Wild Fire

CHAPTER THREE

Detective Harry Muller parked his camper on the side of an old logging road and gathered his gear from the front seat, then got out, checked his compass, and headed northwest through the woods, wearing an autumn camouflage outfit and a black knit cap.

The terrain was easy to navigate, with well-spaced pine trees and ground cover of moss and dewy ferns. As he walked, daylight began filtering through the pines, revealing a thick ground mist. Birds sang and small animals scurried through the undergrowth.

It was cold, and Harry could see his breath, but the pristine forest was spectacular, so he was slightly more happy than miserable.

Slung over his shoulders were binoculars, a Handycam, and an expensive Nikon 12-megapixel camera with a long 300mm lens. He also carried a Sibley Guide to Birds in case anyone asked him what he was doing there, and a 9mm Glock in case they didn’t like his answer.

He’d been briefed by a guy known as Ed From Tech, who’d told him that the Custer Hill Club property was about four miles long on each side, for a total of sixteen square miles of private land. Incredibly, the entire property was enclosed within a high chain-link fence, which was why the Tech guy had also handed him the wire cutters that Harry now carried in his side pocket.

Within ten minutes, he came to the fence. It was about twelve feet high and topped with razor wire. Metal signs, about every ten feet, read: PRIVATE PROPERTY-TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

Another sign read: DANGER-DO NOT ENTER-PROPERTY PATROLLED BY ARMED GUARDS AND DOGS.

From long experience, Harry knew that warning signs like these were usually more bullshit than reality. In this case, however, he’d take the signs seriously. Also, it troubled him that Walsh either didn’t know about the dogs and armed guards or knew and didn’t tell him. In either case, he would have a few words for Tom Walsh on Monday morning.

He took out his cell phone and switched it from ringer to vibrate. He noticed that his phone had good signal strength, which was a little strange up in the mountains. Impulsively, he dialed his girlfriend Lori’s cell phone. After five rings, his call went into voice mail.

Harry said softly into the phone, “Hi, babe. It’s your one and only. I’m up here in the mountains, so maybe I won’t have good reception for very long. But I wanted to say hi, I got up here last night about midnight, slept in the camper, and now I’m on-duty, near the right-wing loony lodge. So don’t call back, but I’ll call you later from a landline if I can’t reach you by cell phone. Okay? I still need to do something at the local airport later today or tomorrow morning, so I might need to stay overnight. I’ll let you know when I know. Speak to you later. Love you.”

He hung up, took the wire cutters, sliced a gap in the chain-link, and squeezed through onto the property. He stood motionless, looked, listened, then put the wire cutters back in his pocket. He continued on, through the woods.

After about five minutes, he noticed a telephone pole rising between the pine trees, and he approached it. Mounted on the pole was a telephone call box, which was locked.

He looked up and saw that the pole was about thirty feet high. Approximately twenty feet up the pole were four floodlights, and above that were five strands of wire running along a crossbeam. One wire obviously powered the telephone and another powered the floodlights. The other three were actually thick cables that could carry lots of juice.

Harry noticed something unusual and focused his binoculars toward the top of the pole. What he’d thought were evergreen boughs from surrounding trees were actually boughs protruding from the telephone pole. But these boughs, he knew, were the plastic kind that cell-phone companies used to camouflage or beautify cell-phone towers in populated areas. Why, he wondered, were they here in the middle of the woods?

He lowered his binoculars, raised his Nikon, and snapped a few shots of the pole, recalling that Tom Walsh had said to him, “In addition to cars, faces, and plate numbers, photograph anything else that looks interesting.”

Harry thought this seemed interesting and good for the files, so he took his Handycam and shot ten seconds of tape, then moved on.

The terrain began to rise gradually, and the pines gave way to big oaks, elms, and maples whose remaining foliage were brilliant hues of red, orange, and yellow. A carpet of fallen leaves covered the ground, and they rustled when Harry passed over them.

Harry did a quick map-and-compass check and determined that the lodge was straight ahead, less than half a mile away.

He broke out a breakfast bar and continued on, eating, enjoying the fresh Adirondack mountain air while staying alert for trouble. Even though he was a Federal agent, trespassing was trespassing, and without a warrant, he had no more right to be on private, posted land than a poacher.

And yet, when he’d asked Walsh about a warrant, Walsh had said to him, “We have no probable cause for surveillance. Why ask a judge if the answer is no?” Or, as the NYPD liked to say about bending the law, “It’s better to ask for forgiveness later than to ask for permission now.”

Harry, like everyone else in anti-terrorism, knew that the rules had changed about two minutes after the second tower had been hit, and the rules that hadn’t changed could be broken. This usually made his job easier, but sometimes, like now, the job also got a little riskier.

The forest had thinned out, and Harry noticed a lot of stumps where the trees had been felled and carted away, maybe for firewood, maybe for security. Whatever the reason, there was a lot less cover and concealment than there had been a hundred yards back.

Up ahead, he could see an open field, and he approached it slowly through the widely spaced trees.

He stopped under the last standing maple and surveyed the open land with his binoculars.

A paved road ran through the field and downhill to the entrance gate, where he could see a log-cabin gatehouse through his binoculars. The road was lined with security lights mounted on metal poles, and he also noticed wooden telephone poles with five strands of wires coming out of the woods, crossing the field and road, and disappearing again in the woods on the far side of the road. This, he assumed, was a continuation of what he’d seen near the fence, and it appeared that these poles and wires circled the property, meaning the whole sixteen-mile perimeter was floodlit. He said to himself, This is not a hunting lodge.

He scanned the road as it traveled uphill to a huge two-story Adirondack-style mountain lodge that sat on the rising slope in front of him, about two hundred yards away. On the front lawn of the lodge was a tall flagpole from which flew the American flag and, beneath that, some sort of yellow pennant. Beyond the lodge were some utility structures, and at the top of the hill was what looked like a radio or cell-phone tower, and he took a telescopic photo of it with his Nikon.

The lodge was made of river stone, logs, and wood shingles, with a big columned portico out front. The green-shingled roof sprouted six stone chimneys, all of which billowed gray smoke into the air. He could see lights in the front windows and a black Jeep in the big gravel parking lot in front of the house. Obviously, someone was home, and hopefully they were expecting guests. That’s why he was here.

He used the Nikon to take a few telescopic photos of the parking lot and lodge, then he turned on his Handycam and took some establishing footage of the lodge and his surroundings.

He knew that he’d have to get a lot closer if he was going to photograph arriving cars, people, and license plates. Ed From Tech had shown him an aerial photo of the lodge and pointed out that the terrain was open, but that there were lots of large rock outcroppings for concealment.

Harry looked at the outcroppings rising up the hill, and he planned his route to sprint from one rock formation to another until he could reach a vantage point about a hundred feet from the lodge and the parking field. From there, he saw he could photograph and videotape parked cars, and people going into the lodge. He needed to stay there until late afternoon, according to Walsh, then get over to the local airport to check out arriving-passenger manifests and car rentals.

He recalled the time he was on the case of a bunch of Irish Republican Army guys who’d set up a training camp not far from here. The Adirondack Forest Preserve was as big as the state of New Hampshire, a mixture of public and private land with a very small population, making it a good place to hunt, hike, and try out illegal weapons.

This surveillance was a little different from the IRA bust, in that no crimes had apparently been committed and the people who lived in that big lodge probably had some pull someplace.

Harry was about to make his first rush toward an outcrop when suddenly three black Jeeps appeared from behind the lodge and started traveling cross-country at high speed. In fact, they were traveling straight toward him. “Shit.”

He turned and moved back into the tree line, then heard dogs barking in the forest. “Holy shit.”

The three Jeeps came right up to the trees, and two men exited from each vehicle. They carried hunting rifles.

Out of the trees around him came three men with German shepherds straining at their leashes and growling. The men, he noticed, had sidearms strapped to their hips. Harry now saw a fourth guy coming out of the trees who walked as if he were in charge.

Harry realized the only way his position could have been fixed so accurately was if there were motion or sound detectors planted in the area. These people really liked their privacy.

He felt an unaccustomed sense of anxiety, though not fear. This was going to be messy but not dangerous.

The security guards had formed a circle around him but kept a distance of about twenty feet. They were all dressed in military-type camouflage fatigues with an American flag patch on their right shoulders. Each man wore a peaked cap with an American eagle on it, and each had a wireworm sprouting from his left ear.

The man who was in charge-a tough-looking, middle-aged guy-stepped closer, and Harry saw he had a military-type name tag that said CARL.

Carl notified him, “Sir, you are on private property.”

Harry put on a dumb face. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, geez. Well, if you’ll point the way-”

“How did you get through the fence, sir?”

“Fence? What fence?”

“The fence that surrounds the property, sir, and is posted with ‘no trespassing’ signs.”

“I didn’t see any-. Oh, that fence. Sorry, Carl, I was following a woodpecker, and he flew over, so I found a hole in the fence and-”

“Why are you here?”

Harry noticed that Carl’s tone had become a little less polite, and he’d forgotten the “sir” word. Harry replied, “I’m a bird-watcher.” He displayed his guidebook. “I watch birds.” He tapped his binoculars.

“Why do you have those cameras?”

“I take pictures of the birds.” Asshole. “So, if you’ll point me to where I can exit the property-or, better yet, drive me out-I’ll be leaving.”

Carl didn’t reply, and Harry sensed the first sign of possible trouble.

Then Carl said, “There are millions of acres of public land around here. Why did you cut a hole in the fence?”

“I didn’t cut any fucking hole, pal. I found a fucking hole. And by the way, Carl, fuck you.”

Harry, and everyone around him, realized that he was not sounding like a bird-watcher any longer.

He was about to flash his Fed creds, stand these bastards at attention, and tell them to give him a ride back to his camper. His second thought, however, was not to make a Federal case of this. Why let them know he was a Federal agent sent here to snoop? Walsh would have a total shit fit. Harry said, “I’m outta here.” He took a step toward the forest.

All of a sudden, rifles were raised and pistols came out of their holsters. The three dogs growled and pulled at their leashes.

“Stop, or I’ll let the dogs loose.”

Harry took a deep breath and stopped.

Carl said, “There are two ways to do this. Easy or hard.”

“Let’s do hard.”

Carl glanced around at the other nine security guards, then at the dogs, then at Harry. He spoke in a conciliatory tone. “Sir, we are under strict instructions to bring any trespassers to the lodge, call the sheriff, and have the individual transported by a law enforcement person off the property. We will not press charges, but you will be advised by the sheriff that if you trespass again, you are subject to arrest. You may not, under the law or under our insurance policy, exit the land by yourself on foot, and we will not drive you off the land. Only the sheriff may do that. It’s for your own safety.”

Harry thought about that. Though the assignment was belly-up, he could pull out a little win by seeing the inside of the lodge, and maybe getting a little info there, and a little 411 from the local sheriff. He said to Carl, “Okay, sport, let’s go.”

Carl motioned for Harry to turn and walk toward the Jeeps. Harry assumed they’d put him in one of the vehicles, but they didn’t, so maybe their insurance policy was real strict.

The Jeeps did stay with him, however, as he was directed to the road and up the hill toward the lodge, accompanied by the whole contingent.

As he walked, he considered these ten armed security guards with the dogs, the gatehouse, the chain-link fence, the razor wire, the floodlights and call boxes, and what were most likely motion and sound detectors. This was not your everyday hunting and fishing club. He was suddenly pissed off at Walsh, who’d barely briefed him, and more pissed at himself for not smelling trouble.

He knew he shouldn’t be frightened, but some instinct, sharpened by twenty years of police work and five years of anti-terrorist work, told him that there was an element of danger here.

To confirm this, he said to Carl, who was walking behind him, “Hey, why don’t you use your cell phone to call the sheriff now? Save some time.”

Carl didn’t respond.

Harry reached into his pocket. “You can use my cell phone.”

Carl snapped, “Keep your hands where I can see them, and shut your fucking mouth.”

A cold chill ran down Harry Muller’s spine.

CHAPTER FOUR

Harry Muller sat across a desk from a tall, thin, middle-aged man who had introduced himself as Bain Madox, president and owner of the Custer Hill Club. This, explained Mr. Madox, was not his day job, only a hobby. Bain Madox was also president and owner of Global Oil Corporation (GOCO for short), which Harry had heard of, and which also explained two of the photographs on the wall-one of an oil tanker and another of a burning oil field in some desert or another.

Madox noticed Harry’s interest in the photographs and said, “Kuwait. The Gulf War.” He added, “I hate to see good oil burning, especially if no one is paying me for it.”

Harry didn’t reply.

Mr. Madox was wearing a blue blazer and a loud plaid shirt. Harry Muller was wearing his thermal long johns. He’d been subjected to a humiliating strip search by Carl and two other security guards, who had cattle prods and promised to use them if he resisted. Carl and one of those two guys stood behind him now, cattle prods in hand. So far, there was no sign of the sheriff, and Harry didn’t think the sheriff was on the way.

Harry watched Bain Madox sitting quietly behind his big desk in the large pine-paneled office on the second floor of the lodge. Through the window to his right, he could see the rising slope behind the lodge, and at the top of the hill, he noticed the tall antenna he’d seen from the woods.

Mr. Madox asked his guest, “Would you like some coffee? Tea?”

“Fuck you.”

“Is that a no?”

“Fuck you.”

Bain Madox stared at Harry, and Harry stared back. Madox looked about sixty, Harry thought, very fit, unseasonably tanned, swept-back gray hair, a long, thin, hooked nose like an eagle’s with gray eyes to match. Harry also thought this guy looked rich, but not stupid rich. There was something about Madox that signaled strength, power, and intelligence. Command and control. And Madox didn’t seem one bit nervous about having abducted and detained a Federal agent. This was not good, Harry knew.

Madox took a cigarette from a wooden box on his desk and asked, “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“I don’t give a fuck if you burn. Call the sheriff. Now.”

Madox lit the cigarette with a silver desk lighter and puffed thoughtfully, then asked, “What brings you here, Detective Muller?”

“Bird-watching.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but that seems like a sissy hobby for a man involved in anti-terrorism.”

“You’re about one minute away from me placing you under arrest.”

“Well, then, let me use that minute wisely.” Madox examined the items strewn across the desk: Harry’s cell phone and pager, which were now shut off, his key chain, the Handycam, the Nikon digital camera, the binoculars, the Sibley bird guide, a terrain map of the area, the compass, the wire cutters, Harry’s credentials, and his 9mm Glock 26, the so-called Baby Glock that was easier to conceal. He noticed that Madox had removed the magazine, which was smart of him.

Madox asked Harry, “What am I to make of this?”

“Whatever the fuck you want to make of it, pal. Give me my shit, and let me the fuck out of here, or you’ll be looking at twenty years to life for kidnapping a Federal agent.”

Madox made a face, suggesting he was annoyed and impatient. “Come on, Mr. Muller. We’re well beyond that by now. We need to move forward.”

“Fuck you.”

Madox suggested, “Let me play detective. I see here a pair of binoculars, a small video camera, a very expensive digital camera with a telescopic lens, and a bird guide. From that, I can conclude that you are an enthusiastic bird-watcher. So enthusiastic, in fact, that you also have these wire cutters in the event a fence comes between you and a bird. Plus, a 9mm handgun in case a bird won’t stay still long enough for you to photograph it.” He asked Harry, “How am I doing?”

“Not too good.”

“Let me keep trying. I also see here a U.S. geological survey map on which is drawn in red the perimeter of my property, plus the gatehouse, and this lodge and other structures. This suggests to me that an aerial photograph was taken of my property, and these man-made features were transferred to your map. Correct?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Mr. Madox continued, “I also see here on my desk this badge and a card that identifies you as a retired New York City police detective. Congratulations.”

“Eat shit and die.”

“But what interests me most is this other badge and ID card that say you are a Federal agent with the Anti-Terrorist Task Force. Not retired.” He stared at the photo ID, then at Harry Muller and asked, “Working today?”

Harry decided to try the cover story one more time, just in case this guy wanted a reason to cut him loose. “Okay, let me tell you again what I told your paranoid rent-a-cops. I’m up here for the weekend camping. I watch and photograph birds. I’m also a Federal agent, and by law I have to carry my credentials and my piece. You shouldn’t put two and two together and come up with five. Understand?”

Madox nodded. “I do. But put yourself in my position. And I’ll put myself in yours. I’m Federal Agent Harry Muller, and I’m listening to a man who tells me that all the circumstantial evidence I see in front of me-evidence of surveillance-can be explained as bird-watching. So, do I let you go? Or do I demand a more logical and truthful explanation? What would you do in my position?”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over your loud shirt.”

Mr. Madox smiled, then opened the Sibley guide, put on his eyeglasses, and selected a page. He asked Harry, “Where are you most likely to encounter a loon, Mr. Muller?”

“Near a lake.”

“That was too easy.” He flipped a few pages. “What is the color of a cerulean warbler?”

“Brown.”

Mr. Madox shook his head. “No, no, Mr. Muller. Cerulean means blue. Sky blue. One more. Two out of three is passing.” He flipped through the book again. “What color is the male-?”

“Hey, take that book, put a coat of K-Y jelly on it, and shove it up your ass.”

Mr. Madox closed the guide and threw it aside. He turned to his computer screen. “Here are your digital photos. I don’t see any birds in them. I see, however, that you seem interested in one of my utility poles… and let’s see… here’s a telescopic shot of the tower behind my lodge… close-ups of my lodge… ah, there’s a bird perched on my roof. What is that?”

“A shit-seeking hawk.”

Madox picked up the Handycam, switched it to Replay, and looked through the viewfinder. “Here’s the pole again… you noticed the plastic boughs, I assume… here’s the lodge again… nice views from where you were standing… that bird is flying away. What was that? Looks like a great blue heron, but he should have migrated south by now. It’s been unusually warm this fall. Global warming, if you believe that crap.” He put down the camcorder and asked, “Do you know what the solution is to global warming? No? I’ll tell you. Nuclear winter.” He laughed. “Old joke.”

Madox sat back in his chair and lit another cigarette. He blew perfect smoke rings and watched them as they rose and dissolved. “That’s a lost art.”

Harry Muller glanced around the room as Bain Madox practiced his lost art. He could hear the breathing of the two men behind him as he shifted his gaze to a wall that was covered with framed certificates of some sort. Harry thought that if he could get a handle on who this guy was, it might be helpful.

Madox noticed Harry’s gaze and said, “The one on the top left is my certificate for the Silver Star. Next to it is the certificate for the Bronze Star, then the Purple Heart. Then there’s my commission as a second lieutenant in the United States Army. Next row are the usual service medals, including the Vietnam Campaign Medal and a Presidential Unit Citation. I served in the Seventh Cavalry Regiment of the First Air Cavalry Division. The Seventh Cav was General Custer’s old unit. That’s part of the reason for the name of this club. I might tell you the other part later, but if I do, then I’ll have to kill you.” He laughed. “Just joking. Hey, smile. Just joking.”

Harry forced a smile. Asshole.

“The last row is the Combat Infantry Badge, my Expert Rifleman Badge, my Jungle Training School diploma, and, finally, my Army discharge. I left the service after eight years with the rank of lieutenant colonel. We made rank fast in those days. Lots of dead officers opened up the promotion list. Did you serve?”

“No.” Harry decided to play along. “I was too young, then they ended the draft.”

“Right. They should bring it back.”

“Absolutely,” Harry said. “They should draft women, too. They want equal rights, they should have equal responsibilities.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

Harry was on a roll and continued, “My son still had to register for the draft in case they ever bring it back. But my daughter didn’t. What’s that all about?”

“Precisely. You have a son and daughter?”

“Yeah.”

“Married?”

“Divorced,” Harry replied.

“Ah, me, too.”

“Women will drive you crazy,” Harry said.

“Only if you let them.”

“Well, we let them.”

Madox chuckled. “We do. Anyway, you’re here on surveillance for the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force. Why?”

“How long were you in Vietnam?”

Madox looked at Harry Muller for a few seconds, then replied, “Two tours of one year each, then a third tour that was cut short by an AK-47 round that missed my heart by an inch, nicked my right lung, and broke a rib on the way out.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

“I tell myself that every day. Each day is a gift. Have you ever been shot at?”

“Five times. Never got hit.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.” Madox stared at Harry. “It changes you. You’re never the same again. But it’s not necessarily for the worse.”

“I know. I’ve got friends who’ve been hit.” He thought of John Corey, but he was fairly sure that Corey was the same wiseass both before and after getting hit. He said, “Sometimes, I think I should have volunteered. Vietnam was over, but I could have still served. Maybe I would have caught the Grenada Invasion or something.”

“Well, don’t be hard on yourself. Most American men have never served. And to tell you the truth, war is a damned scary thing. And now we’re engaged in this war on terrorism, and you, Mr. Muller, are apparently on the front lines. Correct?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“And by terrorism, we generally mean Islamic terrorists. Correct?”

“Yeah… but-”

“So, are you looking for Islamic terrorists here? Can I help?”

Harry was forming a thought, but Mr. Madox went on, “If there’s anything I can do, Mr. Muller, just let me know. There’s no one who feels more strongly about winning the war on terrorism than I. How can I help?”

“Uh… well… here’s the thing. About five years ago, I was on this case of Irish Republican Army guys-terrorists-only about fifteen miles from here. They had a training camp.” Harry filled in Madox on the case and concluded, “We sent eight guys to Federal prison for terms ranging from three to twenty years.”

“Ah, yes. I remember that because it was so close to here.”

“Right. So, this is the same thing. We’re checking a lot of private preserves to see if there’s any suspicious activity involving the IRA. We’ve had intelligence reports that-”

“So, this has nothing to do with Islamic terrorists?”

“No. Not today. We’re doing IRA.”

“Seems like a waste of time and resources in light of 9/11.”

“Well, I think so, too. But we need to keep on top of everything and everybody.”

“I suppose.” Madox thought a moment, then asked, “So, you think the Custer Hill Club is… what? A training camp for the Irish Republican Army?”

“Well, the bosses had a tip about activity in this area, so I got picked to take a peek. You know, in case people were using your property without you knowing.”

“No one can enter my property without me knowing, as you just found out.”

“Yeah, I see that. I’ll report-”

“Certainly not people engaged in paramilitary training.”

“Yeah, I-”

“And that doesn’t explain why you were taking pictures of my lodge. You should be out in the woods looking for these IRA people.”

“Yeah. I got turned around.”

“You certainly did. The point is you are on surveillance.”

“Well, yeah. I need to check about a dozen properties in the area.”

“I see. So, I shouldn’t feel singularly honored?”

“Huh?”

“I shouldn’t feel picked on?”

“No. Just routine stuff.”

“That’s a relief. By the way, do you have any sort of government warrant for these activities?”

“I do… but not with me.”

“Aren’t you supposed to carry the warrant with you?” He waved his hand over the desk and said, “We didn’t find anything, even when we looked up your rectum.” Mr. Madox smiled.

“Hey, fuck you! Fuck you!” Harry stood. “You motherfucking scumbag piece of shit!”

“Excuse me?”

“Shove it up your ass. I’m walking the fuck out of here-” He reached for his things on Madox’s desk and an explosion of pain ripped through the right side of his body. He heard a crashing sound and a thump, then nothing.

He realized he was lying on the floor, and a cold sweat covered his body. His eyes were blurry, but he could see Carl standing over him, tapping the cattle prod into his palm as if to say, “You want another jolt?”

Harry tried to stand, but his legs were rubbery. The other guard got behind him, lifted him under his arms, and dropped him back into his chair.

Harry tried to steady his breathing and his quivering muscles. His eyes were still unfocused, and everything sounded tinny in his ears.

One of the guards gave him a plastic bottle of water, which he could barely hold.

Mr. Madox said, “It’s amazing what electricity can do to a person. And there’s almost no visible evidence. Where were we?”

Harry tried to say, “Fuck you,” but couldn’t get the words out.

“I think you were trying to convince me that you were on a routine assignment looking for IRA training camps. I’m not convinced.”

Harry took a deep breath and said, “It’s true.”

“Well then, let me reassure you there are no members of the Irish Republican Army on my property. In fact, Mr. Muller, my ancestry is English through and through, and I have no fondness for the IRA.”

Harry didn’t reply.

Madox said, “Okay, let’s cut the IRA crap and go right to the heart of this matter. What, exactly, do your superiors think is going on here?”

Again, Harry didn’t respond.

“Do you need electrical encouragement to answer my question?”

“No… I don’t know. They didn’t tell me anything.”

“But they must have said something like, ‘Harry, we suspect that the Custer Hill Club is…’ what? How did they characterize this place and its members? This is really important to me, and I want you to tell me. You’re going to tell me now or later. Now is easier.”

Harry tried to clear his head from the electrical jolt and think about his situation. He’d never been on the wrong side of an interrogation desk, and he’d never had the experience or training that would guide him in a situation like this.

“Mr. Muller?”

He couldn’t figure out if he should stick to the IRA story, or if he should just tell this bastard the little he knew. The goal, obviously, was to get out of here alive, though he could hardly believe that his life was in danger.

“Mr. Muller? We did bird-watching, then the IRA-which is actually a good story. But not the true story. You seem a bit confused, so let me help you. You were told that the Custer Hill Club was made up of a bunch of rich, old right-wing crazies who are conspiring to do something that may be illegal. Correct?”

Harry nodded.

“What else did they tell you about us?”

“Nothing. I have no need to know.”

“Ah, yes. Need to know. Did they mention that several of our members are very highly placed and influential people in society and government?”

Harry shook his head. “I have no need to know that.”

“Well, I think you do need to know. That’s why you’re here, whether you know it or not. Fact is, the members of this club hold a lot of power. Political power, financial power, and military power. Did you know that one of our members is the deputy secretary of defense? Another is a top national security adviser to the president. Did you know that?”

Harry shook his head.

“We don’t appreciate some government agency conducting an illegal surveillance of our activities, which are entirely legal. We hunt, fish, drink, and discuss the world situation. The Constitution itself protects our right to assemble, to free speech, and to privacy. Correct?”

Harry nodded.

“Someone in your agency has overstepped his bounds and that person will be made to answer for his actions.”

Again, Harry nodded. He believed Madox. This wouldn’t be the first time one of his bosses screwed up and ordered surveillance on some group or some person who wasn’t guilty of anything. On the other hand, that’s what surveillance was for-to see if a suspicion of criminal activity was accurate or justified. Harry said, “I think they screwed up.”

“Oh, I know they did. And you just got caught in the middle.”

“Right.”

“You’re not an FBI agent?”

“No.”

“Or a CIA officer?”

“Hell, no.”

“You’re… what? A contract agent?”

“Yeah. Retired NYPD. Working for the FBI.”

“Low level,” suggested Mr. Madox.

“Well… yeah.”

“I’ll make sure you’re not punished.”

“Yeah, and thanks for the jolt.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mr. Madox checked his watch and said, “I’m expecting company.” He stared at Harry. “Did you know I was expecting company?”

“No.”

“You just happened to be here on this particular day?”

Harry didn’t answer.

“Talk to me, Mr. Muller. I have a busy morning.”

“Uh… well, I was told to… see if anyone…”

“You were told to observe arriving guests, photograph them, take down their license-plate numbers, note their arrival times, and so forth.”

“Yeah.”

“How did these people you work for know there was a meeting here today?”

“I have no idea.”

“Why did you take a photograph of my utility pole?”

“Just… saw it. Ran into it.”

“When did you get here?”

“Last night.”

“Is anyone with you?”

“No.”

“How did you get here?”

“I drove my camper up,” Harry replied.

“And these are the keys?”

“Yeah.”

“Where is the camper?”

“On the logging road south of here.”

“Near where you entered the property?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you supposed to make a telephone report?”

He wasn’t, but he replied, “Yes.”

“When?”

“When I leave this property.”

“I see.” Madox picked up Harry’s cell phone and turned it on. “I see you have a message.” He added, “In case you wondered why you have such good service here in the middle of nowhere, I have my own cell-phone relay tower.” He gestured toward the window. “Now you know what that tower is, and you can label your photograph. You can also indicate that it has a voice scrambler so that no one can listen to my calls.” He asked Harry, “Isn’t it nice to be rich?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“What’s your voice-mail code?”

Harry gave it to him, and Madox dialed voice mail, punched in the code, and put the phone on speaker.

Lori said, “Hi, honey. Got your message. I was sleeping. I’m going shopping today with your sister and Anne. Call me later. I’ll have my cell with me. Okay? Let me know if you have to stay over. I love you, and I miss you.” She added, “Be careful of those right-wing loonies. They like their guns. Take care.”

Madox commented, “She sounds very nice. Except for that part about the right-wing loonies and the guns.” He observed, “She apparently thinks you may be staying here overnight. She may be right.” He turned off the power to the cell phone, and said to Harry, “I guess you know these things send off a signal that can be tracked.”

“Yeah, that’s my job.”

“That’s right. Amazing technology. I can call my children anytime, anyplace. Of course, they never answer, but they call back after five messages, or when they need something.”

Harry forced a smile.

“So,” said Mr. Madox, “you seem to be who and what you say you are. To be quite honest, Mr. Muller, I thought you might be an agent of a foreign power.”

“What?”

“I’m not being paranoid. The people who are members of this club have enemies around the world. The right kind of enemies. We are all patriots, Mr. Muller, and we’ve caused some problems for the enemies of America around the globe.”

“That’s good.”

“I thought you’d agree. And these same people are your enemies. So, to use an old Arabic expression, ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’”

“Right.”

“Sometimes, however, the enemy of my enemy is also my enemy. Not because he wants to be, but because we have a difference of opinion about how to deal with our common enemy. But that’s a discussion for another time.”

“Yeah, I’ll call you next week.”

Bain Madox stood, looked at his watch, and said, “I’ll tell you what. Since you and your agency seem so interested in this club and its members, I’m going to do something that I’ve never done before. I’m going to allow you, an outsider, to sit in on the Executive Board meeting, which will take place this afternoon after a welcome lunch for our arriving club members. Would you like to join us?”

“I… No, not really. I think I should get-”

“I thought you were here to get information? What’s your rush?”

“No rush, but I-”

“I’ll even let you take pictures.”

“Thanks, but-”

“I think your presence at this meeting can do both of us some good. You’ll learn something, and I’ll get to see your reaction to what we’re discussing. Sometimes, we get into this bunker mentality, you know, where outside reality is excluded, and only our reality is heard. That’s not healthy.”

Harry didn’t reply, and Bain Madox warmed to his idea. “I want you to feel free to comment, to tell us if we’re sounding like a bunch of crazy old fools-right-wing loonies.” He grinned. “We need your honest opinion about our next project. Project Green.”

“What’s Project Green?”

Mr. Madox glanced at the security guards, then went over to Harry and whispered in his ear, “Nuclear Armageddon.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Harry Muller was led, blindfolded and barefoot, down two flights of stairs into what must have been the basement of the lodge. It was cold and damp, and he could hear sounds of mechanical and electrical motors.

He heard a door open, then he was prodded forward. The door slammed shut, and he heard a metal bolt sliding.

He stood there, then said, “Hey. You. You there?”

Silence.

He listened awhile, then pulled the blindfold off and looked around. He was alone.

Harry stood in a small room walled with concrete blocks painted the same gray enamel as the concrete floor. The low ceiling was covered with corrugated metal.

As his eyes adjusted to the glaring light of an overhead fluorescent fixture, he saw that the room held only a steel bed, which was bolted to the floor. On the bed was a thin mattress, on which were his camouflage shirt and pants, which he put on. He checked his pockets, but they hadn’t given him anything back.

In a corner of the room were a toilet and a sink. The toilet had no seat and no water tank. Just like in a prison cell. The sink had no mirror over it, not even the plastic or steel mirrors they used in jail.

He went to the steel door that had no handle and no window, and pushed on it, but it didn’t budge.

He searched the room, looking for anything that he could use as a weapon, but it was completely bare, except for the bed and a rusty radiator that wasn’t putting out much heat.

He noticed now a small swivel eyeball camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling, with a recessed speaker beside it. He stuck up his middle finger and shouted, “Fuck you!”

No one replied.

He looked around for something that he could use to smash the camera and the speaker, but there wasn’t a single loose item in the room except for himself. He took a running start, jumped, and smacked the camera with his hand. The camera continued sweeping the room, then a shrill, high-decibel sound pierced the room, and Harry covered his ears and backed away from the speaker. The painful noise continued, and Harry shouted, “Okay! Okay!”

The sound stopped and a voice said, “Sit.”

“Fuck you.” Bastards. Wait until I get out of here.

He had lost track of time, but he figured it must be about ten or eleven in the morning. His stomach growled, but he didn’t feel particularly hungry. Only thirsty. And he had to pee.

He walked to the toilet and the camera followed him. He urinated, then went to the sink and turned on the single tap. A trickle of cold water ran into the basin. He washed up, then used his hands to drink from the faucet.

There was no towel, and he wiped his hands on the sides of his pants. He went back to the bed and sat. He thought about his conversation with Bain Madox.

Nuclear Armageddon.

He said to himself, What the hell is that asshole talking about?

And what was this meeting that he was invited to? None of this made too much sense unless… unless this was all a setup.

He stood. “That’s it!” This is one of those stupid training camps. “Holy shit!”

He thought about the whole assignment, from his ten minutes in Tom Walsh’s office, to the Tech guy, to cutting through the fence, to the guards, to this prison cell in a private house-this whole thing was a test… one of those SERE courses-Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape.

Well, he definitely didn’t pass the evasion part, which was why he was in the cell. He went over in his mind the interrogation from the guy named Madox-the resistance part-Oh shit! Did I blow that? What the hell did I say? I told him to go fuck himself and stuck to my cover… then I did the IRA rap, which was smart… right?

He thought about the cattle prod. Would they do that? Yeah… maybe.

And later, there’d be the escape thing, then the evasion thing again and survival in the woods… Yeah! That’s where this is going.

He replayed everything in his mind, slanting it toward his new belief that this was some crazy FBI or CIA thing. It had to be. This was just too weird otherwise.

They had their eye on him for something big, and this was the big test. They did this kind of thing to see what you could take. The Custer Hill Club was like the CIA Farm in Virginia, right?

He said to himself, Okay, good. I passed the first test. Now, we do the meeting and see what that’s all about. Keep cool, Harry. Stay pissed. He shouted at the camera, “Assholes! I’m gonna rip your fucking heads off and shit down your necks!”

He lay back on the thin mattress and smiled to himself. He yawned and drifted into a restless sleep.

The glare of the overhead light and the cold made him dream that he was outside again, walking through the woods. He was taking pictures of birds, then he was arguing with some men, then he was talking pleasantly to Mr. Madox, who gave him back his gun and said, “You’re going to need this.” The men suddenly raised their rifles, and dogs were running toward him. He pulled the trigger on his Glock, but it didn’t fire.

Harry sat up quickly and wiped the cold sweat from his face. Holy shit…

He fell back on the bed and stared up at the metal ceiling. Something was bothering him. It was Madox. Something about that guy seemed too… real. No. Can’t be real.

Because if this was all real, then his life was in danger.

The door opened, and a voice said, “Come with us.”