Kate came into the café and said, “My cell phone just rang.”
“Probably Bergdorf’s looking for you.”
She sat down and listened to her voice mail. “Tom Walsh—wants me to call.”
“Wait a few minutes.”
“All right.” She took the sheaf of CommutAir printouts from her briefcase and laid them on the table. I took half and started flipping through them while dialing my cell phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“The Point.”
A man named Charles answered, and I said, “I’d like to make a reservation for this evening.”
“Yes, sir. We have some availability.”
“Do you also have rooms?”
“Yes, sir. We have the Mohawk Room in the Main Lodge, the Lookout in the Eagle’s Nest, the Weatherwatch in the Guest House—”
“Slow down, Charles. What can I get for a thousand bucks?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Not even a cot in the kitchen?”
He quoted me some rates on the available rooms, and I got scalped by the Mohawk for twelve hundred bucks, which was the cheapest room available. I asked him, “Does this place have heat and electricity?”
“Yes, sir. How many nights will you be staying with us?”
“I’m not sure, Charles. Let’s start with two.”
“Yes, sir.” He added, “If you’re with us on Wednesday evening, black tie is requested for dinner.”
“Are you telling me I need a tuxedo to eat dinner in the woods?”
“Yes, sir.” He explained, “William Avery Rockefeller, who owned this property, would dine with his guests each evening in black tie. We try to re-create the experience on Wednesday and Saturday evenings.”
“I might need to miss that experience. Can I get room service in my underwear?”
“Yes, sir. How would you like to secure the reservation?”
I gave him my name and government credit card, we ironed out a few other details, and I asked him, “You have any bears there?”
“Yes, sir. We have a bar in the—”
“Bears, Charles, bears. You know. Ursus terribilis.”
“Uh . . . we . . . there are bears in the area, but—”
“Feed the bears tonight, Charles. See you later.” I hung up.
Kate said, “Did I hear you correctly?”
“Yeah, fucking bears.”
“The room rate.”
“Yeah, we’re in the Mohawk Room. The Weatherwatch at two thousand dollars a night seemed a little extravagant.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Why do you ask? Hey, after two nights in that B and B hovel you booked, we deserve a nice place.”
“I think we get an allowance of a hundred dollars per diem in the Albany area.” She reminded me, “We . . . you have to make up the difference.”
“We’ll see.”
Kate’s beeper went off, and she looked at it. “Tom.”
“Give it a few more minutes.”
“Maybe they’ve found Harry.”
“That would be nice.” I flipped through the printouts, trying to see if anything stuck out.
Kate, too, went through the printouts and said, “Here is the eleven A.M. CommutAir from Boston on Saturday . . . wow.”
“Wow, what?”
“Edward Wolffer. You know who he is?”
“Yeah, he played center field for the—”
“He’s the deputy secretary of defense. Very hawkish guy, pushing for the war in Iraq. Very close to the president. He’s on TV a lot.”
“That’s probably the guy who someone here recognized.”
“Yes, and here’s another one on the same flight—Paul Dunn. He’s a presidential adviser—”
“On matters of national security, and a member of the National Security Council.”
“Right. How did you know that?”
“It’s always a Jeopardy question.”
“Why do you like to play stupid?”
“It’s a good cover for when I really am stupid.” I said, “So, Wolffer and Dunn arrived Saturday, plus two other guys, according to Betty, and they all got into the van to the Custer Hill Club.”
Kate looked again at the passenger manifest for the 11:00 A.M. Saturday flight from Boston and said, “There were nine other men on that flight, but none of these other names ring a bell, so we don’t know who these other two guys were who got into the van.”
“Right.” I continued flipping through the passenger lists. “Wolffer and Dunn left on the first Boston flight yesterday, connecting to Washington.”
She nodded thoughtfully, then asked me, “Does this mean anything?”
“Well, on the surface, it doesn’t mean much. A lot of rich and powerful guys got together on a three-day weekend at a mountain lodge owned by an oil billionaire. It’s like one of those Renaissance weekends, or a gathering of the Carlyle Group, where some people, and the media, speculate that all kinds of devious things are going on—oil-price rigging, financial and political deals, conspiracies to take over the planet, and that kind of thing. But sometimes, it’s just a bunch of rich guys getting together to relax, play cards, talk about women, and tell dirty jokes.”
Kate thought about that. “Sometimes it is,” she said. “But someone in the Justice Department ordered a surveillance of this gathering.”
“That’s the point.”
She went on, “And it’s not every day that the Justice Department wants to keep an eye on the deputy secretary of defense, a presidential adviser, and who knows who else in this club.”
I commented, “This is getting good.” I scanned the passenger manifests. “We need to do a background check of everyone who arrived here by commercial aircraft in the last few days, and see what, if any, connection they have to one another—then try to find out what Harry was supposed to find out on his surveillance: who went from here to the Custer Hill Club.”
Kate replied, “I don’t think that’s our job. Tom didn’t mention that.”
“It’s good to show initiative. Tom appreciates that, and by the way, fuck Tom.”
The waitress came by, and one of us ordered a double bacon cheeseburger, and the other ordered a Cobb salad, whatever the hell that is.
My beeper went off, and I looked at the number. Not surprisingly, it was Tom Walsh. “I’ll call him.”
“No, I’ll call him,” Kate said.
“Let me handle this. He likes and respects me.” I dialed Tom’s cell phone, and he answered. I asked, “Did you page me?”
“Yes, I paged you, and Kate, and I called you both. You were supposed to call me when you landed.”
“We just got in. Headwinds.”
“According to the pilot, you’ve been there almost an hour.”
“There was a long line at the car rental. More important, what’s the word on Harry?”
“Nothing yet.” He briefed me on nothing, then said, “I want you to drive to the regional headquarters of the state police in Ray Brook. That’s a few miles from Saranac Lake. Make contact with a Major Hank Schaeffer, commander of B Troop, and coordinate the search operation with him. You can offer your services and expertise, such as they are, and offer to participate in the search.”
“Okay. That’s it?”
“For now. Meanwhile, we’re going through channels to see if we can get a few hundred troops from Fort Drum to participate in the search. That will speed it up considerably. Tell Schaeffer we’re still working on that.”
“Will do.”
“Call me when you’ve spoken to Schaeffer.”
“Will do.”
“Okay, is Kate there?”
“She’s in the ladies’ room.”
“Tell her to call me.”
“Will do.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Waiting for a double bacon cheeseburger.”
“Okay . . . don’t hang around the airport too long, and don’t ask anyone there any questions.”
>
“What do you mean?”
“Just get over to the state trooper headquarters ASAP. And don’t even think about going to the Custer—”
“I understand.”
“All right. Nothing further.”
I hung up, and Kate asked me, “What did he say?”
I sipped my coffee and went back to the printouts. “He wants us to go to the Custer Hill Club and see if Bain Madox is there, and talk to him, and see who else is there.”
“He said that?”
“Not in so many words.”
“Did he want me to call him?”
“At your convenience.”
She was getting a little impatient with me and said, “John, what the fuck did he—?”
“Here’s the deal. Nothing new on Harry, Walsh wants us to make contact with the state police, help in the search, and not snoop around the airport.” I noted, “Too late for that.”
“I didn’t hear anything about going to the Custer Hill Club.”
“Why don’t you go see the state police? I’ll go to the Custer Hill Club.”
She didn’t reply.
I said to her, “Kate, we were sent here as a pro forma response to the disappearance of one of our guys from the Task Force. We’re here to get the bad news, or the good news, if and when Harry is found. This is just protocol. You know that. The question for you is, Do you want to take a reactive, or pro-active, role here?”
“You have a way of putting things . . . let me think about it.”
“Do that.”
The food came, and the double bacon cheeseburger looked like it could give you a heart attack if you touched it. The Freedom Fries had a little American flag stuck in them.
Kate asked, “Do you want some of this salad?”
“I found a slug in a salad once.”
“Thanks.”
Before I could get my minimum daily requirement of fat, the guy from Enterprise came into the café and handed Kate a stack of photostated car-rental contracts. He said to her, “I get off-duty at four, if you want me to show you around. Maybe we can have dinner. I put my cell-phone number on my card.”
“Thanks, Larry. I’ll call you later.”
He left.
I said, “You put him up to that.”
“What are you talking about?”
I didn’t reply and called for the check so we could get moving as soon as Max showed up.
I took another bite of my cheeseburger, and Max came into the café, spotted us, and came over. She said to Kate, “Here’s all the contracts from Thursday to tomorrow, including returns. There’s, like, twenty-six. It’s a big weekend.”
Kate replied, “Thank you. And please don’t mention this to anyone.”
“Sure.” She looked at me and said, “You’re a lucky guy to have a wife like this.”
My mouth was full of burger, and I grunted.
Max left, and I swallowed. “You put her up to that.”
“What are you talking about?”
I shoved some Freedom Fries in my mouth, stood, and said, “Okay, let’s go.”
Kate put the papers in her briefcase, I put twenty bucks on the table, and we left the café. I said, “If you’re not coming with me, go to Hertz and get yourself another car. The state police headquarters is in someplace called Ray Brook, not far from here. Ask for Major Schaeffer. I’ll call you later.”
She stood there, wavering between following Walsh’s orders and her recently expressed opinion to him that the world had changed.
Finally, she said, “I’ll go with you to the Custer Hill Club. Then, we go to the state police headquarters.”
We exited the terminal, walked to the car-rental lot, and found the blue Taurus. I drove to the side of the terminal building where the general aviation operations were and parked the car. “I want to see if GOCO has a corporate jet and if they use this airport.” I handed her the road map and said, “Call the county police and see if you can get directions to the Custer Hill Club.”
I went into the building, where a guy sat at a desk behind the counter playing with his computer.
I asked him, “Can I get a ticket to Paris here?”
He looked up from his computer and replied, “You can go anywhere you want if you own, lease, or charter a plane big enough. And you don’t even need a ticket.”
“I think I’m in the right place.” I held up my credentials and said, “John Corey, Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force. I need to ask you a few questions.”
He stood, came to the counter, and checked out the creds. “What’s up?” he asked.
“Who am I talking to?”
“I’m Chad Rickman, operations officer.”
“Okay, Chad, I need to know if there’s a private jet that uses this airport, registered to the Global Oil Corporation. GOCO.”
“Yeah, two Cessna Citations, new models. Any problem?”
“Are either of the jets here?”
“No . . . in fact they both came in yesterday morning, about an hour apart, fueled up, then a few hours later they took off.”
“How many passengers got off?”
“I don’t think there were any. We usually send a car out to the aircraft, and I’m pretty sure it was just the flight crew.”
“Did any passengers get on after they refueled?”
“I don’t think so. They came in, topped off, and a few hours later they flew out.”
“All right . . . where did they go?”
“They don’t have to tell me where they’re going—they have to tell the FAA.”
“Okay . . . how do they tell the FAA? Radio?”
“No, phone. From here. Actually, I overheard both pilots filing a flight plan to Kansas City, departing thirty minutes apart.”
I thought about that, then asked, “Why would they be going to Kansas City with no one on board?”
“Maybe they only had cargo,” Chad replied. “I remember two Jeeps met them here and put some stuff on board.”
“What did they put on board?”
“I didn’t see.”
“These are passenger planes, right? Not cargo?”
“Right. But they’ll hold a little cargo in the cabin.”
“I still don’t understand why two jets flew in empty and flew out with a few pieces of cargo, both of them going to the same place.”
“Hey, this guy who owns the planes—Bain Madox—owns the fucking oil wells. He can burn all the jet fuel he wants.”
“This is true.” I asked, “Was Kansas City their final destination?”
“I don’t know. That’s the flight plan I heard them file on the telephone. That’s probably about their cruising range, so maybe they’re going on from there. Or maybe they’re coming back here.”
“I see . . . so I can call the FAA to get their flight plans?”
“Yeah, if you’re authorized, and if you have their tail registration numbers.”
“Well, I’m authorized, Chad.” I pulled out the sheet of paper that Randy had fetched from this office and put it on the desk. “Which are the GOCO aircraft?”
He studied the sheet and checked off two numbers: N2730G and N2731G. Chad informed me, “Sequential registration numbers. A lot of companies that fly their own airplanes do that.”
“I know that.”
“Yeah? What’s up?”
“Typical tax crap. The rich are different from you and me.”
“No kidding?”
“Okay, thanks, Chad. Think more about this. Ask around for me and see if anyone else remembers anything. You got a cell-phone number?”
“Sure.” He wrote it on his business card and asked me, “What exactly are you looking for?”
“I told you—tax evasion. Bags of money.” I said to him, “Don’t mention anything to anyone about a Federal investigation.”
“Mum’s the word.”
I left the operations office and got back in the car. I said to Kate, “There are two GOCO corporate jets that use this airport.” I
filled her in as I drove toward the airport exit and told her that we’d have to call the FAA office in Washington to find out what continuing flight plans had been filed for those two jets.
Kate asked me, “Why do we want to know that?”
“I don’t know yet. This guy Madox interests me, and you never know what’s important until you piece it together with something else. In detective work, there’s no such thing as TMI—too much information.”
“Should I be taking notes?”
“No, I’ll give you one of my taped lectures that I gave at John Jay.”
“Thank you.”
At the airport exit, I asked Kate, “Did you get directions?”
“Sort of. The desk sergeant said take Route 3 west, to 56 north, then ask around.”
“Real men don’t ask directions.” I asked, “Which way is Route 3?”
“Well, if you’re asking, turn left.”
Within a few minutes, we were on Route 3, designated a scenic highway, heading west into the wilderness. I said to Kate, “Keep an eye out for bears. Hey, do you think a 9mm Glock will stop a bear?”
“I don’t think so, but I hope to God you get to find out.”
“That’s not very loving.”
She sat back in her seat and closed her eyes. “Every minute that goes by without word about Harry makes me think he’s not alive.”
I didn’t reply.
She stayed silent awhile, then said, “It could have been you.”
It could have been, but if it were me out in the woods around the Custer Hill Club, things may have turned out differently. Then again, maybe not.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
We continued west on Route 3, a road that seemed to have no reason to exist, except to look at trees while you went from nowhere to nowhere.
Kate had picked up a few brochures from the airport and was perusing them. She does this wherever we go so she can enhance her experience; then, she regurgitates this stuff back to me, like a tour guide.
She informed me that Saranac Lake, the town and the airport and this road, was actually within the boundaries of Adirondack State Park.
She also informed me that this area was known as the North Country, a name she found romantic.
I commented, “You could freeze to death here in April.”
She went on, “Large parts of the park have been designated as forever wild.”