Carrion Comfort

  “Good,” said Haines. “Are there any other roads branching off before there? Over.”

  “Negative,” said Nesbitt. “Just national forest access roads. I’ll have Dusty take the second unit and block those where they intersect. We’ll need a better description of the vehicle’s occupants unless you just want us to arrest the Econoline. Over.”

  Haines squinted toward the flames as the front of the farm house fell inward. The thin streams of water from the four hoses were making no difference. Haines thumbed the microphone. “We’re not sure of the number or description of suspects,” said Haines. “Possibly a Caucasian male, seventy years old, German accent, white hair . . . accompanied by a Negro male, thirty-two, six feet one inch tall, two hundred pounds, and/or a white male, twenty-eight, blond hair, five feet eleven inches tall. These men are armed and extremely dangerous. However, the van may be driven by others at this time. Locate and stop the van. Take great caution in approaching any of the vehicle’s occupants. Over.”

  “You copy that, Byers?”

  “Roger.”

  “Dusty?”

  “Affirmative, Carl.”

  “Okay, Special Agent Haines. You got your roadblocks. Anything else? Over.”

  “Yes, Sheriff. Is your search helicopter still airborne? Over.”

  “Ah . . . yeah, Steve’s just finishing his search up around Santiago Peak. Steve, you hearing this? Over.”

  “Yes, Carl, I’ve been listening. Over.”

  “Haines, you want our chopper, too? He’s on special contract to the Forest Ser vice and us right now. Over.”

  “Steve,” said Haines, “as of this moment you are under contract to the United States government on a matter of national security. Do you copy? Over.”

  “Yeah,” came the laconic reply, “thought the Forest Ser vice was U.S. government. Where do you want me? I just fueled up, so I have about three hours of flying time at this altitude. Over.”

  “What is your present location? Over.”

  “Ah . . . moving south between Santiago and Trabuci Peaks. About eight miles from your position. Do you want map coordinates? Over.”

  “Negative,” said Haines. “I want you to pick me up here. Farm house on the north side of San Juan Canyon, about five miles above Mission Viejo. Can you find the place? Over.”

  “Are you kidding?” said the helicopter pilot. “I can see the smoke from here. Hell of an LZ you feds prepare. Be there in two minutes. NL 167-B. Out.”

  Haines unlocked the trunk of the Pontiac. A passing fireman looked at the clutter of M-16s, shotguns, sniper rifles, flack vests, and ammo clips and whistled. “Holy shit,” he said to no one in particular.

  Haines extracted an M-16, tapped a magazine against the rim of the trunk to settle the loads, and slapped the clip in. He took off his suit coat, folded it carefully, set it in the trunk, and pulled on a flak vest, loading the oversize pockets with extra clips. He pulled a blue baseball cap from atop the spare tire and tugged it on. The agent at the radio called to him. “I have the CHP commander on line, sir.”

  “Give him the same information for the APB,” said Haines. “See if he can extend it from Orange County to all the highway cops.”

  “Roadblocks, sir?”

  Haines stared at the young agent. “On Interstate five, Tyler? Are you as stupid as that remark suggests, or just prone to lapses? Tell him we want the bulletin put out on that Econoline. Officers should get tag numbers, carry out surveillance, and get in touch with me through the Bureau’s L.A. communications center.”

  Agent Barry Metcalfe of the L.A. branch came up to Haines. “Dick, I confess I don’t understand any of this. What’re a bunch of Libyan terrorists doing using an Israeli safe house and why did they torch it?”

  “Who said they were Libyan terrorists, Barry?”

  “Well . . . you said in the briefing that they were Mideast terrorists . . .”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of Israeli terrorists?”

  Metcalfe blinked and said nothing. Behind him, the front of the farmhouse collapsed inward, sending sparks flying. The firefighters contented themselves with pouring water onto the nearby outbuildings. A small, Plexiglas-bubbled Bell helicopter throbbed in from the northeast, circled once, and set down in the field south of the house. Metcalfe said, “Want me to come with you?”

  Haines gestured at the he li cop ter. “Looks like there’s just room for one passenger in that old thing, Barry.”

  “Yeah, it does look like something out of M*A*S*H.”

  “Hold down the fort here. When they get the fire out, we’re going to have to sift through the ashes with a fine-tooth comb. There may even be bodies in there.”

  “Oh, boy,” Metcalfe said without enthusiasm and walked toward his men.

  As Haines jogged toward the he li cop ter, the man known as Swanson approached. He was the oldest of the six Kepler’s Plumbers Haines had brought along. He gave the FBI man a quizzical look.

  “It’s all a long shot,” Haines shouted over the noise of the rotors, “but I have a hunch that this is Willi’s operation. Probably not the old man himself but maybe Luhar or Reynolds. If I can flush them, kill them.”

  “What about the paperwork?” said Swanson, nodding toward Metcalfe and his group.

  “I’ll take care of it,” said Haines. “Just do the job.” Swanson’s head went slowly up and down.

  Haines was barely airborne, the small chopper spiraling upward through the smoke from the burning house, when the first radio report came in.

  “Ah, this is Deputy Byers in Unit Three at the seventy-four east roadblock to Agent Haines. Over.”

  “Go ahead, Byers.” The mountainous countryside was rising under the he li cop ter, the canyon road winding through it like a pale gray ribbon. Traffic was light.

  “Ah, Mr. Haines, this may not be anything, but I think a few minutes ago I saw a dark van . . . may have been a Ford . . . make a U-turn about two hundred yards from my position. Over.”

  “Which way is it headed now? Over.”

  “Coming your way, sir, back down seventy-four. Unless it takes one of the forest roads. Over.”

  “Could it get around you on those roads? Over.”

  “Negative, Mr. Haines. They all either dead end or turn into goat trails except for the Forest Ser vice fire road that Dusty’s on. Over.”

  Haines turned to the pilot, a short, heavyset man in an L.A. Dodgers windbreaker and Cleveland Indians baseball cap. “Steve, can you get Dusty on here?”

  “He fades in and out,” the pilot said over the intercom. “Depends on which side of the hill he’s on.”

  “I want him on the line,” Haines said and watched the countryside flash by three hundred feet below. Scrub brush and piñon pines flickered past in a blur of light and shadow. Larger pines and cottonwood trees lined the dried creek beds and lower areas. Haines estimated that there was an hour and a half of daylight remaining.

  They reached the summit of the pass and the helicopter gained altitude and circled. Haines could see the blue haze of the Pacific to the west and the orange-brown haze of the smog above Los Angeles to the northwest. “Roadblock’s just over the hill here,” said the pilot. “I didn’t see any dark van on the highway. Want to go south toward Dusty’s area?”

  “Yes,” said Haines. “Have you got him yet?”

  “He hasn’t been answering his . . . oops, here he is.” He threw a switch on the console. “On two-five, Mr. Haines.”

  “Deputy? This is Special Agent Haines. Do you copy? Over.”

  “Ah . . . yes, sir. Read you five-by. Uh . . . I’ve got something you might want to look at here, Mr. Haines. Over.”

  “What’s that, Deputy?”

  “Ah . . . dark blue 1978 Ford van . . . Uh . . . I was driving up to get closer to the hard road and found it abandoned here. Over.”

  Haines touched his headphone mike and grinned. “Anyone in it? Over.”

  “Ah . . . negative. Bunch of stuff in the back though. Ove
r.”

  “Goddamn it, Deputy, be specific. What kind of stuff?”

  “Electronic stuff, sir. Not sure. You better come and take a look yourself. Uh . . . I’m going to check out the woods . . .”

  “Negative, Deputy,” snapped Haines. “Secure the van and sit tight. What are your coordinates? Over.”

  “Coordinates? Uh . . . tell Steve that I’m half a mile down the main fire road from Coot Lake. Over.”

  Haines looked at the pilot. Steve nodded. “Roger,” said Haines. “Just stay there, Deputy. Keep your revolver ready and stay alert. These are international terrorists we’re dealing with.” The helicopter banked steeply to the right and dropped toward wooded hillsides. “Taylor, Metcalfe, you getting this?”

  “Roger, Dick,” came Metcalfe’s voice. “We’re ready to roll.”

  “Negative that,” said Haines. “Stay at the farm house. Repeat, stay at the farm house. I want Swanson and his men to meet me at the van. Got that?”

  “Swanson?” Metcalfe’s voice sounded puzzled. “Dick, this is our jurisdiction . . .”

  “I want Swanson,” snapped Haines. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Over.”

  “Richard, we copy that and we’re on our way,” came Swanson’s voice. Haines leaned out the open door as they flew six hundred feet above Coot Lake and dropped into a small valley. He cradled the M-16 and smiled. He was pleased that he was going to make Mr. Barent happy, and he was looking forward to the next few minutes. He knew now that it almost certainly was not Willi himself . . . the old man would have Used the deputy and gone past the roadblock rather than abandon the van . . . but whoever it was, they had lost the ballgame. There were many hundreds of square miles of national forest up here, but once Willi’s people had to set out on foot, it was all over but the shouting. Haines had almost unlimited resources at his disposal and the “forest” was mostly shrub.

  But Haines did not want to use unlimited resources or to wait for morning to conduct a search. He wanted to end this part of the game before it got dark.

  It might not be Luhar or Reynolds, thought Haines. Probably isn’t. It could be the black woman Willi had used in Germantown. She’d dropped from sight completely. It might even be Tony Harod.

  Haines remembered the questioning of Maria Chen the previous evening and he smiled. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made that it could be Harod. Well, it was past time that they quit humoring that little Hollywood twerp.

  Richard Haines had worked for Charles Colben and C. Arnold Barent for more than a third of his life. As a Neutral he could not be conditioned by Colben, but he had been well rewarded with money and power. Richard Haines found the work itself rewarding. He liked his job.

  The helicopter came in over the clearing two hundred feet high at 70 m.p.h. The black van was parked in the open, its rear doors open. Near it, a heavy four-wheel-drive sheriff’s vehicle sat empty. “Where the hell is the deputy?” snapped Haines.

  The pilot shook his head and tried to raise Dusty on the radio. There was no answer. They circled the clearing in a widening spiral. Haines raised the M-16 and watched between the trees for a sign of movement or color. Nothing. “Take it around again,” ordered Haines.

  “Look, Captain,” said the pilot, “I’m not a police officer or federal agent or a hero and I’ve served my time in Nam. This machine’s my livelihood, friend. If there’s a chance of it or us sprouting bullet holes, you’re going to have to rent a different whirlybird and driver.”

  “Shut up and take it around again,” said Haines. “This is a matter of national security.”

  “Yeah,” said the pilot, “and so was Watergate. I didn’t care much for it neither.”

  Haines swiveled so the rifle rested across his knees with the muzzle toward the pilot. “Steve, I’ll ask one more time. Take it around again. If we don’t see anything, you’re going to put it down on the south side of the clearing. Comprende?”

  “Yeah,” said the pilot, “yo comprendo. But not because you’ve got that fucking M-16 looking this way. Even federal assholes don’t shoot pilots unless they can fly the machine themselves and are damn sure somebody’s not going to fall on the controls.”

  “Land it,” said Haines. They had circled the clearing four times and he could see no sign of the deputy or anyone else.

  The pilot brought the small craft in low and fast, actually having to lift it over the tree line before flaring out and setting it solidly on it skids precisely where Haines had designated.

  “Out,” said the FBI agent and gestured with the rifle. “You have to be fucking kidding,” said Steve. “If we have to leave in a hurry, I want to make sure we leave together,” said Haines. “Now out before I put a hole or two in your livelihood.”

  “You are fucking crazy,” said the pilot. He pushed his cap back on his head. “I’m going to raise a stink that’ll have J. Edgar Hoover crawling out of his grave to get at your ass.”

  “Out,” said Haines. He took the safety off and set the weapon on full automatic.

  The pilot made adjustments on the center console, the rotors slowed, and he unbuckled himself and stepped down. Haines waited until the pilot was thirty feet from the aircraft, standing near the edge of the woods, and then he undid his own straps and ran toward the sheriff’s Bronco, moving in a crouching, weaving jog, weapon half raised. He crouched behind the Bronco’s left rear quarter panel, scanning the hillsides for a flicker of movement or a glint of sunlight on metal or glass. There was nothing.

  Haines carefully raised his head. He checked out the backseat, and then slid along the driver’s side until he could see that the front seat was empty. There were brackets for two rifles on the metal screen between front and back seats. Both racks were empty. Haines tried the front door. It was locked. He dropped to one knee and inspected the hillsides in the 120 degrees of arc he could see.

  If the stupid deputy had gone traipsing into the woods, against orders, it made sense he would take the rifle and lock the doors behind him. If. If there had been only one rifle racked. If there had been any rifle. If the deputy was still alive.

  Haines peered around the front of the Bronco at the van twenty feet away and suddenly wished he had stayed airborne until Swanson and his team had arrived. How long until they should be here? Ten minutes? Fifteen? Probably less, unless the lake was farther from the highway than it had seemed from the air.

  Haines had a sudden literal image of Tony Harod’s head on a platter. He smiled and ran the twenty feet to the side of the van.

  The back doors were wide open. Haines slid along the hot metal of the van’s side until he could peer in. He knew he was a perfect target to anybody with a rifle in the hills on the south side of the clearing, but there was little he could do about that. He had chosen to come from that direction because with the exception of the fringe of woods where the pilot still stood, the hillside was mostly grass and small rocks with little opportunity for concealment. Haines had seen nothing in the trees during their four passes. He held the M-16 at his hip and stepped around behind the van.

  Boxes, a litter of cables and electronic equipment. Haines recognized a radio transmitter and an Epson computer. There was no place large enough for a man to hide. Haines stepped into the interior of the van, and poked through the equipment and boxes. The box in the center held what appeared to be sixty or seventy pounds of gray modeling clay, carefully wrapped in separate plastic packets. “Oh, shit,” whispered Haines.

  He no longer wanted to be in the truck. “Hey, Captain, can we get going now?” called the pilot from thirty yards away.

  “Yeah, warm it up!” shouted Haines. He let the pilot walk back toward the machine before he began his crouching, dodging run to the open door on the right side of the Plexiglas bubble.

  He was halfway there when a voice too loud to be human bellowed, “HAINES!” from the north slope. The first shots came a second later.

  FIFTY

  Near San Juan Capistrano Saturday,

 
April 25, 1981

  Saul and Natalie had not driven fifteen minutes when they saw the first roadblock. It was a single police car pulled broadside across the highway with flares marking narrow lanes on either side. Four cars were stopped on the eastbound lane, three in the westbound lane facing Saul and Natalie.

  Natalie pulled the van to the shoulder at the top of a hill a quarter of a mile from the tie-up. “Accident?” she said.

  “I don’t think so,” said Saul. “Turn around. Quickly.”

  They drove back over the summit of the pass they had just traversed. “Back down the canyon the way we came?” said Natalie.

  “No. There was a gravel road about two miles back this way.”

  “Where the campground sign was?”

  “No, a mile or so past that on the south side of the road. We may be able to bypass the roadblock to the south.”

  “Do you think that policeman saw us?”

  “I don’t know,” said Saul. He pulled a cardboard box out from behind the passenger’s seat, extracted the Colt automatic pistol, and made sure it was loaded.

  Natalie found the gravel road and they turned left, passing through thick pine forests and a few grassy meadows. Once they had to pull to one side to let a pickup pulling a small trailer pass. Several side roads left the main track, but they appeared too narrow and unused to go anywhere, and Natalie kept the van on the fire road as it degraded from gravel to dirt and wound south and then east and then south again.

  They saw the police vehicle parked in the clearing two hundred yards below them as they descended a wooded hill on a series of steep switch-backs. Natalie stopped the van as soon as she was sure they were out of sight. “Damn!” she said.

  “He didn’t see us,” said Saul. “I caught a glimpse of the sheriff or whatever he was, out of the vehicle, looking the other way through binoculars.”