A Triple Thriller Fest (24 page)

“I can see it’s not an easy decision either way. I’ve been looking at it from a visitor to California’s perspective—sort of an ‘I-was-there-during-the-earthquake’ frame of mind. I haven’t thought of it as a decision to be made. I’ve lived somewhere else all my life. So, what will you do?”

“I know where I stand, but I haven’t yet decided what I’ll do about it.”

“And the high?” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“The other end of your day … excluding this evening’s dinner, of course,” she teased. “You said there was a ‘high’ to your day.”

Nicole had a radiant smile, and Dan had been fascinated all evening by the woman behind the FBI agent. It was as if two personalities existed within the same body.

“Right,” Dan laughed again. “You know, you’ve allowed me to laugh quite a bit tonight, and there hasn’t been much cause for that for awhile. The high, you say? Well, I received a call from my literary agent in New York this morning. She’s sold my first novel to Simon & Schuster.”

“No! You’re a writer? What genre?”

“Historical fiction, following an American family through multiple generations.”

“Any
particular
family?” Nicole asked.

Dan nodded. “Guilty. I read somewhere that most first novels are largely biographical.” He smiled. “This family might bear some
slight
resemblance to the Rumsey line, with some embellishment, of course.” Dan could see that Nicole became more animated while discussing literature, which pleasantly surprised him. It was something else they might have in common.

They located Dan’s car in the train station parking lot, and the short drive to her apartment went quickly. Dan parked and walked Nicole to her door.

“Thanks for accepting on such short notice. You know, if you haven’t had the chance to see much of rural California, I’d love to show you the hills around Rumsey Valley. The upcoming season is beautiful, but the valley is especially beautiful during the Almond Festival in February when all the orchards are in bloom. I’d love to show you my home grounds over the next few weeks. That is, if you’re not otherwise committed.”

Nicole looked at Dan and then, momentarily, down at her feet. “I was involved with someone,” she said, “a CPA with an international accounting firm. But he couldn’t take going with a woman who ‘kills’ people for a living, as he put it,” she said quietly.

“I’m sorry, Nicole. It was none of my business,” Dan said, embarrassed.

“No, that’s all right. It’s history now.”

Picking up his lead, Dan pressed. “And the Rumsey Valley. Is that part of your future?” he asked.

“That’d be great, Dan,” she said, turning to unlock her apartment door.

“I’ll call you,” Dan said.

“I’d like that, Mr. Rawlings. I’d like that very much.” She started to step through the door, but hesitated and turned once again to face him. “As I said, I’ve just ended a relationship I thought was growing nicely. But I discovered long ago that I don’t like the give and take process by which relationships usually progress.”

As Dan’s brow furrowed in confusion, a big grin crossed Nicole’s face.

“I know that sounds formal, but what I mean is, I don’t feel comfortable playing the games people use in the dating scene. You know—pretending you don’t like someone until … well, you know. Do you understand?”

“I do,” Dan replied, reaching slowly to touch her cheek, then sliding his hand around behind her neck. He gently pulled her toward him and softly kissed her lips, lingering just long enough to receive a response from her as she placed her hand on his shoulder. “I
will
call, Nicole. And I
do
like you, no games required.”

“At the same time, Dan, that doesn’t mean—”

“I understand,” he interrupted, holding up his open hand. “No games and no intrusions. Let’s just see where it goes.”

She nodded. “Goodnight, Dan, and thanks.”

“Goodnight, Nicole.”

Chapter 17

Reno, Nevada

Toward the end of his two-hour drive, Jackson Shaw negotiated increasing traffic for the final few miles, and the scenery changed dramatically. Shaw had always marveled at the fluke of nature that had placed such disparate topography in such close proximity. Cresting the final rise on Interstate 80 East in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, the forested terrain gave way almost instantly to the sagebrush of Nevada and the sudden appearance of the “Biggest Little City in the World.”

Reno—for years the divorce capital of America—lay within four hours of San Francisco and two of Sacramento. It was a gambling Mecca and a weekend retreat for thousands of Californians who dreamed of striking it rich in the casinos and calling their boss on Monday morning to say, “You can take my job and shove it!” The casino owners made certain the infrequent big winners got plenty of publicity—an enticement to others to come courting Lady Luck.

Shaw, however, entertained no such dreams. His vision had to do with the power to be acquired as a result of current developments in his home state. In light of the California Supreme Court-ordered election, only two weeks away, Shasta Brigade Commander Jackson Shaw was on a mission. If he had understood Jean Wolff’s intentions, the patriot movement would essentially be declaring war on any federal agency that continued to oppose Californian’s right to independence. Such a blatant, action-filled cry for severance from the Union, according to Wolff, was the way to garner additional support and convince the undecided and undeclared that
patriotism,
in this instance, was defined as supporting the patriot movement.

The fools who had perpetrated the Oklahoma City bombing had gained no support for their cause—if indeed there had been a cause—by bombing a federal building filled with innocent people, including many small children. That imbecilic act had brought disrepute to militia units across the nation, and to the national patriot movement in general.

In the current situation, however, there was a groundswell of resentment being directed against those federal agencies viewed as intrusive and overbearing. This was demonstrated several months earlier when a bank robber who had attacked the Wells Fargo Bank in Sacramento was killed in the ensuing shootout. Nearly as many people had blamed the federal government as had blamed the gunman.

Commander Shaw, and the other militia leaders with whom he was about to meet, understood the public disdain for the federal government and fully planned to exploit this public perception to their advantage. But first, Wolff needed to convince the other unit leaders that they should coordinate their efforts under a central command structure—
no easy tas
k, Shaw thought.

After parking in the underground casino garage, he gathered his small overnight bag and checked into the hotel. Then he proceeded to a prearranged spot near the blackjack tables and waited. Two tables over, a man stood looking at him, and they briefly made eye contact.

Shaw had seen Grant Sully only once before, several months earlier, when Wolff had arranged a meeting between the two. Sully had not personally met other Brigade members, and the brief meeting with Sully had taken place at a roadside rest area on Interstate 5, north of Corning. To Shaw’s surprise, before Wolff left them together, he had openly identified Sully as a senior CIA operative, but was careful to advise Shaw that Sully was not part of the patriot movement leadership. Shaw had been astonished when Sully informed him that an FBI infiltrator was embedded in a high level position in the Shasta Brigade. That piece of information alone provided sufficient bona fides to convince Shaw that Sully was trustworthy—to an extent. For all he knew, the next person Sully would reveal could be Shaw himself.

Thirty minutes after Shaw entered the casino, a third participant walked by and took a seat at another of the tables and conspicuously laid his roll of bills on the green felt tabletop. As a result of their several clandestine meetings and Wolff’s numerous monetary contributions, Shaw knew Jean Wolff much better than he did Sully, but didn’t fully trust Wolff, either.

When a fourth man crossed the room and gave the signal—a quick display of his registration card with the room number printed at the top—at each table as he paused to watch, the men began to filter, one by one, away from the tables and make their way to Room 975, a suite reserved in the name of Alexander Pierpont, an alias used by Shaw’s deputy commander, Captain Gary Jeffs, when he rented the room. Having watched for a few minutes to see if any of the participants were followed, Wolff was the last to enter. Sully stood to greet him.

“We’re getting to be old chums, Jean.”

“You know what they say about politics and strange bedfellows.”

Wolff quickly acknowledged the other two participants and moved to claim a chair facing the door, though he didn’t sit down. “I thought it time we coordinate our overall efforts and introduce Shaw to the various unit commanders. And Grant, your presence was
requested,”
Wolff said to Sully.

“Understood,” Sully replied, taking a seat, but looking uncomfortable. “It’s your meeting, Jean. Where do we go next?”

Wolff remained standing and began to address the small group. “In two elections, the secession of California has been approved, and we can fully expect this next court-ordered election to produce the same result. Plus, I have it on good authority that the California legislature has begun discussions on how to implement a transition to a republic, perhaps even the Westminster form of government. Much public support has been garnered, thanks in large part to the efforts of the Shasta Brigade,” Wolff said, nodding toward Commander Shaw.

“The media, led principally by Paul Spackman in San Francisco, has provided favorable coverage, creating an illusion of much broader support than actually exists. Now it’s time for us to take further action designed to incite open hostility toward the federal government and to fuel the fires, so to speak. To accomplish that, tomorrow morning seven brigade commanders from around the state, plus two from Idaho who have expressed interest in our movement, will assemble here in Reno.” Looking once again at Jackson Shaw, Wolff said, “We will then introduce you as the overall commander of the newly reorganized Western Patriot Movement.”

Shaw acknowledged his appointment with a nod and quietly listened as Wolff continued his background briefing, expounding on the necessity of increasing public support for the forthcoming vote.

A West Point graduate, Shaw had spent nine years in the Army, being passed over for promotion to major when a National Guard company he was training lost four men, drowned in a Louisiana swamp during a four-day escape and evasion exercise. After much breast-beating and political posturing by a Louisiana senator, the ax fell. The Army, needing a scapegoat, had settled on Captain Jackson Shaw, providing him an official reprimand for negligence and bringing his promising career to a sudden end—an action that had left Shaw with seething resentment for the political establishment.

Reduced to running a logging service out of Yreka, California, Shaw had long nursed an undiminished loathing of a government so spineless as to throw away one of its most ardent and dedicated sons to placate a political hack who sought only to mollify his constituents and enhance his own career.

The Brigade had answered Shaw’s need to strike back.

“Where does the brigade fit into this?” he asked.

“The brigade is the sharp end of the blade,” Wolff answered. “The Shasta Brigade will lead the northern sector, and you will personally command the overall movement. The other commanders will plan and execute their own operations, but you will coordinate and direct the when and where. We’re going to challenge one of the premier agencies in the federal system and beat them at their own game. Gentlemen,” Wolff said, rubbing his hands together and affecting a pleased expression, “I’m talking about the Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms crowd. We’re going to bait them into one of their overzealous responses, wound them, make them furious, and publicly display their impotence. And we’re going to do it right before the election in November.”

Wolff watched Shaw and Jeffs, apparently to gauge their reactions. When Wolff had ordered a special-ops action a few months before to covertly research the movement of individual regional ATF agents, Shaw had not flinched at the directive. Now, Wolff was calling for outright military action, albeit guerrilla-style. Shaw, as a trained military officer, understood the risks involved. The brigade, for all its training and enthusiasm, would be no match in prolonged open combat against the military, either reserve or regulars, or, for that matter, against any of the federal agencies’ armed assault or hostage units. Surely Wolff knew that. But Shaw was sure they could prevail in a few isolated, well-orchestrated, unexpected attacks.

He raised an eyebrow and waited for the ops plan to unfold. This was something he had thought about for several years and for which he had long trained his troops, never telling them specifically what potential targets they might engage.

But Shaw had known all along that someday either the National Guard or one of the federal agencies, FBI or ATF, would become their target.

Captain Gary Jeffs spoke for the first time, addressing his comments to Shaw.

“Commander, we don’t have any tea to throw in the harbor and, given the history of the ATF against normal citizens, we can’t even claim to have fired the first shot. But by blazes, we’ll let ’em know ‘we’re mad as hell, and we’re not going to take it anymore,’” he said, mimicking Senator Turner’s rallying cry.

* * *

Grant Sully sat in the room and watched with amusement as Wolff worked his magic. He reflected on his own early days and his skillful manipulation of would-be power brokers in third-world countries around the globe. Sully had been a CIA field operative for nearly thirty years. Even as deputy director of operations, a position from which the incumbent was normally content to direct action from within the confines of the Farm at Langley, Sully still found every opportunity to make his way into the field and deal face-to-face with his operatives. Coming out of the closet as a senior CIA official, however, had not been his idea.