Wild Fire

  Well, he definitely didn’t pass the evasion part, which was why he was in the cell. He went over in his mind the interrogation from the guy named Madox—the resistance part—Oh shit! Did I blow that? What the hell did I say? I told him to go fuck himself and stuck to my cover . . . then I did the IRA rap, which was smart . . . right?

  He thought about the cattle prod. Would they do that? Yeah . . . maybe.

  And later, there’d be the escape thing, then the evasion thing again and survival in the woods . . . Yeah! That’s where this is going.

  He replayed everything in his mind, slanting it toward his new belief that this was some crazy FBI or CIA thing. It had to be. This was just too weird otherwise.

  They had their eye on him for something big, and this was the big test. They did this kind of thing to see what you could take. The Custer Hill Club was like the CIA Farm in Virginia, right?

  He said to himself, Okay, good. I passed the first test. Now, we do the meeting and see what that’s all about. Keep cool, Harry. Stay pissed. He shouted at the camera, “Assholes! I’m gonna rip your fucking heads off and shit down your necks!”

  He lay back on the thin mattress and smiled to himself. He yawned and drifted into a restless sleep.

  The glare of the overhead light and the cold made him dream that he was outside again, walking through the woods. He was taking pictures of birds, then he was arguing with some men, then he was talking pleasantly to Mr. Madox, who gave him back his gun and said, “You’re going to need this.” The men suddenly raised their rifles, and dogs were running toward him. He pulled the trigger on his Glock, but it didn’t fire.

  Harry sat up quickly and wiped the cold sweat from his face. Holy shit . . .

  He fell back on the bed and stared up at the metal ceiling. Something was bothering him. It was Madox. Something about that guy seemed too . . . real. No. Can’t be real.

  Because if this was all real, then his life was in danger.

  The door opened, and a voice said, “Come with us.”

  PART III

  Saturday

  NORTH FORK, LONG ISLAND

  If love is the answer, could you rephrase the question?

  —Lily Tomlin

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kate and I got to the bed-and-breakfast in the hamlet of Mattituck before the lockout time of 10:00 P.M., and checked in with the proprietor, a lady who reminded me of the nice matrons who work in the Metropolitan Correctional Center downtown.

  The quaint old house was everything I expected and more. In fact, it sucked.

  We slept late Saturday morning, so we missed the home-cooked breakfast, and also missed meeting the other guests, two of whom we’d heard through the thin walls the night before. The woman was a screamer, but not multi-orgasmic, thank God.

  Anyway, we spent Saturday touring the North Fork vineyards, which have replaced the potato farms that I remember from when I was a kid. The vines are mature now and produce fine chardonnays, merlots, and so forth. We sipped a little free wine at each of the vineyards, and I especially enjoyed the sauvignon blancs, which were dry and fruity, with a hint of . . . well, potatoes.

  Saturday night, we went to a floating barge restaurant, which had a great view of Peconic Bay and was very romantic, as per Kate.

  We sat at the bar while we waited for our table, and the bartender rattled off a dozen local wines that were available by the glass. Kate and the bartender—a young fellow who looked like he could benefit from a few weeks of man camp—discussed the whites and settled on one that wasn’t too fruity. I thought grapes were a fruit.

  The young man asked me, “Did any of those wines sound good to you?”

  “They all did. I’ll have a Bud.”

  He processed that, then got our drinks.

  There was a stack of newspapers on the bar, and I noticed the New York Times headline: PENTAGON PLANS SMALLPOX SHOTS FOR UP TO 500,000.

  The invasion looked like a done deal unless Saddam knuckled under. I considered calling my bookie to see what today’s odds were for going to war. I should have placed a bet last week, when the odds were longer, but I have inside information, so that’s cheating. Also, it’s not ethical to make money on a war, unless you’re a government contractor.

  I asked Kate, who’s a lawyer, “Am I a government contractor or a contract agent for the government?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m struggling with an ethical issue.”

  “That’s probably not much of a struggle.”

  “Be nice. I’m thinking of calling my bookie and placing a bet on the Iraq war.”

  “You have a bookie?”

  “Yeah. Don’t you?”

  “No. That’s illegal.”

  “Am I under arrest? Can we do the thing with the handcuffs later?”

  She tried not to smile and glanced around the bar. “Lower your voice.”

  “I’m trying to be romantic.”

  The hostess came over and escorted us to our table.

  Kate studied the menu and asked if I’d split a dozen oysters with her, reminding me with a grin, “They’re an aphrodisiac.”

  I informed her, “Not really. I had a dozen last week and only eleven worked.” I added, “Old joke.”

  “It better be.”

  Seafood was the specialty of the house, so I ordered Long Island duck. They swim. Right?

  I was feeling relaxed and happy to be away from the stress of job and city. I said to Kate, “This was a good idea.”

  “We needed to get away.”

  I had a brief thought of Harry in upstate New York, and I wanted to ask Kate again about the Custer Hill Club, but the purpose of being here was to leave the job behind.

  Kate was in charge of the wine menu, and after some fascinating discussion with the waiter, she ordered a bottle of something red.

  It came and she tasted it, pronouncing it full-bodied with a hint of plum, which would go well with my duck. I didn’t think my duck cared.

  Anyway, she raised her glass and said, “To beepers that don’t go off on weekends.”

  “Amen.” We clinked glasses and drank. Hers must have had the plum.

  I held the wineglass to the candlelight and said, “Nice sleeve.”

  “Nice what?”

  “Cuffs?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  So, we had a nice dinner in pleasant surroundings, and Kate’s beautiful blue eyes sparkled in the candlelight, and the red wine made me feel all warm and fuzzy.

  It was easy to pretend that all was right with the world. It never is, of course, and never was, but you have to steal a few hours now and then, and pretend that the rest of the world isn’t going to hell.

  On that subject, everyone I know still talks about how their lives have changed since September 11, and it’s not all for the worse. A lot of people, myself included, and Kate, too, sort of woke up and said, “It’s time to stop sweating the small stuff. It’s time to re-connect to people you like and get rid of people you don’t like. We’re not dead, so we need to live.”

  My father, who is a World War II veteran, once tried to describe to me the mood of the country after Pearl Harbor. He’s not good with words, and he was having some difficulty painting a picture of America on that first Christmas after December 7, 1941. Finally, he got it and said, “We were all scared, so we drank and fucked a lot, and we called and visited people we hadn’t seen in a while, and people sent lots of cards and letters, and everybody came closer together, and helped each other, so it really wasn’t that bad.” Then he asked me, “Why did we need a war to do that?”

  Because, Pop, that’s the way we are. And on September 11, last year, my parents spent two days trying to reach me from Florida, and when they finally got through to me, they spent fifteen minutes telling me how much they always loved me, which was a bit of a surprise, but I’m sure they meant it.

  And that’s the way we are now, but in a year or two, lacking another attack on the country, we’ll be back to
our normal, self-centered, standoffish selves. And that’s okay, too, because quite frankly I’m getting a little tired of out-of-town friends and family asking me how I’m doing. We’ve all had our cathartic moment, and our re-evaluation of our lives, and it’s time to get on with whatever we were doing, and go back to being whoever we were.

  I do, however, like the excessive drinking and fucking thing, and we should hold on to that awhile longer. My bachelor friends tell me . . . well, that’s another topic for another time.

  Meanwhile, I said to Kate, “I love you.”

  She reached across the table and took my hand. “I love you, too, John.”

  And that’s one good thing that came out of that day. I wasn’t the most attentive husband on September 10, but the next day, when I thought she was dead, my world collapsed with those towers. And when I saw her alive, I realized I needed to say “I love you” more often, because in this business and in this life, you never know what’s going to happen tomorrow.

  PART IV

  Saturday

  UPSTATE NEW YORK

  Power always thinks it has a great soul and vast views beyond the comprehension of the weak, and that it is doing God’s service when it is violating all His laws.

  —John Adams

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Harry Muller sat blindfolded, with his ankles shackled, in what felt like a comfortable leather chair. He smelled burning wood and cigarette smoke.

  He could hear people speaking in low tones, and he thought he heard Bain Madox’s voice.

  Someone slid the blindfold down around his neck, and as his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that he was sitting at the end of a long pine table. Also sitting at the table were five other men: two on each side, and at the head of the table, facing him, was Bain Madox. The men were speaking to one another as if he wasn’t there.

  In front of each man were legal pads, pens, water bottles, and coffee cups. Harry noticed a keyboard in front of Madox.

  He looked around the room, which was a library or a den. The fireplace was to his left, flanked by two windows whose drapes were drawn so that he couldn’t see out, but he knew from his blindfolded walk from his cell that he was on the ground floor.

  Standing near the door were Carl and another security guard. They were wearing holstered pistols but not carrying cattle prods.

  He now noticed a very big, black leather suitcase sitting upright in the middle of the floor. It was an old suitcase, strapped to a wheeled caddy.

  Bain Madox seemed to notice him for the first time and said, “Welcome, Mr. Muller. Coffee? Tea?”

  Harry shook his head.

  Madox said to the other four men, “Gentlemen, this is the man I told you about—Detective Harry Muller, NYPD, retired, currently working for the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force. Please make him feel welcome.”

  Everyone acknowledged their guest with a nod.

  Harry thought two of the guys looked familiar.

  Madox continued, “As you know, gentlemen, we have a few friends on the Task Force, but apparently none of them were aware that Mr. Muller was going to drop in today.”

  One of the men said, “We’ll need to look into that.”

  The others nodded in unison.

  Harry tried to see through this bullshit, to reinforce his hope that this was an elaborately staged test. But somewhere in the back of his mind, this hope was fading, though he clung to it.

  Madox motioned to the guards, who left the room.

  Harry looked at the men along the table. Two were about Madox’s age, one was older, and the one to his right was younger than the rest. They all wore blue blazers and casual plaid shirts like Madox, as though this were the uniform of the day.

  Harry focused on the two men who looked familiar; he was sure he’d seen them on TV or in the newspapers.

  Madox noticed Harry’s stare and said, “Forgive me for not formally introducing my Executive Board—”

  One of the men interrupted, “Bain, names are not necessary.”

  Madox replied, “I think Mr. Muller recognizes a few of you, anyway.”

  No one responded, except Harry. “I don’t need any names—”

  “You need,” said Madox, “to know what august company you are in.” Madox indicated the man to his immediate right—the oldest person in the room and the one who had made the objection. “Harry, this is Paul Dunn, adviser to the president on matters of national security and a member of the National Security Council, whom you probably recognize.”

  Madox turned to the person sitting next to Dunn, near Harry, and said, “This is General James Hawkins, United States Air Force and a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, whom you may also recognize, though Jim is a low-profile guy.”

  Madox indicated the man to his left. “This is Edward Wolffer, the deputy secretary of defense, who likes the cameras. Never stand between Ed and a news camera or you’ll get knocked over.” Madox smiled, but no one else did. Madox added, “Ed and I graduated from Infantry Officer Candidate School together, Fort Benning, Georgia, April 1967. We served in Vietnam at the same time. He’s made quite a name for himself since then, while I’ve made a lot of money.”

  Wolffer didn’t smile at what Harry thought must be an old joke by now.

  Madox continued, “And to your right, Harry, is Scott Landsdale of the Central Intelligence Agency, who is definitely camera shy, and who is also the CIA liaison to the White House.”

  Harry glanced at Landsdale. He seemed a little cocky and arrogant, like most of the CIA guys Harry had had the misfortune to work with.

  Madox said, “This is the Executive Board of the Custer Hill Club. The rest of our members—about a dozen men this weekend—are hiking or bird-hunting, which I hope doesn’t upset you.” He explained to the other men, “Mr. Muller is a bird-watcher.”

  Harry wanted to say, “Fuck you,” but remained silent. He understood now that the guys in this room had not come here from Washington to participate in a test of Harry Muller’s qualifications for a bigger and better job.

  Madox told Harry, “This holiday weekend was to be a regularly scheduled gathering to discuss world affairs, to exchange information, and to just enjoy some camaraderie. But your presence here has made it necessary for me to call this emergency meeting of the Executive Board. I’m sure that means nothing to you now, but it will later.”

  Harry said, “I don’t want to hear any of this.”

  “I thought you were a detective.” He stared at Harry and said, “I’ve had a little time to check you out with our friends in the ATTF, and you appear to be who you say you are.”

  Harry didn’t reply, but he wondered who Madox’s friends were in the ATTF.

  Mr. Madox informed him, “If you were an FBI agent, or CIA, we’d be very concerned.”

  Scott Landsdale, the CIA man, said, “Bain, I can assure you that Mr. Muller is not a CIA officer.”

  Madox smiled. “I suppose it takes one to know one.”

  Landsdale continued, “And I’m fairly certain that Mr. Muller is not FBI. He is what he appears to be—a cop, working for the FBI, on surveillance.”

  “Thank you for that assurance,” said Madox.

  “You’re welcome. Now, I’d like some assurance, Bain. You weren’t very clear about when Mr. Muller will be reported as missing in action.”

  Madox replied, “Ask Mr. Muller. He’s right next to you.”

  Landsdale turned to Harry. “When do they start wondering where you are? No lies. I know how they work at 26 Fed. And what I don’t know, I can find out.”

  Harry thought, Typical CIA bastard, always pretending they know more than they actually know. Harry replied, “Well, then, find out yourself.”

  Landsdale resumed without comment, like a trained interrogator, “Will anyone call you?”

  “How do I know? I’m not psychic.”

  Madox interjected, “I’m checking his cell phone and beeper every half hour or so. The only message was from Lori. That’s his girlfriend
. I’ll send her a text message later from Mr. Muller’s cell phone.”

  Landsdale nodded. “God forbid anyone on the Task Force would interrupt their holiday weekend.” He asked Harry, “When are you supposed to get back to 26 Fed?”

  “When I get there.”

  “Who gave you this assignment? Walsh or Paresi?”

  Harry thought this guy knew too much about the Task Force. He replied, “I get my orders on an audiotape that self-destructs.”

  “Me, too. What did your audiotape say, Harry?”

  “I already answered that. IRA surveillance.”

  “That’s really lame.” Landsdale said to the others, “Mr. Muller’s assignment probably came from Washington, and in the hallowed tradition of intelligence work, no one tells anyone more than someone thinks they need to know. That, unfortunately, is how 9/11 happened. Things have changed, but old habits are hard to break, and sometimes they’re not bad habits. Mr. Muller, for instance, can’t tell us what he doesn’t know.” He added, “I’m fairly sure we’re okay for at least forty-eight hours. His girlfriend will probably miss him long before his supervisor does.” He addressed Harry. “Is she connected to law enforcement or to the intelligence business in any way?”

  “Yeah. She’s a CIA officer. Former prostitute.”

  Landsdale laughed. “I think I know her.”

  Madox said, “Thank you, Scott, for your assistance.” He said to Harry, “Your visit here, even as a low-level surveillance person, has given us some concern.”

  Harry didn’t reply but looked around at the other men, who did seem a little concerned about something.

  Madox continued, “However, some good may come of this. We’ve been planning a long time for Project Green, and I’m afraid that the planning has become procrastination. This often happens when a momentous decision needs to be made.” He stared at his Executive Board, two of whom nodded and two of whom seemed annoyed.