"You said there were four stages in arranging for me to disappear," Prescott said. "What are the other three?"
Duncan looked at Cavanaugh, nodding for him to continue.
"Eventually you'll want to change your appearance. Some of it can be easily done. Since you have fair hair, it makes sense to dye it black. You're clean-shaven, so it makes sense to grow a mustache or a beard. You don't wear glasses, so why not get a pair that has non-corrective lenses? All that's fairly obvious, and in moderate-risk situations would be sufficient, but in your case, some form of surgical change is advisable. We'll take you to a plastic surgeon we use. Not even your mother will recognize you after he's finished with your nose and chin."
"My mother's dead," Prescott said.
"Sorry to hear that, but on the other hand, that partly solves the biggest problem you're going to have," Cavanaugh said.
"Which is?"
"I'll come to it in a moment, after I deal with the third stage in your disappearance, which is arranging for you to have access to money. In many cases, the person who's disappearing has to give up a job. In his or her new life, money becomes a significant issue."
"Fortunately, that won't be an issue for you, because you're wealthy." Duncan slid another piece of paper across the table to him. "Tomorrow, after the final details of your new identity have been arranged, you'll transfer your money to this numbered bank account that we've established for you in the Bahamas. You'll note that the password is Phoenix. I couldn't resist the rebirth idea. As soon as you activate the account, change the number and the password so you're confident the money is secure, even from us."
"You'll need to establish another bank account, this one conventional, in your new name at your new place of residence,"
Cavanaugh said. "Periodically, you'll transfer funds to that second bank, preferably in amounts less than ten thousand dollars, because transactions larger than that have to be reported to the government. But don't make it too close to ten thousand dollars, because the DEA uses that pattern to identify drug traffickers. Seven to eight thousand would be a reasonable figure, one that won't attract the government's attention."
"You'll need a story to tell your banker to explain your income," Duncan added. "Perhaps you receive periodic installments from a trust fund. Perhaps you retired early after selling a business and for tax reasons you preferred a schedule of payments rather than a lump sum. Whatever fabrication feels comfortable to you."
Prescott took another sip of wine. "And the fourth stage? The one that presents the most problems?"
Cavanaugh looked around the table. Everyone glanced down, uneasy.
"Initially, a new life sounds tempting," Cavanaugh said. "An escape from your enemies. A fresh beginning. The chance to correct mistakes and start over. The trouble is, you have to make a complete break with your past. Do you have a family, Mr. Prescott?"
"No."
"No ex-wife? No children in college?"
"No. My work kept getting in the way of marriage and establishing a family."
"A lady friend?"
"No."
"A boyfriend?"
"I'm not gay," Prescott said with annoyance.
"That's remarkable. I've been protecting people for several years, and this is the first time I've dealt with someone who had no serious social connections. You said your mother was dead. What about your father?"
"Dead also."
"In other words, there's no one in the world who'll miss you if you drop out of sight."
"More or less." Uncomfortable, Prescott glanced down. "Yes."
"That makes it easier," Cavanaugh said, "because a clean break with the past means you'd never have been able to contact your parents if they were alive, or other relatives, or your friends. If you'd wished, a wife and children could have gone with you to your new life, but they'd have had relatives and friends they'd have missed, and eventually you or someone in your family would have been tempted to get in touch with people you cared for in your past. In most cases, if your enemy manages to find you, that's how it's done, by keeping a close watch on the friends and relatives you left behind, by checking their mail and tapping their phones and watching for any change in their routine. Fortunately, that's not going to be an issue here."
"Do you have any fantasy spot where you've always wanted to live?" Duncan asked. "When you decided to disappear, was there a place you had in mind?"
"No." Looking more abandoned, Prescott stared at his wineglass.
"Good," Duncan said. "Because, if you had, you probably would have mentioned it to people you worked with or did business with."
"Casual conversation," Chad said." 'Gosh, wouldn't it be great to live in Aspen and ski whenever I want in the winter.' So you disappear and move to Aspen, and the next thing, Escobar's men come crashing through your back door."
"Do you subscribe to any scientific journals?" Cavanaugh asked.
"Several."
"Not any longer," Duncan said. "Escobar will find out which journals publish articles in your specialty. He'll manage to get his hands on the subscriber list. He'll make a note of which subscribers recently moved and which people subscribed after you disappeared."
"And the next thing you know," Roberto said, echoing Chad's earlier comment, "Escobar's men'll come crashing through your back door."
"Do you like to play golf?" Cavanaugh asked.
"Yes. It's one of the few forms of exercise that—"
"Not any longer. You can't ever go near a golf course again. Escobar will find a way to learn your habits. If he somehow manages to figure out where you've moved, he'll arrange to have someone watch the golf courses, waiting for you to show up. On and on," Cavanaugh said. "Do you understand what we're trying to tell you?"
Prescott gulped the last of his wine and poured another full glass. "When you say 'a new life,' you mean it literally. I have to make a complete break from my past."
"With no exceptions," Cavanaugh emphasized. "The kind of clothes you like. The music you like. The food you like. You're going to have to change all of it. The books you like. Back at the warehouse, you had the collected poems of Robinson Jeffers and a couple of books about him. From now on, Jeffers is one author you can't ever be caught reading."
"You make it sound ..." Prescott's voice faltered. "Depressing."
"For many, it is, once the people who disappear finally understand the full implications," Duncan said. "You have to prepare yourself and confront the problem now. How much are you afraid of Escobar? Are you ready to do everything that's necessary, no matter how isolating, in order to keep him away from you?"
Prescott took another long swallow from his glass. "I'm tired of being afraid. Yes." His expression hardened. "I'm ready to do everything that's necessary."
"Good," Duncan said. "Tomorrow, we'll take you to meet Karen in Albany, get your photograph taken, and receive the documents for your new identity."
Tracy suddenly entered the room. "Maybe not."
"Why?" Duncan frowned.
"Three helicopters are headed this way."
* * *
8
"Helicopters?"
Duncan came to his feet at the same time Cavanaugh did. Followed by Chad and Roberto, they hurried with Tracy out of the kitchen, along a corridor, and into the control room.
Various television monitors were stacked in rows along a wall, receiving green-tinted night-vision images from cameras positioned around the helicopter and the bunker. But what the team focused its attention on was a radar screen, which showed three blips heading north, approaching the area.
Roberto studied them. "Yeah, the speed and the formation are consistent with helicopters."
"What's happening?" Prescott's strained voice asked behind them.
"We don't know yet," Cavanaugh said. "It might not be anything to concern us."
"The moment they appeared on the radar, heading up the Hudson," Tracy said, "it was obvious they were following the flight plan we filed at Teterboro."
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"Coincidence?" Duncan asked.
"Maybe," Chad said. "There are a number of small airports up the Hudson, not to mention the one at Albany. They might land at one of them and go to a corporate retreat or something. Hell, maybe these are politicians flying to the state capital."
"Maybe," Tracy said. "And maybe not."
"What are we going to do?"
Prescott asked. No one turned from the radar.
"If it's Escobar's men trying to follow us," Roberto said, "the destination on the flight plan's too vague to bring them here. There are a lot of mountains and valleys. Even in daylight, those choppers could search forever and not find this place."
"Look." Tracy pointed toward the screen, where the three blips separated, moving west from the river.
"They're heading into the mountains," Chad said.
"Splitting up," Cavanaugh said, "saving time, searching one to a valley."
"But even with night-vision equipment, they're not going to see anything that tells them where we are," Roberto said. "For all they know, we landed at a farm and our helicopter's in a barn. It would take weeks for them to search all the farms in this area."
"Plus, if they flew here from Teterboro, they'll have to refuel in an hour or so," Cavanaugh said.
"Look." Tracy pointed again.
On the screen, the three blips moved back and forth over separate areas.
"Systematically searching," Duncan said.
"But they're doing it awfully fast," Cavanaugh said. "Even with night-vision equipment, they'd need to move slower to make sure they don't miss anything."
On the screen, the three blips shifted rapidly to three other areas.
"Holy . . . Nobody can do a visual check of a valley that fast, not even in daylight," Tracy said.
"Unless that's not how they're checking," Chad said.
"What do you mean?"
"Not visually."
The rest of the group abruptly understood what Chad meant. They swung to look at Prescott.
His pale face contrasted with his dark eyes, which were wide with apprehension as he, too, realized what was happening.
Cavanaugh stared back at the radar screen. "Infrared sensors? Thermal sensors?"
The blips moved swiftly to three other areas.
"Dies," Roberto said. "That explains it. They're looking for the helicopter's heat signature. The engine's cooled, but a thermal scanner makes metal look different from wood or dirt. They'll be able to distinguish the shape of the helicopter from the trees around it."
"Plus," Tracy said, "the landing pad'll still retain heat from the sunlight the concrete absorbed all day."
"But won't heat from the houses and farm equipment confuse them?" Prescott demanded.
"No," Duncan said. "A house or a truck would have an entirely different heat pattern. Besides, this valley's so rugged, there aren't any farms around here. The heat signature of the landing pad will be especially distinctive in the middle of a forest."
Prescott pushed through the group and stared at the radar. "How long before they get here?"
"At sufficient altitude, with magnifiers on the sensors, they can cover a lot of miles in a hurry. At the rate they're searching, they'll be here in ten minutes," Tracy said.
"This can't be," Duncan said.
"What do you mean, 'can't be'?"
Prescott sounded more panicked. "It's happening right in front of your eyes!" "Even with all his money, Escobar doesn't have the resources to suddenly get his hands on three helicopters with thermal sensors," Duncan said. "That's special equipment. You need to make plans to have it available, and Escobar had no reason to expect a helicopter chase."
"So where the hell did he get thermal sensors?" Chad asked. "It doesn't make sense. Unless ..."
"What?" Roberto asked.
"Those aren't Escobar's men." Duncan swung again toward Prescott. "Is there anybody else you're afraid of? Who else would be chasing you?"
"Nobody. If those helicopters aren't Escobar's, I have no idea whose they could be."
On the radar, the blips moved relentlessly to three other areas, proceeding closer to the center of the screen, where the bunker and the helicopter were situated.
"Whoever they are, they're sophisticated," Duncan said. "What else do they have in those choppers?"
"Maybe it's time to worry about those rockets we talked about earlier," Chad said.
"Moment of truth," Tracy said. "We have to decide,"
"What's she talking about?" Prescott asked.
"Stay or go," Tracy said. "If we stay, we don't know whether they can blow their way in here. But if we go—"
"We can't leave by helicopter," Roberto said. "If they've got heat sensors, we have to assume they also have radar. They'll know if our chopper takes off."
"But what if Mr. Prescott isn't in it?" Duncan asked. "What if you take off and act as a decoy?"
"They still might shoot me down," Roberto said.
"No," Cavanaugh said, "they won't shoot. Not if they think Prescott's aboard. They want him alive. When they chased me on the highway, they could have shot me, but they didn't. They didn't want the car to crash and kill Prescott. It's safe for you to distract them."
"The rest of us could leave in the Jeep." Chad referred to one of two vehicles in the bunker's adjacent underground garage.
"Both Jeeps," Tracy said. "We could use one of the cars as another decoy. Some of the helicopters will scan for other heat signatures and follow us. They'll have to separate and go in three directions. If we can get to the highway—the New York State Thruway is twenty miles to the east—there'll be so much traffic, they won't be able to decide which car they're hunting."
On the radar, the blips kept moving toward the center of the screen.
The group stared at Duncan.
"If we go, they won't shoot at us because they want Mr.
Prescott alive. If we stay, they'll have him trapped. Does that about sum it up?" Duncan asked.
The group kept staring at him.
"Move," Duncan said.
* * *
9
They didn't need to discuss what they had to do next. Although they continued to wear their pistols, they'd taken off their Kevlar vests. Now, with disciplined speed, they shifted from the control room and entered a room adjacent to it. There, in the bunker's arsenal, their vests were on a table.
"You'll need this." Cavanaugh put a vest on Prescott. "In case a bullet intended for one of us heads in the wrong direction."
After buckling on their vests, the team grabbed AR-15 assault rifles from a row of weapons that included shotguns and more handguns.
In theory, the AR-15, which was the civilian version of the military's M-16, could be fired only on a semiautomatic setting, one shot with each pull of the trigger, complying with federal gun laws. But these had been modified so they could be fully automatic, numerous rounds rapidly discharging with a single pull of the trigger. If law-enforcement officers were about to examine the weapons, the automatic function could be disabled by turning a small lever on the side and pulling the lever out; an interior spring-loaded plug would then slip into place, thus making the weapon legal while at the same time concealing that it had been tampered with.
Looking ashen, Prescott reached for one.
"No," Chad said. "Leave the fireworks to us. You might shoot yourself in the foot."
"Or one of us," Tracy said.
"But what if I have to defend myself? I should at least know how to use one of those things."
"If the situation gets that desperate, God help us," Roberto said. "Don't touch a rifle unless we're down and there's no other choice. Brace the stock against your shoulder. Point the barrel at your target. Pull the trigger. If a shell gets stuck, yank back this knob on the side to free it."
"The AR-15 likes to kick up," Cavanaugh said. "If you're not careful, all you do is shoot toward the sky. Keep forcing the barrel down toward your target. Can you remember all that?"
"
I hope I don't have to."
Chad ran to the kitchen to make sure the stove and oven were off. Everybody grabbed windbreakers to cover their Kevlar vests. At the exit, Duncan opened the door. As the group hurried along the echoing concrete passageway toward the cold mountain night, Cavanaugh heard the whump of the approaching helicopters getting louder.
"Good luck, Roberto." Tracy's blond hair shone briefly in the light that spilled from the closing door.
"They've got less than an hour's fuel, and my tank's full. I can outrun them." Roberto backed to the left, moving into the murky forest. "Adios."
"Come on, Prescott." His Kevlar vest feeling bulky on him, Cavanaugh headed to the right, hurrying through the darkness toward the underground garage, the entrance to which was recessed into the hill. "Stay close to me." He reached the garage and glanced toward the shadows behind him. "Prescott?"
Holding their AR-15s, Duncan, Chad, and Tracy glanced back also.
All Cavanaugh saw were the indistinct outlines of trees and bushes. "Prescott?"
The helicopters thundered closer.
"What happened?" Chad asked. "Where'd he go?"
"The last time I saw him was ..." Duncan stared back toward the entryway. "Don't tell me he's still inside."
"I'll get the Jeeps," Tracy said.
"Prescott!" Cavanaugh yelled.
The concrete passageway prevented the helicopters from seeing the faint motion-triggered light that came on when Duncan rushed to the number pad next to the door.
"Prescott!" Cavanaugh scanned the dark trees. Behind him, he heard a muffled motor that Tracy activated, raising the garage door.
At the end of the passageway, another light appeared as Duncan hurried into the bunker.
"Maybe he's in the bushes," Chad said. "He got awfully upset when he saw those radar blips. It could be he's so scared, his bladder went crazy."