Wildfire (8 page)

"Yes, I suppose you're right," the younger man conceded. "Who do you think we should send?"

That's right, in a situation like this, seek out advice immediately. You need to find someone to share the risk, just in case the situation calls for a fall guy,
Harris thought approvingly. That was a fundamental principle of life in the cutthroat world of businesses and bureaucracies throughout the world. He wasn't the least bit concerned by the fact that the student had already begun to turn on his teacher. That, too, was an integral part of the game. Besides, there was an elegant solution to that temporary problem.

"Actually, I would think that the logical person to send would be you," Harris said thoughtfully.

"Me?"

"Why not?" The older man shrugged. "After all, you're one of the very few people around here who knows what Crowley looks like, which might turn out to be an essential bit of knowledge if it became necessary to identify a body."

"But—but—I—"

"And you
were
the one who sent Crowley back out to try to renegotiate with Riser, on your own authority," Harris reminded gently. "So there's always the issue of leadership to be considered, not to mention the fact that Crowley would respond to you."

"But if Riser—" The suddenly pale-faced youth started to whisper when Harris interrupted.

"Of course, if you should happen to make contact with Riser in the process of trying to locate Crowley, accidentally or otherwise, then we would have an additional problem, because Riser would almost surely want to interrogate you."

"Interrogate me?" Eric could barely force the words past his larynx.

"Interrogate. Torture. No doubt all the same thing, as far as our Mr. Riser is concerned," Leonard Harris said. "And we certainly can't allow you to be interrogated or tortured, because you know too much. Names, places, things like that."

"That's right," the youth said quickly. "I do know too much. And besides," he added in a deeply humbled voice, "I have my own jobs to do."

"Exactly." Harris nodded. "So we'll send a couple of new people from our legal team to check things out from a safe distance, perhaps posing as representatives of Mr. Crowley's family, while you continue to monitor, among other things, the trial of Mr. Maas and Mr. Chareaux."

"Do you think that they'll be—uh—okay, if Riser's still out there?" the youth asked hesitantly.

"Oh, I think they'll be just fine," Harris said confidently. "After all, the ones I'm thinking of are young and energetic and—thanks to Harvard Law School and the United States Marine Corps—extremely well trained. And, most importantly, Riser has never seen either of them."

"I was just thinking about his reputation."

"Of course. But don't forget, we still have the primary advantage. We know a great deal about him, and he knows little or nothing about us."

"Assuming that Crowley hasn't told him anything."

"Which was exactly why you elected to use Crowley in the first place," Harris reminded pointedly. "In spite of his family contacts, he really doesn't
know
much of anything about us. Or at least nothing useful, isn't that right?"

"Oh, yeah, sure." Eric nodded, his face relaxing into its more characteristic, predatory expression. "How long do you think we should wait before we send them in?"

"Let's give Crowley another half hour. If we don't hear from him by"—Harris glanced at his watch again —"let's say six o'clock, then we'll turn our associates loose to see what they can find."

"That sounds good."

"Yes, I agree." Harris nodded. "And while we're waiting, I think we would be wise to consider how we might make better use of those wildlife agents to keep our Mr. Riser fully occupied."

At the end, having reached his sanctuary unscathed, William Devonshire Crowley discovered that the door was the worst part of all.

He stood there in the hallway in front of his tenth-floor hotel room for a good thirty seconds before he was finally able to summon up the nerve to put the key in the lock. But even then it took the distant sound of an elevator door coming open to jar him into action.

Whimpering with fear, he wrenched the key to the right, shoved the door open, lunged forward into the room, slammed the door shut, threw the dead bolt, turned on the light, and then whirled around wide-eyed, with his back against the door, to face the interior of his room.

No dark figure.

No movement.

Nothing.

Almost crying with relief, Crowley quickly looked into the bathroom, the closet, and under the beds—which turned out to have solid box supports for the springs. Working frantically now, because he
had
to be sure, he pulled up both sets of mattresses and springs and looked underneath. Then he checked to verify that the two wooden cabinets did, in fact, contain a small refrigerator and a TV set instead of a patiently waiting killer.

Only then, when he was absolutely
sure
that he was alone, did William Devonshire Crowley unzip the black computer case and put the laptop computer on the desk.

His hands were shaking so badly that it was all he could do to plug in the power adapter and make the connections between the built-in modem and the hotel room telephone.

His employers had programmed the miniature computer to load automatically all the necessary communications software and hand-shaking commands during the booting-up process, so all Crowley had to do was turn on the power switch and wait.

Finally, after a considerable amount of electronic humming, sixteen words appeared on the screen.

HELLO WILLIAM. ENTER YOUR MESSAGE NOW (HIT SHIFT AND F10 KEYS TO SEND, ESC TO QUIT):

Closing his eyes in heartfelt relief, Crowley began to type furiously with his still shaky hands.

I HAVE MADE CONTACT WITH RISER AS DIRECTED. ADVISED HIM WE HAD TO RENEGOTIATE CONTRACT. HE SEEMED VERY UNHAPPY. WE AGREED TO MEET AGAIN AT BOSTON COMMONS, SOLDIERS AND SAILORS MONUMENT, AT 3:30 p.m. I WAITED UNTIL 4:45 p.m., BUT HE DIDN'T SHOW. STRONGLY, REPEAT STRONGLY, ADVISE THAT YOU

Crowley froze when he heard a noise. It sounded as if it had come from the bathroom. He immediately got up and moved away from the computer and the door.

"Oh, no, that can't be," he whispered faintly to himself as he backed up against the curtained window, staring at the short hallway leading to the locked hallway door.

The bathroom was to the left, the front door straight ahead, and the closet door to the right. From where he was standing, he could see that the chain latch was in place and the deadbolt was turned to a horizontal position.

He knew it was impossible for someone to have come in through the door, but he rechecked the bathroom and the closet anyway, just to be sure. Reassured, he returned to the computer. There were two messages waiting on the screen:

CROWLEY, WHAT'S THE MATTER?

And:

CROWLEY, ARE YOU THERE? IF SO, ANSWER IMMEDIATELY.

Sounds like they're worried,
Crowley thought.
Good. Serves them goddamned right, what I had to go through.

YES, I'M HERE. SORRY, THOUGHT I HEARD SOMEONE OUTSIDE THE DOOR.

IS RISER THERE WITH YOU?

Good God, no,
Crowley thought, stunned and shaken by the idea.
Didn't they understand what was happening up here? No, of course not. Why should they?

NO.

WHERE IS HE?

I DON'T KNOW. I TOLD YOU, HE NEVER SHOWED UP AT THE MONUMENT THE SECOND TIME. WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME THAT?

He heard the noise again, only this time it was louder and more distinct. Like a soft
thunk.

Feeling his heart start to pound, Crowley slowly got up from the chair and moved toward the locked and bolted front door. Walking as silently as he could on the thick carpet, he inched himself forward until he could peer through the peephole in the door.

Nothing.

Releasing a pent-up breath, William Devonshire Crowley stepped away from the door with a smile, glanced into the empty bathroom once more, and then opened the door to check the closet.

That was when he began to scream.

Leonard Harris and his youthful apprentice were waiting anxiously at their computer terminal when the black screen suddenly came alive.

THIS IS RISER.

Even though they were several hundred miles away from the Westin Hotel, and completely isolated by a carefully crafted electronic message-switching system, both men felt their chest muscles tighten around their hearts.

Finally Harris reached for the keyboard.

YES, RISER. GO AHEAD.

I UNDERSTAND YOU WISH TO RENEGOTIATE. FINE. THE PRICE IS NOW SIX HUNDRED HOUSAND EACH. YES OR NO. DECIDE NOW. THERE WILL BE NO FURTHER NEGOTIATIONS.

The two men—student and teacher—looked at each other for a long moment before Harris cocked his head and then waited. The implication was clear. The time had come for Eric to accept responsibility for his actions and thereby take his place among the adult sharks. Either that or sink back down into safe obscurity while his mentor made the yes-or-no decision.

Finally, albeit hesitantly, the young man nodded in agreement.

Leonard Harris's short, stubby fingers moved quickly across the keyboard.

WE AGREE.

GOOD.

Harris paused thoughtfully, and then began typing again.

WHAT ABOUT CROWLEY?

The was another long pause while the computer screen remained blank, then:

THERE WILL BE NO CHARGE FOR CROWLEY.

Chapter Four

"No, that's not true at all, Jonathan." Samuel Ericson Tisbury spoke calmly into the phone. "I
do
understand your concerns. It's your risk assessment that I'm questioning."

Tisbury paused to listen.

"No, Jonathan, it's not that. I just find it incredibly difficult to believe that after all this time we could still be the subject of a legal inquiry."

Harold Ericson Tisbury, Sr., walked into the corner penthouse office just in time to hear the last sentence spoken by his one and only son: the fifty-eight-year-old chief executive officer of his far-flung mining, extracting, milling, and plating enterprises. He tilted his head questioningly, his bushy white eyebrows furrowing with sudden concern.

Sam Tisbury covered the mouthpiece of the phone with his hand. "It's Jonathan."

Harold Tisbury nodded in silent understanding. Selecting the familiar overstuffed chair to the right of his son's expansive desk, the seventy-nine-year-old board chairman and family patriarch sat down and crossed his thin legs. Then he reached across the desk for the ebony-framed photograph of the Tisbury family.

After staring at the familiar photograph for a long moment, Harold Tisbury put the expensive frame back on the desk. Then he sat back, folded his thin, wrinkled hands across his sparse lap, and closed his eyes with a tired sigh.

"No, Jonathan," Sam Tisbury went on smoothly, "I can assure you that Harold feels exactly the same way I do. It's been what, six months since we lost Counter-Wrench? And since that time there hasn't been a single shred of evidence to suggest that these damnable federal wildlife agents—much less the FBI—are even aware that we exist, much less investigating us."

Sam Tisbury drummed his fingers silently on the tabletop as he listened patiently.

"Yes, of course, Jonathan. That's absolutely true. Any attempt to bring the committee together again, even now, is bound to involve some degree of risk. But Harold and I have discussed this at great length. Basically, we feel we're going to be taking a chance anyway, no matter what we decide to do. At least this way, if something
does
go wrong, God forbid, we'll be in a position to defend ourselves in a unified manner, rather than as seven disorganized and possibly panicked individuals."

He paused again to allow the man on the other end of the line to finish his troubled discourse.

"No, Jonathan, we've been watching for exactly that sort of thing very carefully. As far as I'm aware, no member of the committee has come under any type of law enforcement surveillance during the last six months. Why? Have you heard anything different?"

Sam Tisbury's face registered his surprise. "Oh, really? That's odd, I was just in contact with Alfred a few hours ago, and he didn't mention anything of the sort."

Alerted by the sudden shift in his son's voice, Harold Tisbury's eyes came open.

"Well, yes, I suppose that's true. It
would
be difficult to follow someone in a sailboat without being discovered," Sam Tisbury chuckled, and then turned serious again.

"But in any case, Jonathan, Harold and I want you to know that we do share your concerns. And I agree, it's very tempting to just stay low for a few more months, keep our heads down and hope that nothing goes wrong. But given the current political situation and the nature of some of our current projects, we're just not certain that we can afford to maintain that strategy much longer."

Harold Tisbury suddenly realized that his son was staring at him. Meeting his son's questioning gaze, the elder Tisbury nodded slowly.

"We've always known that our window of opportunity with respect to the environmental groups was going to be very narrow," Sam Tisbury went on. "But even so, we've suffered a very serious setback with Counter-Wrench. And if they should
ever
sense that they have us on the run . . ." He left the rest unspoken.

"What? Yes, of course, Jonathan. Either way, Harold and I will understand completely. Take your time. We'll wait for your call."

After leaning forward to hang up the phone, Sam Tisbury made a small, precise checkmark next to the fifth name on his list. Then he turned to face the man with whom he had worked and played and conspired for the past forty-two years.

Since the day he had turned sixteen—Sam Tisbury smiled, remembering his ceremonial transformation from a child into a businessman. A ceremony that had long ago become a mandatory rite for every male born into the Tisbury family, carried forth as a family tradition for nearly six generations.