Wildfire (27 page)

"It's possible," Grynard conceded.

"So just how do you plan to deal with that
possibility?—
which, from what I'm hearing, strikes me as pretty damned likely," the AD demanded.

"By keeping a close eye on the entire covert wildlife team, waiting for them to break something open, and then moving in on the conspirators before the situation goes out of control."

"Al, I'm not arguing with your plan," the FBI special ops section chief said, "but as I recall from your reports, didn't this Lightstone character manage to evade your surveillance team up in Anchorage, and then stay ahead of you
and
about ten of your agents, not to mention Maas and
his
entire counter-terrorist team, for how many days was it?"

The AD's eyebrows rose again. He hadn't read that part of the report.

"As I said," Grynard said evenly, "he's capable, aggressive, and innovative. But there's another factor involved here. I have reason to believe that Lightstone and his fellow agents have a lead on a possible coconspirator to Operation Counter Wrench."

"How do you know that?" the AD asked.

"Because I arranged for their tech agent to find it."

"With his knowledge?"

"No."

The AD seemed to consider the idea for a few moments.

"Are you certain that you can keep Lightstone and his team under constant observation this time?" he finally asked.

"With additional agents, yes, sir."

"How many?"

"Twenty-four."

The special ops section chief broke into a coughing fit.

"And assuming I give you these twenty-four agents," the AD said, ignoring the outburst of his section chief, "what do you intend to do with them?"

"Right now, which is to say right this morning," Grynard added, "I'd send at least half of them down to the Bahamas and the other half to Fort Lauderdale."

The FBI assistant director blinked again, and this time his muscular shoulders seemed to sag.

"Why?" he finally said, once he was sure he had a firm grip on his vocal cords.

"Because the possible coconspirator is in a sailboat down in the Bahamas right now, and Lightstone and his fellow agents checked into a hotel in Fort Lauderdale last night."

The AD turned to the section chief of special ops, who hesitated and then nodded with visible reluctance.

"Okay," the AD said, "you've got them. Anything else that I should know about this operation?"

"No, sir," Grynard lied.

"Then get out of here and get to work."

The AD waited until Grynard had disappeared out the door before turning back to the LIA inspector and his subordinate supervisors.

"All right, lay it out on the table right now," he growled. "Are we doing the right thing or not?"

"I think it's risky, but I don't see that we have much in the way of viable options," the special ops section chief said. "It's either that or back off completely."

"We don't back off on something like this," the AD said flatly.

"Actually, it may not be that much of a risk," the special ops section chief said. "You may remember what Al was like when he was a young agent?"

"Hell, yes, I remember," the AD snapped. In fact, as all the agents around the table knew, the AD had personally gone to bat for the young and overaggressive FBI agent on three separate occasions. The last one had nearly resulted in Grynard's suspension.

"Well, from what I hear, this Lightstone is worse. Makes Al look like a choir boy."

"Christ, don't tell me that." The AD winced.

"Hey, look at it this way, chief," the violent-crimes section chief said. "At least when it all hits the fan, this time Al's going to be the one standing out there holding the bag."

"You think he understands that?" the LIA inspector asked.

"You ask me." The violent-crimes chief smiled, "I think that's about the only part of this whole damn mess that Al
does
understand."

Chapter Sixteen

For a little over three hours, the man known as Riser followed the light-gray van and the black sedan in his nondescript pickup.

As expected, and much to Riser's amusement, the two professional security drivers repeated their behavior of the previous two days.

When they were ferrying their passengers back and forth between the law office, the courthouse, and the hotel, they used a nicely randomized set of routes that made it almost impossible to plan for an intercept. But once they had dropped off their charges, and were on their own, the two drivers immediately reverted to a pattern of activities that was almost embarrassingly predictable.

So far this morning, the drivers had divided their time between honing their skills, maintaining their equipment, and taking care of personal needs.

First, they had spent a half hour in the Fair Oaks Mall parking lot practicing a series of cutout techniques designed to let the van escape while the sedan blocked—and presumably dealt with—a variety of assault moves.

Next they had filled the gas tanks of the two vehicles up at the nearby Chevron station, making sure to check the oil and radiator levels and the pressures on all four tires.

After that, they had driven over to the automated car wash in Vienna and had a cup of coffee while both vehicles got the full service: wash, wax, and interior.

And then finally they had driven over to the Vienna video store, where each proceeded to spend exactly fifteen minutes searching for a movie while the other watched the two vehicles.

Riser checked his watch. It was eleven-thirty. Time for the two men to be leaving the Vienna video store and driving over to Oakton again for lunch.

He was tempted to drive on ahead to the restaurant where they had gone the last two days, arriving early enough to select a table where they could keep an eye on the two vehicles. But he didn't because Friday was the crucial day and he knew he might not have another opportunity like this. So he waited until both men were back in their vehicles and moving again before he started up the nondescript pickup and maintained a respectful distance, just in case the two men suddenly decided to act professional on their own time.

But as it turned out, he could have saved himself the effort. The drivers parked their vehicles in exactly the same spots, walked into the restaurant, and sat at exactly the same table.

As he picked up the small scrambled radio, it occurred to Riser to wonder if the men ordered the same meals every time. He suspected they did. Pausing briefly to check the parking lot one last time, he spoke into the radio briefly and then waited.

Five minutes later, a late-model dark green Mercedes entered the restaurant parking lot and parked in the open space next to the black sedan. Two curvaceous young women got out, one a blonde and one a brunette. Both wore tight dresses that exposed a considerable amount of leg and cleavage, and clearly suggested an absolute minimum in the way of underwear. Halfway to the restaurant, the blonde dropped her purse, and both of the young women squatted to retrieve the spilled contents, thereby giving the two security drivers an eyeful.

As the two women entered the restaurant, Riser brought the radio up to his mouth and spoke again.

In less than thirty seconds another vehicle—this one an ancient Volkswagen bug with a badly rusted exterior—pulled into the space next to the van. The new arrival was a white-haired man who looked to be in his late sixties. He appeared to be having a great deal of difficulty getting himself out of the little car and nearly fell to the asphalt at one point. But neither of the two security drivers seemed overly concerned. They gave him a quick glance and then turned their attention back to the two young women who were now giggling at each other—and otherwise having a good time—in the booth across the aisle from the two captivated drivers.

Eventually the elderly man managed to get himself standing upright. After carefully shutting and then locking the rusted door that looked about ready to fall off, he gingerly worked his way across the parking lot and into the restaurant. There, he slowly made his way to the empty table next to the security drivers and across the way from the two young women—where, in Riser's estimation, the old man would spend the next half hour enjoying his own eyeful of deceptively warm feminine flesh.

Once again the cold and deadly eyes of the merciless killer crinkled into an amused smile.

At two-fifteen that Friday afternoon, just as Special Agent Dwight Stoner was getting into the cross-examination portion of his testimony regarding his involvement with Gerd Maas and Alex Chareaux during the Whitehorse Cabin raid, a bailiff came forward and handed a sealed envelope to lead defense attorney Jason Bascomb III.

The defense attorney opened the envelope, read the typewritten note, frowned, read it again slowly, and in doing so missed all but the last part of the judge's question.

"Uh, I'm sorry your honor?" Bascomb said, finally looking up.

"I asked if you had any further questions of this witness," the judge repeated.

"Uh . . . no, your honor."

The judge blinked in visible surprise and then said: "Very well. Mrs. Fletcher?"

Deputy U.S. Attorney Theresa Fletcher was just as surprised as the judge, but she tried not to let it show in her facial expression. "Nothing further, your honor," she said quickly.

"Does either counsel wish to recall this witness at a later date?"

Fletcher turned around in her chair so that she could stare at Bascomb—who was in the process of reading the note for a third time—with a suspicious and distrusting look on her face. Then she turned back to look at Henry Lightstone, who as the primary investigator had been allowed to sit next to Fletcher and listen to the testimony of all the witnesses. Lightstone shrugged, as if to say, "It beats the hell out of me."

Finally, after another few moments of silent contemplation, Theresa Fletcher said: "No, your honor."

"Mr. Bascomb?"

The lead defense attorney was still clearly distracted by the contents of the note. It took him a few moments to react, and then respond: "Uh, no, your honor."

"Agent Stoner, you are excused. Mrs. Fletcher, you may call your next witness."

Deputy U.S. Attorney Theresa Fletcher looked over at her legal adversary one last time, hesitated, and then said: "No further witnesses, your honor. The prosecution rests."

"Mr. Bascomb, are you prepared to call your first witness?"

"Uh, no, your honor. Defense requests a continuance until Monday morning so that we can follow up on an unexpected lead in this case."

"Mrs. Fletcher?"

"No objections, your honor."

"Very well." The judge nodded. "Court is adjourned until nine o'clock Monday morning."

In a series of quick but still dignified movements, the judge slammed his gavel, rose out of his chair, and then stepped away from the bench—as the court clerk hurriedly called out "All rise!"—before either attorney had an opportunity to change his mind.

Then, as the surprised bailiffs moved in quickly to escort Alex Chareaux out of the courtroom, and as Theresa Fletcher, Henry Lightstone, and Dwight Stoner watched in absolute amazement, Jason Bascomb III quickly rounded up Maas, Parker, and his two assistant fellow attorneys, and headed rapidly toward the door.

Chapter Seventeen

At three-fifteen that Friday afternoon the field supervisor of the U.S. Marshal team assigned to Prisoner Transportation Unit Three watched carefully as one of the federal court bailiffs shackled Alex Chareaux into the third seat from the rear on the right-hand side of the van's isolated holding area.

"Okay," the bailiff said as he climbed down out of the van, "he's all yours. Sorry about the early callback."

"Not a problem. We might actually get home on time tonight," the team leader said as he signed the transfer form, and then walked over to shut, bar, and lock the rear door.

Once the armored door was secured, the two shotgun-armed marshals—who had monitored the entire transfer process with their backs to the van, magnum buckshot rounds chambered in their 12-gage Remington pumps, fingers on the trigger guards, and the safeties off as they watched for any approaching vehicles or people—returned their lethal weapons to a "safe" condition. Then, still alert but more relaxed now, they walked over to the cab portion of the armored transport van.

There they opened the rear cab doors and secured their shotguns into the readily accessible racks mounted on either side of the rear wall between the rear seats and the doors. Having done that, they both climbed into the rear seats, shut and locked their doors, and then secured their safety belts.

The team leader climbed into the front passenger seat, locked his door, and then retrieved his 9mm semiautomatic pistol back from his uniformed driver.

"Well, guys," he said as he secured the heavy pistol in his hip holster and then fastened his safety belt so that he still had easy access to the holstered weapon, "what do you say we drop this cheerful dip-shit off at the base, check out, and then stop by O'Hara's for a couple of beers, my treat?"

The two younger deputy U.S. marshals in the backseats—both of whom were in their mid-twenties, still single, and invariably short on cash—quickly voiced their agreement. But the older driver looked down at his watch.

"Uh, okay," he said hesitantly, "but it's gotta be a quick one. I called Sherry and let her know we'd be getting off early tonight. She's going to arrange for an overnight baby-sitter so I can take her out to dinner, hit a show, and then check into the local hotel."

"Sounds like a nice plan to me," the team leader—a married man with three children of his own—nodded approvingly.

"Hey, come on, you guys, 'fess up," the youthful deputy U.S. marshal in the left rear seat teased, "what is it that you old married farts can do in a hotel that you can't do at home?"

"I forget." The forty-five-year-old driver shrugged. "But I think it has something to do with sex."

"No shit? Guys your age still do that kinda thing?"

"With four kids running around the house all day and night? You gotta be kidding."