tell them the boss is dead, and see if they’ll start talking.”

He nodded, then said to us, “Those three diesel engines and generators were running at full capacity and we shut them down. Do you know anything about that?”

I replied, “Well, as it turned out, Fred was right. Submarines.”

“What…?”

Kate said, “Sorry, Major, this comes under the category of national security.”

“Yeah?”

I changed the subject back to homicide and informed Schaeffer, “Don’t bother looking for Putyov here.”

“Why not?”

“Well, according to the late Mr. Madox, he murdered his houseguest Dr. Putyov, then put the body through the wood chipper.”

“What?”

“If it matters, Putyov got what he deserved. But I can’t get into that.” I suggested, “You may want the CSI guys to pay special attention to the wood chipper. If they don’t find anything there, you might think about collecting some bear shit and see if you can find a little of Dr. Putyov’s DNA there.”

Schaeffer said, “I’m not quite following-”

“Hey,” I asked, “what happened to the guy in the gatehouse?”

“He’s dead.”

“Derek. Right?”

“That’s what his name tag said.” He informed us, “The EMS guys thought it looked like poisoning. Maybe a neurotoxin. The guy was twitching like an epileptic before he died.”

I said to Kate, “Jeez, I hope it wasn’t the pigs-in-the-blanket.”

Schaeffer replied, “We didn’t find any pigs-in-the-blanket, but there was a fresh pot of coffee in the guardhouse, and this guy had a spilled coffee mug on his desk. So, we’re thinking the coffee. We’ll test it and do the toxicology.”

Kate said to me, “Madox does plan ahead.”

“Not anymore.”

Kate asked Schaeffer, “Are the FBI here?”

“Oh, yeah. They set up their own command post.” He jerked his head upward and said, “In Madox’s office. Your buddy Griffith is there, and he’s still looking for you.”

Kate suggested, “Let’s go say hello.”

“Okay.” I said to Schaeffer, “See you later.”

He looked at us and said, “You smell like smoke, and you look like hell. What happened?”

I replied, “It’s like a really long and very weird story. Let me get back to you on that.”

He reminded us, “You must remain on the scene to assist with the investigation.”

“See you later.”

I took Kate’s arm, and we left the great room.

There were about a dozen uniformed state troopers going through the house, obviously without knowing what they were supposed to be doing. I flashed my creds and asked one of them, “Where’s the kitchen?”

“Kitchen? Oh… you just go down this hallway.”

“Thanks.” I headed for the kitchen, and Kate said to me, “We need to see Liam Griffith.”

“Schaeffer said he was in the kitchen.”

“In Madox’s office.”

I tapped my ear. “Come again?”

We found the kitchen, which was unoccupied. I noticed that there was no sign of dinner preparations, and I pointed this out to Kate, who replied, “I think dinner was a ruse, John.”

“Yeah? No steak and potatoes?”

“Why are we here?”

“Because I’m hungry.”

“Can I get you a cup of coffee from the gatehouse?”

“Sure, and get one for yourself.” I opened the big, industrial-size refrigerator and found some cheese and cold cuts.

“How can you eat?” she asked me. “My stomach is churning.”

“I’m hungry.” I threw the cheese and cold cuts on the counter, then went to the kitchen sink and washed up. I think I had some of Madox on me.

As I was doing this, Mr. Liam Griffith entered the kitchen and asked us, “Where the hell have you two been?”

I looked up from the sink. “Could you hand me that dish towel?”

He hesitated, then handed it to me. “What are you doing here?”

I dried my face and replied, “We’ve been saving the planet from nuclear destruction.”

“Really? Then, what did you do for an encore?”

I handed the towel to Kate, who went to the sink to wash up.

I said to Griffith, “Well, then we killed a buddy of yours.” I unwrapped the cheddar cheese and said, “Ted Nash.”

Mr. Griffith did not reply, but I could see from his face that he wasn’t understanding me. Finally, he said, “Ted Nash is dead.”

“That’s what I said. Doesn’t that sound great?”

He still wasn’t comprehending what I was saying, so I was pretty sure that Liam Griffith, prick though he was, had no clue about any of this.

Kate dried her hands and face. “He didn’t die in the North Tower. But he’s dead now.” She added, “I killed him.”

“What?”

I said, “We will not say anything else on that subject at this time. Do you want some cheddar cheese?”

“Huh? No.” Finally, he said to us, “As you know, you’re both in major trouble. I have orders to escort you back to the city as soon as I locate you, which I’ve done. I have the pleasure to inform you that you are both the subject of possible disciplinary action, and hopefully worse.”

And on and on.

I must have eaten a half pound of cheese and cold cuts while he was rambling on, and I looked at my watch a few times as a hint that he should wrap it up.

When he was through, he asked us, “What exactly happened here?”

I replied, “Kate and I found Harry Muller’s killer.”

“Who is it?”

Kate answered, “It was Bain Madox, the owner of this lodge.”

“Where is he now?”

I said, “In the fallout shelter. Dead.” I added, “I killed him.”

No reply.

“And that’s all you need to know, and all we’re saying.”

“All right… then I need you to come with me.”

“Where’re you going, Liam?”

“I told you. Back to the city. There’s a helicopter waiting at the airport.”

I informed him, “We really can’t leave a crime scene. Major Schaeffer-”

“All right. The three of us will spend one hour here with the state police so you can explain what happened. Then, I need to insist that the police release you into my custody.”

I looked at Kate, and she nodded. I said to Griffith, “Kate and I will confine our statements to the subject of Harry Muller’s murder. Everything else that you and the state police see here is a matter of national security, which will not be discussed until we’re back at 26 Fed. Understand?”

“Maybe you can give me a hint about how national security plays into Kate killing a CIA officer.”

Kate responded, “Liam, I don’t think your security clearance is high enough for me to tell you about that.”

He looked a little pissed, but got off a smart remark. “Ted always spoke highly of you, Kate.”

“Not the last time we spoke.”

Liam Griffith is no idiot, and said, “You’re both either in deep trouble or you’re going to get a commendation. So I’ll just shut up until I find out which it’s going to be.”

I commented, “Today must be your annual smart day.”

So we spent an hour with Major Schaeffer, the state detectives, and the crime scene investigators, during which Kate and I danced around the central issue of what the hell was going on in the Führerbunker. Then, after a pissing match between Schaeffer and Griffith, Kate and I got in Liam’s rental car and began our drive from the lodge, which took us past the flagpole where the American flag still flew, illuminated by the spotlight; and below the stars and stripes was Bain Madox’s Seventh Cavalry regiment pennant.

Yeah, I had mixed feelings about the guy, mostly negative, but… well, if he hadn’t killed Harry, and if he hadn’t been prepared to kill a few million other Americans, including Kate, me, and anyone else who got in his way, plus a couple hundred million innocent men, women, and children… well, he was a complex man, and it was going to take me a while to figure him out.

We also passed by the wood chipper, and that sort of brought me back to reality. The big things-like nuclear Armageddon-were a little abstract. It’s the small things, like the wood chipper, that make you understand evil.

Well, we helicoptered back to New York City, and by the time we got to 26 Federal Plaza, there were about a dozen people there from the office, including, of course, Tom Walsh, and another dozen from Washington, all waiting for us with open notebooks and tape recorders.

Tom Walsh greeted us warmly by saying, “What the fuck was I thinking when I sent you two up there?”

I replied, “What were you thinking when you sent Harry up there?”

He had no answer for that, so I asked him, “Whose idea was it to send me up there alone on that assignment?”

No response.

I informed him, “I’ll tell you. It was Ted Nash’s idea.”

“Nash is dead.”

“He is now, and I’m not.”

Kate said to Walsh, “But it could have easily gone the other way.”

Walsh looked at both of us, and I could see he was trying to figure out if he was supposed to be clueless, angry, or blameless. He couldn’t seem to decide, so he went to the men’s room.

I could see that there was still a lot of confusion about what had happened and what our status was-heroes or felons-but I also sensed that one or two guys from Washington knew exactly what this was all about, but kept it to themselves.

We were debriefed in Walsh’s office by two-man relay teams for hours, but Kate and I held up pretty well as we gave the interviewers an hour-by-hour, blow-by-blow account of everything that had happened since we walked into 26 Federal Plaza on Columbus Day morning and spoke to Tom Walsh-including talking to Betty at Continental CommutAir and Max and Larry at the car-rental desks, then checking out Madox’s jets at the general aviation office, then the decision to go to the Custer Hill lodge instead of state police headquarters, and on and on.

I could see that the FBI people were partly impressed by our initiative and good investigative techniques, and somewhat troubled by our total failure to follow orders and becoming fugitives. I hoped they were learning something.

Also, I could sort of tell, as the night wore on, that Kate and I were the only ones there who weren’t worried about something.

Interestingly, most of the FBI interviewers seemed unhappy that Bain Madox-the mastermind and prime witness to this conspiracy-was dead, and that I killed him. I said, of course, it was self-defense, though it was actually self-gratification. I mean, it was a stupid thing to do, and by whacking him, I complicated the investigation into the conspiracy. I wish I had it to do over again; of course, I’d do the same thing, but I’d first remind myself that I wasn’t acting professionally.

Also, unless I was imagining things, at least two of the FBI guys from Washington did not seem that unhappy that Madox was not able to talk.

On the subject of Kate killing CIA officer Ted Nash, none of the FBI guys commented or pressed the questioning, which was odd but understandable. They weren’t going to touch that subject unless or until they heard from someone higher up.

I had a little fun watching Tom Walsh squirm, and more fun sitting in his office with my feet on his conference table as Kate and I were debriefed. At about 3:00 A.M., I expressed a strong craving for Chinese food, and an FBI agent went out and found an open place. Hey, it’s not every day you’re the center of attention, and you have to milk it a little.

There was a lot to unravel here, and I had no idea where this was going to go, or how high up the Project Green conspiracy reached. And, of course, neither Kate nor I would ever know.

At dawn, two FBI agents drove us back to our apartment and told us to get a good night’s sleep, even though it was morning.

Back in our apartment, we stood on the balcony and watched the sun rising over lower Manhattan, both remembering the morning of September 12, 2001, when we’d watched the black smoke blocking out the sun not only for us, and New York, but for the whole country.

I said to Kate, “As we know in this business, every act of violence, and every murder, is revenge for the murder before it, and the excuse for the murder after it.”

She nodded and said, “You know… I wanted to get out of this business… go someplace else… but now, after this, I want to stay here and do what I can…”

I looked at her, then back at lower Manhattan, where we could once see the Twin Towers rising into the sky. I said to her, or myself, “I wonder if we’ll see the alert level go to Green again in our lifetime.”

“I doubt it. But if we keep working at it, we can keep it from going Red.”

Bottom line, the FBI in Los Angeles and San Francisco found the pilots and co-pilots, and found the suitcase nukes in their hotel rooms. In fact, one of the co-pilots was sitting on one of them, watching TV, when the FBI opened the door to his room.

Bottom, bottom line, I got stuck with a three-thousand-dollar bill from The Point, and as Kate predicted, the accounting office didn’t want to hear any explanations, plus, Walsh wouldn’t go to bat for us, so Kate and I are eating out less often for a while.

We need to go to FBI Headquarters in D.C. to be fully, fully debriefed, give statements, and write reports.

Regarding the Executive Board of the Custer Hill Club, the only news so far-reported in small items in the print media-is that the deputy secretary of defense, Edward Wolffer, has taken a leave of absence; Paul Dunn, the presidential adviser on matters of national security, has resigned his position; and General James Hawkins has retired from the Air Force.

These three events, taken by themselves, did not seem remarkable, and caused no stir in the ever-vigilant news media. Meanwhile, Kate and I are waiting for more startling news about these guys, such as their arrests. But so far, Dunn, Wolffer, and Hawkins have not made the front page, or the 6:00 news, and I wouldn’t be surprised if we never heard another thing about them, despite what Kate and I told the FBI. Maybe they lost those notes.

As for the fourth member of Madox’s Board, CIA officer Scott Landsdale, no news is not necessarily good news. This guy is still out there somewhere, and Scott is either going to go scot-free or, if he’s in big trouble, no one is ever going to hear about it. I mean, should we trust an organization that gets paid to lie?

On another, perhaps related subject, the war with Iraq seems on track, and I’m taking Madox’s inside information and betting on the week of March 17, which my bookie says is a long shot at three-to-one odds. If I can triple my thousand-dollar bet, I can cover The Point. As for oil futures, my broker says that post-war Iraqi oil will flood the market, and prices are going down-not up, as Madox said. I have to think about who to trust-my stockbroker or Bain Madox. That’s a tough call.

One thing we did not have to do in Washington was explain how or why Kate killed a CIA officer. On that subject, the head CIA guy in the ATTF told us that the dead man found in the Custer Hill lodge remained unidentified, and that the CIA officer named Ted Nash, whom we once knew, had died in the North Tower on September 11, 2001.

I wasn’t about to argue with them about that, and neither was Kate.

I do think about Madox’s Project Green a lot, and I’m pretty sure that what almost happened-an attack on an American city or cities with weapons of mass destruction-is going to happen, sooner or later. But now, I’d have to wonder where the attack actually came from.

And on that subject, without sounding too paranoid, I think that Kate and I probably saw and heard more than some people are comfortable with. I mean, I’m not suggesting that the CIA is planning to whack us because we know too much, or because we know about Scott Landsdale, or because Kate killed CIA officer Ted Nash. But you never know, so maybe we’ll buy a dog, and check under the hood before we start the car.

You can’t be too careful in this business, and you have to know who your friends are, and who your enemies are, and if you can’t figure that out, keep your gun oiled, loaded, and close.