Authors: Sigmund Brouwer
Nowhere to Hide (10 page)
In fact, nothing around the mobile home suggested that earlier that day it had been swarmed by SWAT guys. Nothing but sand, clumps of grass, sagebrush, the mobile home, and a power line that led to the rear of the home.
“That's an expensive suit,” Moore said to Evans. “Brought you some coveralls. And some boots. They're in the back.”
“Thanks.” Evans went to the rear of the vehicle and raised the liftgate.
While they were waiting for Evans to change, Moore had a question for King and MJ. “Second of four American presidents to have been assassinated?”
“James A. Garfield,” King said.
“Knew it,” MJ chimed. “Absolutely knew it.”
“Inventor of the telephone?” Moore asked.
King gave MJ a chance to answer, and when MJ casually looked away as if he were interested in a hawk soaring over the canyon, King answered again. “Alexander Graham Bell.”
“Knew it,” MJ said. “Absolutely knew it.”
“What do the two have in common?” Moore asked.
King was stumped.
MJ said, “The doctors couldn't find the bullet in Garfield. Alexander Graham Bell fabricated a primitive metal detector. But it was foiled because they forgot Garfield was laying on a mattress with metal springs, which was also a new invention.”
Moore applauded MJ.
That was one of the things about MJ. He played the role of clown so well, you never knew when he was pretending not to be smart. He'd once told King that his childhood dream had been to become a ballerina, and he'd said it with such straight-faced melancholy that King still didn't know whether it was true or MJ was messing with him.
There was only one thing for King to say at this moment, so he said it. “Knew it. Absolutely knew it.”
“Enough of the history lesson,” Evans said, poking out his head from behind the vehicle. “Come here.”
They did.
Evans first passed out pairs of leather-palmed gardening gloves to each of them. Then he pulled out the metal detectors, handing one to Moore, the next to MJ, the third to King, and keeping the fourth. “These are MD4s. American military uses them in Afghanistan to sweep for victim-operated switches.”
MJ echoed him. “Victim-operated switches.”
“Fancy name for booby traps,” Evans explained. “Step on the switch, and boom. Most land mines are made with as much plastic as possible to avoid detection. But these detect the small metal portion of a land mine's switch.”
“Except,” Moore said in a tone as dry as the wind, “for the land mines that are triggered by nearby vibrations or movement or sound or trip wires.”
“Just to be clear,” MJ said, “we
are
looking for tunnels. Not land mines.”
“Hope so,” Moore said.
“Hope?” MJ's voice trembled.
Moore laughed. “Jumpy one, aren't you.”
“I usually just pee my pants instead of jump,” MJ said. “Today, I should have worn Pampers.”
Moore laughed again. “Evans, I can see why you wanted this guy on the team.”
Then Moore turned serious. “Picture a vertical shaft going down about ten feet to a level tunnel. The shaft will likely be circular, so the lid will be like a manhole cover. Even if it's square, it will probably be made of plastic, but the screws will be metal. You'll be wearing headsets, and these detectors are as sensitive as anything made. If the screws are there, you'll find them.”
Moore waited for questions. There were none.
What King wanted to ask was what might be in the tunnel, if it was here. And how it might save them. But Evans had made it clear that this was a national security issue.
“Sand like this is perfect for covering up a lid,” Moore said, kicking at the ground. Wind took away a small cloud. “Just shovel about six inches of sand over it, let the wind blow for a few minutes, and it looks like part of the landscape. You wouldn't find it even if you stepped on it. At least, not without our metal detectors. So Evans and I will set up grids.”
Moore waved his own detector. “Overlap your sweeps so you don't miss any ground.” He made side-to-side motions with the dinner-plate-sized coil at the end of the handle and continued giving instructions. “Make sure you keep the coil parallel to the ground. Don't tilt it, or it will lose its sensitivity.”
Moore looked at Evans, and Evans handed Moore his metal detector and slipped on his pair of gardening gloves.
Evans stepped to a tuft that was nearby. “See the serrated edges? It's a way for the grass to protect itself from grazing animals. You'll need the gloves.”
He bent over and grabbed a tuft and pulled. The grass didn't yank free.
Evans straightened. “Dry climate like this, the grasses grow in clumps like this and send roots down as far as six feet to try to find moisture. Good luck pulling them loose.”
He made a gesture with his hands to take in the land around the mobile home. “We've got hundreds and hundreds of clumps. It's easy to hide a tunnel entrance with a fake clump and sand to hold it in place. So don't forget to sweep the clumps. If you get a beep, tug on the clump. If the clump comes up fast, it's fake, and you know you've found what we need. Any questions?”
King shook his head no. MJ did the same.
“Okay,” Moore said. “Give me and Evans a few minutes to set up the grid. Once you two get started, he and I are going to do a more thorough search of the mobile home. We'll come out and help with the tunnel search as soon as possible. Clear?”
“Clear,” MJ said.
“Clear,” King said.
“Good,” Evans said. “And make sure to go back to the vehicle and grab water as you need it. We don't want anyone getting dehydrated out here. My promise to your parents was to protect you and bring you home safe.”
If that was true, King couldn't help but wonder, why were they on the run from Mundie instead of the other way around?
King didn't want to make his curiosity about Blake's progress too obvious. He forced himself to sweep for twenty minutes with the metal detector, twenty minutes with not the faintest beep in his headphones.
Then, in case Evans or Moore was watching from the inside of the mobile home, he wiped his forehead as if he were really hot. Truth was, he did feel hot. But not sweaty. The arid wind took care of that.
He also noticed he wasn't feeling any of the panic-attack symptoms that always seemed to simmer just below his conscious thoughts over the past weeks.
It wasn't that he felt stress free. Just the opposite. His stress was as high as it had been since the Dead Man's Switch episode. So why didn't he feel the symptoms of panic? Maybe it was because his unease and stress had a legitimate cause.
He told himself it would be better to worry about that later. Right now, he needed to check up on Blake's progress. He walked to the Escalade, the black paint now filmed with dust from the wind.
He opened the liftgate and found a bottle of water in the cooler. He took it around to the side, tapped on the door, and slid in beside Blake.
Unbelievable how good the first gulps of water tasted.
“Got anything?” King asked Blake with a small gasp for air. He'd
managed to drink half the bottle without pausing for breath. It also felt great to be in the cool air of the Escalade and out of the sun.
Blake said nothing. He made a few taps on the touchpad and turned the screen sideways for King to read. “It's a screen shot. I enlarged it to make it easier to read.”
King saw an email filling most of the screen. He gave Blake a questioning glance.
“I hacked into Evans' email account,” Blake said. “I can tell you the technical details later, but you'd think a CIA agent would be a little more careful with his password.”
“Blake,” King said, “I'm pretty sure hacking into a federal agency email account is also a federal offense. Federal and federal kind of go together.”
“This from a guy who used a belt to choke-chain a federal agent this morning and shoved a sock in his mouth,” Blake said. “Besides, I'd be more afraid of what's in the email. It's from two days ago, referring to a meeting yesterday morning.”
King leaned closer and started reading.
Subject:
In-person meeting at Seattle office
“Evans C?” King said. “His first name starts with a C?”
“Charlie,” Blake said. “Who knew?”
Now King did. He read the screen shot and the email.
Mr. Evans,
You have not been able to answer the questions to my satisfaction by telephone, and new information has come to my attention, so I have booked an immediate flight to Seattle. I will be in your office at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow to personally review the situation with you. Confirm your attendance by return email at your earliest convenience.
Don Mundie, Deputy IG
“IG?” King asked. “Don Mundie is IG. What's IG?”
“You're a fast reader,” Blake replied. “Hang on. Let me show you another screen shot.”
Blake swung the laptop his way, tapped the touchpad a few more times, and turned it back to King. “Same. Two days ago, referring to a meeting to take place in Seattle yesterday morning.”
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
Meeting with IG
Bill,
I'm expected at a meeting with the IG first thing in the morning. I would assume that Mr. Mundie has alerted you to the meeting as a courtesy. Will you be in attendance? Also, when convenient, I would appreciate a chance to discuss this with you in person.
Charlie
“Formal and uninformative email,” King said.
Blake said, “I'm guessing Evans knows that all his CIA emails are subject to review at any time. Whatever is happening is not something he would put in emailâor maybe only in a personal email account. I'd get a lot more complete picture if I knew his personal email address.”
King wasn't listening too closely. He was rereading the email addresses.
“Um, hang on,” King said. “Mooreb at a CIA email address? Didn't Evans tell us Moore worked security detail for the governor's office?”
“I thought it wouldn't take you long to catch that. I went through enough emails to tell you that beyond a doubt, Moore is Evans' supervisor. Whatever hunch led you to suspect something was wrong was a good hunch.”
King was trying to absorb this. “IG?”
“It doesn't get prettier,” Blake said. “Inspector general. As in âOffice
of.' Mundie came in from DC on orders from the CIA Office of the Inspector General.”
“That's the internal affairs investigator. Evans lied. They do have men to send into the field. Deputies. Like Don Mundie.”
King groaned inside, thinking about the smelly sock he'd shoved into Mundie's mouth.
“Yeah,” Blake said. “I've got one more email screen shot for you. From the day the meeting was supposed to take place. Yesterday.”
King was numb as Blake grabbed the laptop again and pulled it up on the screen.
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
Immediate suspension without pay
Mr. Evans,
Because you did not show up to our meeting as ordered by the IG, and because you are not responding to texts, calls, or emails, and because of the irregular use of CIA funds, you have been immediately suspended without pay. Furthermore, criminal charges have been sent to the federal prosecutor and a warrant issued for your arrest. My advice is to get legal representation and turn yourself in to your supervisor, Bill Moore.
Don Mundie, Deputy IG
King turned the computer back toward Blake.
“And here we are,” Blake said. “Alone in the desert with a federal agent wanted for arrest and his supervisor, who is obviously in on itâtwo men who have misrepresented themselves to us.”
Blake was the opposite of MJ. MJ was a drama king. MJ would be complaining about how he had to wet his pants again. Blake had
once refused to talk even as someone held glowing cigarettes against his skin. By the tone of his voice, he could have been reading a stock-market report.
“Any suggestions?” King asked.
“Well,” Blake said. “MJ is headed this way to grab some water, the keys are in the ignition, and the vehicle engine is already running. What's the first thing that comes to your mind?”
Evans was also headed to the vehicle, about twenty yards behind MJ.
King had to make his decision quickly. He didn't have a driver's license, and because he lived on McNeil Island, he had not driven in traffic. On the other hand, Mack had shown him how to drive one of the prison vehicles, and the highway along the Yakima River had been almost deserted. If King could get down the gravel road to the highway, he could putter along at twenty or thirty miles an hour into the town of Yakima, ten or twenty miles downstream from where they were.