Wildfire (44 page)

Which was another last-minute decision, because his flight plan had him landing at the Cutlass Bay airstrip some fifteen miles to the south.

It cost him a hundred-dollar bill to acquire the services of the local mechanic—who promised to tie the plane down, fill the gas tanks, and forget to mention the minor matter of an altered flight plan to the local customs official, who was busy tending to matters of a more personal nature and probably wouldn't have cared anyway—and another hundred to rent a battered red jeep for the weekend. But that was okay, because now he had a hidden and remote escape route that no one else knew about.

Smiling to himself for the first time in several weeks, Sam Tisbury pulled out of the airport parking lot and began driving south along the narrow undivided asphalt road.

At precisely three minutes to six that Saturday evening, Sam Tisbury turned north off the main road about a mile from Devil's Point, then, about four miles later, made a sharp right turn into a narrow and mostly concealed driveway.

About a tenth of a mile up the winding dirt driveway, he stopped at a gate control box, identified himself to the hollow-sounding electronic voice, and then waited patiently for the freshly painted and lubricated iron gates to swing open.

He parked in one of the two remaining spots along a rock wall, and then allowed a pair of politely alert young men, both of whom were wearing casual clothing that effectively concealed their muscular bodies and lethal 9mm automatic pistols, to escort him up the rough-finished pathway to the open elevator.

Harold Tisbury was waiting for him on the third-floor foyer.

"I was beginning to get worried," the elder Tisbury said, the concern evident in his watery eyes. "Were there any problems?"

"No, just reliving a few pleasant memories," Sam Tisbury said. Then he noticed a pair of familiar figures standing a dozen feet away, next to the wide foyer window.

It was immediately apparent to Tisbury that the two men had been waiting for his arrival with growing impatience. Something also apparent, from the furtive glances that each of the men made into the empty elevator and the somber expressions on their faces, was the fact that they had been obviously expecting—or perhaps
hoping
was the better word, Tisbury decided—to see someone else also.

He had a brief moment to wonder
who?
before the two men turned in his direction.

"Hello, Nicholas, it's good to see you again," he said as he stepped forward and took the hand of the European Community's chief representative for the oil and gas industry.

"Yes," Nicholas Von Hagberg said in his inevitably cold and formal manner, the overhead lights reflecting off his high forehead and titanium-rimmed glasses. "It is good to see you also."

If there was any sincerity to his words at all, it was not the least bit evident in his voice.

"And Sergio," Sam Tisbury turned to Sergio Paz-Rios, the mercurial chairman of Amazon Global, a conglomerate of South American timber and wood products industries. "You're looking well, my friend."

Sergio Paz-Rios responded with a grunt and a curt nod as he shook hands. There was a flash of fear and accusation in his dark, piercing eyes before he turned back to stare out through the huge single-pane foyer window to the distant water below.

Proud, vain, manipulative, and absolutely ruthless by nature, the sixty-two-year-old Chilean industrialist presented himself as a man of supreme self-confidence, and one who was in complete control of his destiny. But in this case outward appearances were deceiving, Sam Tisbury reminded himself. Of all the ICER committee members, Sergio Paz-Rios had been the last to agree to the meeting.

Sam Tisbury had only a brief moment to consider all those factors when two more men emerged from the spacious sitting room of the luxurious three-story villa. "Jonathan. Wilbur. Thank you all for coming."

Then he looked around for the last familiar face, and immediately understood the expression he saw in Sergio Paz-Rios' dark eyes. He felt his heart sink.

"Has anyone seen or heard from Alfred?" he asked in a quiet voice. He glanced over at his father and saw the elder Tisbury shake his head slowly.

The other four looked at each other, their unspoken concern now open for all to see. It was the thing that every one of these incredibly wealthy and powerful men had come to fear during the last nine months of their suddenly confused and tortured lives: the terrifying possibility that at any moment one of them might suddenly lose his nerve.

It was a perfectly understandable fear, because each one of them possessed enough information on ICER and on each other to bring the entire conspiracy down around their heads . . . and to put them all in prison for the rest of their lives.

All, perhaps, except one,
Sam Tisbury mused, knowing full well that every man in the room had long since experienced similar thoughts.

"We exchanged faxes early this morning," Wilbur Lee Edgarton, CEO of the Moss Mariner Mining Group, offered in a neutral voice after a moment. "He said he was in the sound, sailing a few miles offshore. He assured me that he would be here."

"He'd damn well
better
be here," Sergio Paz-Rios muttered darkly.

There were muttered nods of agreement all around.

"Perhaps we should adjourn to the dining room," Harold Tisbury suggested soothingly, having to work hard to conceal his own shaken nerves and anger. "Jean-Pierre tells me he's found an exceptional Chardonnay to complement his chowder this evening."

After a momentary hesitation he added: "And I'm sure that Alfred will be here momentarily."

The six industrialists walked across the sitting room, ignoring the wide expanse of window glass that provided a beautiful panoramic view of Exuma Sound and the distant Conception Island. They entered the huge formal dining room with a visible sense of apprehension, as if half expecting to see the ghosts of their ill-fated counterterrorist team waiting for them within the lavishly paneled walls.

Or, even worse, a team of Special Agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

But instead the only person they saw as they took their seats around the solid teak and rosewood table was a man whose familiar face and invariably calm demeanor was immediately reassuring.

Walter Crane was the chief investigator for the firm of Little, Warren, Nobles & Kole, a very expensive Washington, D.C., legal firm whose primary mission in life during the last nine months had been to keep the ICER Committee members completely isolated from the judicial process.

To date, the firm had submitted billings to the International Commission for Environmental Restoration to the tune of three-point-two million dollars, mostly for work performed by Crane and his highly trained, talented, and motivated team of criminal investigators. The committee members had authorized their share of the payments without so much as a blink. But they were impatient men who expected results for their money. Harold Tisbury knew that they would only be put off for so long by fine wine and spicy chowder.

Deeply disturbed by the absence of one of their fellow conspirators, the men took their accustomed seats around the table. Harold Tisbury's serving staff took their cue and were immediately attentive. Bowls were filled from a steaming cauldron by Jean-Pierre himself as the wine steward personally opened and sampled each bottle. Second helpings were offered as the conversation gradually shifted to more pleasant topics, such as corporate profits and future holdings. Empty bowls and glasses were being replaced with mugs of hot tea and rich Colombian coffee when Harold Tisbury rapped a polished silver spoon against the side of his mug.

"Gentlemen," he acknowledged in a quietly dignified voice that hardly matched the chill in his cold, dark eyes. "I don't think we can wait for Alfred any longer."

The resulting silence was chilling, but Harold Tisbury went on.

"I believe we all know why we are here tonight. Apart from Alfred, there is only one item on the agenda this evening. A vote to either terminate the International Commission for Environmental Restoration or to go forward with a mission that we have all agreed is vital to the very survival of our nations, not to mention our own industrial enterprises."

Harold Tisbury allowed his cold eyes to scan each of the six familiar faces seated around the table.

"I think it goes without saying that our first operation against the environmental extremist groups was an unmitigated disaster. Not only did we fail to meet our objectives and waste a fifty-million-dollar investment," the CEO said in a voice leaden with fatigue and disgust, "but in doing so we may have alerted the authorities to ICER and to our activities, and thereby exposed ourselves to legal jeopardy."

There were murmured nods of agreement around the table.

"We have many things to discuss," Harold Tisbury went on. "However, before we begin that discussion," he said with a significance glance over at Walter Crane, "I think we should listen to what our guest has to say.

The murmuring was immediately hushed and they all turned their attention to Crane, who slowly stood up.

"Thank you, Harold." Crane nodded pleasantly to his host before turning to the table at large.

"Gentlemen," he began as his cool, penetrating eyes slowly swept around the table, "Harold has invited me here today to present a synopsis of what we have discovered, to date, on the events leading up to the raid by federal authorities on Whitehorse Cabin. And also, to provide you with an estimate of the legal difficulties which the members of ICER may be facing as a consequence of that raid."

Crane was well aware that he had their undivided attention.

"But before I do so, let me begin by saying that,
to date,"
Crane emphasized those words with his voice and an upraised index finger, "there is nothing to indicate that the FBI, or any other law enforcement entity, for that matter, is aware of the existence of this committee."

There were sighs and murmured words of relief around the table.

"As far as we know," Crane went on, "the FBI's investigation was effectively halted by the untimely and unfortunate deaths of Lisa Abercombie and Dr. Reston Wolfe, along with ten members of their Operation Counter Wrench team."

While every man in the room was well aware of the underlying irony to Crane's words, there was no evidence of that in any of their faces.

"But there are still two members of that team in federal custody," Sergio Paz-Rios interrupted.

"Gerd Maas and Roy Parker."

"Yes, exactly." the Chilean industrialist nodded. "What if they decide to talk?"

"Maas will never talk, no matter what they do or what they say," Nicholas Von Hagberg said. There was a sense of chilling confidence in his voice.

"I have no doubt that Mr. Von Hagberg is correct," Crane replied easily. "And you needn't worry about Mr. Parker either, because he's dead."

"What?"

To Walter Crane's experienced eyes, every one of the ICER Committee members appeared to be surprised and shocked by the news. He shrugged inwardly. He really hadn't expected the matter to be resolved that easily.

"Mr. Parker is dead, and therefore no longer a concern," Crane repeated patiently. "I'll explain the circumstances of his death in a moment. But before I do, I want to make certain that every one of you understands the sequence of events that led to the failure of Operation Counter Wrench.

"In essence, and as all of you are certainly aware," Crane began when no one interrupted, "the initial failure occurred when Dr. Wolfe chose to spend his free time hunting—how shall we put it?—without benefit of a license or a legal hunting season. In order to do so, he engaged the services of three hunting guides, Mr. Alex Chareaux and his two brothers, who saw to it that he had ample opportunity to shoot at whatever he pleased, whenever and wherever he pleased.

"For reasons that are not entirely clear to us, Dr. Wolfe chose to take Ms. Lisa Abercombie and Dr. Morito Asai on one of his illicit hunts; unaware that a Mr. Henry Lightstone—whom they and apparently Mr. Chareaux knew then as Henry Allen Lightner—would also be involved in the hunt."

"You told us all this the last time we met, and I don't see—" Wilbur Lee Edgarton started to interrupt, but Crane held up his hand.

"Mr. Lightstone, as it turns out, was—and still is, I might add—a federal agent for the United States Fish and Wildlife Service."

"Oh, dear God!" Jonathan Chilmark whispered.

"Did anyone know of this?" Nicholas Von Hagberg demanded, looking around the table at his fellow conspirators.

"Special Agent Lightstone's true identity was withheld by the U.S. Attorney's office until two weeks before the trial," Crane said calmly. "At that point they were obligated to release a copy of his investigative report to our attorneys through the discovery process."

"But—" Von Hagberg started to protest. Crane ignored him and continued.

"As of this morning, Agent Lightstone's identity in this case is a matter of public record, at least in the
Washington Post.
Up until last week I'd been keeping Mr. Harold Tisbury aware of our findings on an intermittent basis. I thought it"—Crane hesitated for a moment, as if searching for precisely the right word—
"unwise
for me to make similar contacts with the rest of the committee. I assumed that you would all prefer to wait until you were all together again."

"And although I certainly kept Sam fully informed, for reasons of continuity if nothing else," Harold Tisbury said, making obvious reference to his poor health, "I chose not to say anything during our brief telephone conversations, for similar reasons. There was always the possibility that one of us might have been the subject of an authorized wire tap."

He didn't have to mention a name. Everyone in the room, with the possible exception of Walter Crane, knew whom he was talking about: the one person on the committee with clear and irrefutable links to Lisa Abercombie, if the FBI dug deep enough.

Alfred Bloom.

"Yes, I agree, it was a wise decision all the way around." Von Hagberg nodded quickly.