Uncivil Liberties (43 page)

“Personally, Wolff, I don’t like this deal. Bringing a nuclear weapon onto American soil is too damn risky. I haven’t liked it since Harford put me on to it when you went missing, and I told him so. I’ve got plenty of other things to do to keep these rovers scouring the country, so I’d just as soon that you take Bright Point back under your control. I’ve got two men who will meet you at the Spokane airport when you arrive about midnight.”

“Weapons?” Wolff asked.

“They’ll have them for you in Spokane. There’s a pistol in the glove box in case we run into trouble, but you’re going to be boarding your flight shortly, so there are no weapons in your briefcase.”

Wolff stared at Hegarty for a moment, took the pistol out of the glove box, checked the magazine and load, replaced it, and then leaned back against the headrest, closing his eyes and going silent.

At eight A.M. the following morning, presenting a Virginia driver’s license identifying him as Clark Westinghouse, Wolff cleared security at Lambert-St. Louis International airport after arriving in the Marriott shuttle from downtown St. Louis. His luggage consisted of a single wheeled carry-on bag procured from a twenty-four hour Walmart, complete with essential toiletries and a few items of cheap clothing.

The gray Taurus Devlin Hegarty had driven in Springfield was parked on a side street in East St. Louis, Illinois, just across the Mississippi River from the city, with both front tires flat to discourage instant theft. Devlin Hegarty remained with the Taurus, folded double into the trunk, his brain two ounces heavier.

Wolff responded to the call for American flight 581, non-stop for Los Angeles, connecting to Aero Mexicana for Cabo San Lucas. Just before boarding, he sent a short text message to John Harford.

Bright point on horizon

When he stepped off the plane in Los Angeles, he received an equally terse answer.

Meet PSC conference August to select horizon

Departing the American Airlines terminal, Wolff discarded the cell phone in a communal trash bin, shedding himself of all electronic ties to Harford or SI.

Carlos Castro sat to the right of the end seat as the rest of the Trojan team filed into the room, taking seats around the long, rectangular table. It was the same table where the full team had met the night the roving band of shooters had started their terrorist attack and they had listened to the recorded message from World Jihad. It was three days since Jean Wolff had given them the slip in Illinois. The entire team had a dejected appearance.

General Pug Connor entered the room and took his seat at the end of the table. “The president’s not a happy man. And neither am I.” Everyone remained silent. “Where did he go, Carlos?”

“St. Louis, as best we can tell. We’ve tracked all eight limo drivers, interviewed them and showed them pictures. Two drivers ID’d Wolff, so one of them is mistaken. Or both of them are. One says he took his passenger to just outside Chicago. The other took his to Springfield, Illinois. They both transferred to another vehicle. It was the same story for all eight limos. Drive for six or eight hours, then change vehicles. But we’ve narrowed it down. The police found a body in the trunk of a Ford Taurus in East St. Louis, Missouri, yesterday morning. They caught two local kids trying to steal accessories off the car and found the body in the search. They identified his prints as belonging to a naturalized citizen, Devlin Hegarty.”

“Hegarty?” Pug repeated.

“One and the same,” Carlos replied. “SI’s field man and the head of the pilot program for Domestic Tranquility. Two bullets to the head. I’d say Wolff was beginning to cover his tracks.”

“Or starting his revenge on Harford and SI.”

“That too,” Carlos said. “No further trace. I’d speculate he took a flight from St. Louis. No leads so far. Maybe we should go have a talk with Harford.”

Pug was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. “Don’t want to alert him that we know anything. What are you hearing from your contacts among Harford’s troops?”

“Harry?” Carlos said, turning toward one of the Trojan team members, a Delta operative on assignment to Trojan.

“I know a retired E-8 who works with SI, supervising the crew in Oklahoma and northern Texas. He knows Hegarty,” Harry responded. “He said Hegarty’s been out of the country for about a week. Rumor says he was in Holland.”

“Any knowledge of what he was doing?” Pug asked.

“No, sir,” Harry responded. “He hasn’t seen him for about ten days.”

“And if the police are right, he won’t see him again, either,” Carlos said. “I still think we could put the screws to Harford, General. We’re going to have to call him out sooner or later.”

“Right, but not now. I want to find Wolff first.”

“But if you’re right about Wolff believing Harford flipped him in East Timor, he might find Harford before we can talk with him. We won’t get anything out of him then.”

“Concentrate on finding Wolff. And one more thing. Have one of the team track down the ownership linkage for Strategic Initiatives. I want to know who the major share holders are. Especially any of our elected congressmen or politicians.”

“Are you thinking—” Carlos started.

“I’m thinking that someone has a broader interest in Domestic Tranquility than meets the eye. I’m thinking that just in case Wolff
does
find Harford, we need to know who that someone is. Give our friend Senator Culpepper a call and you can meet with him to see what he knows,” Pug said. “I’ll check with Senator McKenzie. The rest of you pull out all the stops. Use every resource you’ve got. Find Wolff. Any questions?”

The second week in August, with the sun dropping behind the scrub-covered hills west of Las Vegas, a sleek Gulfstream 650 completed its flight, having originated in Los Cabos, Mexico. The private jet glided on final approach toward the Henderson Executive Airport, ten minutes south of the well-known strip. Besides the two pilots and one cabin attendant, each of whom were of Mexican origin, only one passenger was on board—a French citizen traveling under the name of Philippe Auclair. Immediately the aircraft shut down engines, a solid white limousine pulled alongside and the passenger disembarked, entering the vehicle. The flight crew proceeded to the operations building, where the pilot filed a flight plan for 9:00 A.M. the following morning, non-stop to Santiago, Chile.

Following three weeks in the luxurious accommodations of the five-star Pueblo Bonito Sunset Beach resort in Cabo San Lucas with its award-winning cuisine, Jean Wolff had erased most of the unpleasant memories of six months’ incarceration in the Thomson Federal Correctional Facility. Newly refurbished with a European wardrobe, obtained during a four-day side trip to Paris, Wolff, AKA Philippe Auclair, emerged from his limousine with a far brighter outlook than when an orange jumpsuit had been his sole choice of attire.

Following a quick clearance through airport customs and a short drive to the north end of the strip, Wolff entered the massive, ornate lobby of the Conquistador casino, the newest addition to the opulence which made Las Vegas the most popular tourist and convention center in the world. He stood just inside the lobby for a moment, admiring the one-half scale model of El Castro, the Mayan temple at Chichén Itzá, rising just over fifty feet tall—five stories—the visual focal point from all points in the casino. The temple name instantly reminded him of an as-yet unfinished task: Carlos Castro. Wolff’s lawyer had discovered the name of the person who had captured him, and his current assignment. But there would be time for Castro later, and his message tomorrow would make that clear.

Wolff turned and approached the VIP desk, where he used his Auclair ID and credit
card
and signed his registration form.

“What time is your last FedEx pickup?” Wolff asked the registration clerk.

The young man glanced at the clock behind the counter. “In about forty-five minutes, sir. May I be of assistance?”

Wolff reached into his briefcase and retrieved a slim FedEx prepaid overnight packet and handed it to the clerk. “Please see that this is made available for the courier.”

“Certainly, sir. Will there be anything else?”

“No, thank you.” Wolff turned back toward the casino and headed across the room, pausing again short of the bank of elevators to read the electronic display case which announced the conventions and gatherings for the week. He was not surprised to see a photograph of John Harford, Chief Executive of Strategic Initiatives, who was billed as the keynote speaker for the opening session of the International Association of Professional Security Consultant’s annual conference. He allowed a small smile to cross his lips, then proceeded to the elevator, pressing the button for the thirty-second level.

After a shower, a change of clothes, and ten minutes of watching the news highlights, Wolff returned to the lobby and found a secluded corner table in the Yucatan Lounge. He ordered a drink and watched as the throngs of people made their way through the crowded casino. Over the next two hours, he watched an NFL football game on the large screen, ate a plate of boiled shrimp, and had a couple more drinks. At eleven P.M., a heavily bearded man in Dockers and a long-sleeved plaid shirt approached his table, making eye contact and then taking a seat opposite Wolff.

“I’m Thor Campbell,” the man said. “We spoke on the phone last month.”

Wolff just nodded, noticing that two other men in casual, but rural, attire took seats at another table across the lounge.

Wolff slid an envelope across the table. “Those are your instructions for tomorrow,” he said. “Be in the parking lot before 9:00 A.M., but not earlier than 8:30. Don’t arouse any suspicion by arriving too early. Just leave the vehicle and then station yourself at least five hundred yards away. You’ll be safe at that distance. I’ll handle the rest.”

Campbell nodded. “Will you be there?”

“No need for you to know where I’ll be, but I’ll handle the rest. Just be sure to separate yourself from the vehicle. Where’s the package now?”

“Right where you said it should be. In a garage in North Las Vegas with your French buddy. It’s been there for five days. Me and my boys have been keeping an eye on it.”

Wolff rose and handed Campbell another slip. “Your money has been deposited in this bank account, waiting for your instructions to transfer it after the event. This should fund your mountain boys for some time to come.”

“And you?” Campbell asked again.

“I’ll be in touch again in several weeks. There’s more where that came from,” he said, nodding toward the deposit slip.

At 8:45 A.M., Jean Wolff took a seat in the back of the assembly hall of the Hernando Cortez Conference Center, Room Three. There were about two hundred others present, mostly men, and about 250 seats in the auditorium. Attendees continued to drift in as Wolff sat quietly in his place. At 8:52, several people took their seats on the main dais, among them John Harford. Wolff took his cell phone from his pocket, keyed a short text message, and hit send. He watched as Harford took his seat, and then reached into his coat pocket to retrieve his iPod, glancing down to briefly read the message. Wolff glanced again at his original text:

Bright horizon is closer and sooner than you might imagine

Instantly, Harford was on his feet, whispered something to the man seated next to him, and departed the stage. Wolff also stood and exited the auditorium through the side door, careful to avoid contact with Harford. Wolff quickly strode to the main entrance to the casino and entered the back seat of a waiting limousine.

“Just wait,” he told the driver.

Within three minutes, John Harford exited the hotel, his anxiety visible in his body language. He spoke to the concierge, who motioned for a taxi to pull forward. Harford entered the vehicle, which immediately departed.

“Henderson Executive Airport,” Wolff told his driver.

Thor Campbell, commander of the Blackfoot Brigade, sat in the right front passenger seat of a dark blue Ford Explorer with one of his associates in the driver’s seat and another in the rear. Campbell had parked a white Chevy Suburban in the visitor parking area on the Nevada side at 8:48, left the keys in the ignition as directed, and then joined his associates for the short trip across the dam and up the hill on the Arizona side to the main parking area. Traffic on Highway 93 across the new Hoover Dam bypass, a quarter mile south of the face of the dam and high above the canyon, continued unimpeded.

Campbell waited for the expected explosion that would demolish the parking lot and the visitors center on the Nevada side. From his location, he would have an excellent view without danger of being injured by debris.