Wild Fire Page 3

  He broke out a breakfast bar and continued on, eating, enjoying the fresh Adirondack mountain air while staying alert for trouble. Even though he was a Federal agent, trespassing was trespassing, and without a warrant, he had no more right to be on private, posted land than a poacher.

  And yet, when he’d asked Walsh about a warrant, Walsh had said to him, “We have no probable cause for surveillance. Why ask a judge if the answer is no?” Or, as the NYPD liked to say about bending the law, “It’s better to ask for forgiveness later than to ask for permission now.”

  Harry, like everyone else in anti-terrorism, knew that the rules had changed about two minutes after the second tower had been hit, and the rules that hadn’t changed could be broken. This usually made his job easier, but sometimes, like now, the job also got a little riskier.

  The forest had thinned out, and Harry noticed a lot of stumps where the trees had been felled and carted away, maybe for firewood, maybe for security. Whatever the reason, there was a lot less cover and concealment than there had been a hundred yards back.

  Up ahead, he could see an open field, and he approached it slowly through the widely spaced trees.

  He stopped under the last standing maple and surveyed the open land with his binoculars.

  A paved road ran through the field and downhill to the entrance gate, where he could see a log-cabin gatehouse through his binoculars. The road was lined with security lights mounted on metal poles, and he also noticed wooden telephone poles with five strands of wires coming out of the woods, crossing the field and road, and disappearing again in the woods on the far side of the road. This, he assumed, was a continuation of what he’d seen near the fence, and it appeared that these poles and wires circled the property, meaning the whole sixteen-mile perimeter was floodlit. He said to himself, This is not a hunting lodge.

  He scanned the road as it traveled uphill to a huge two-story Adirondack-style mountain lodge that sat on the rising slope in front of him, about two hundred yards away. On the front lawn of the lodge was a tall flagpole from which flew the American flag and, beneath that, some sort of yellow pennant. Beyond the lodge were some utility structures, and at the top of the hill was what looked like a radio or cell-phone tower, and he took a telescopic photo of it with his Nikon.

  The lodge was made of river stone, logs, and wood shingles, with a big columned portico out front. The green-shingled roof sprouted six stone chimneys, all of which billowed gray smoke into the air. He could see lights in the front windows and a black Jeep in the big gravel parking lot in front of the house. Obviously, someone was home, and hopefully they were expecting guests. That’s why he was here.

  He used the Nikon to take a few telescopic photos of the parking lot and lodge, then he turned on his Handycam and took some establishing footage of the lodge and his surroundings.

  He knew that he’d have to get a lot closer if he was going to photograph arriving cars, people, and license plates. Ed From Tech had shown him an aerial photo of the lodge and pointed out that the terrain was open, but that there were lots of large rock outcroppings for concealment.

  Harry looked at the outcroppings rising up the hill, and he planned his route to sprint from one rock formation to another until he could reach a vantage point about a hundred feet from the lodge and the parking field. From there, he saw he could photograph and videotape parked cars, and people going into the lodge. He needed to stay there until late afternoon, according to Walsh, then get over to the local airport to check out arriving-passenger manifests and car rentals.

  He recalled the time he was on the case of a bunch of Irish Republican Army guys who’d set up a training camp not far from here. The Adirondack Forest Preserve was as big as the state of New Hampshire, a mixture of public and private land with a very small population, making it a good place to hunt, hike, and try out illegal weapons.

  This surveillance was a little different from the IRA bust, in that no crimes had apparently been committed and the people who lived in that big lodge probably had some pull someplace.

  Harry was about to make his first rush toward an outcrop when suddenly three black Jeeps appeared from behind the lodge and started traveling cross-country at high speed. In fact, they were traveling straight toward him. “Shit.”

  He turned and moved back into the tree line, then heard dogs barking in the forest. “Holy shit.”

  The three Jeeps came right up to the trees, and two men exited from each vehicle. They carried hunting rifles.

  Out of the trees around him came three men with German shepherds straining at their leashes and growling. The men, he noticed, had sidearms strapped to their hips. Harry now saw a fourth guy coming out of the trees who walked as if he were in charge.

  Harry realized the only way his position could have been fixed so accurately was if there were motion or sound detectors planted in the area. These people really liked their privacy.

  He felt an unaccustomed sense of anxiety, though not fear. This was going to be messy but not dangerous.

  The security guards had formed a circle around him but kept a distance of about twenty feet. They were all dressed in military-type camouflage fatigues with an American flag patch on their right shoulders. Each man wore a peaked cap with an American eagle on it, and each had a wireworm sprouting from his left ear.

  The man who was in charge—a tough-looking, middle-aged guy—stepped closer, and Harry saw he had a military-type name tag that said CARL.

  Carl notified him, “Sir, you are on private property.”

  Harry put on a dumb face. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, geez. Well, if you’ll point the way—”

  “How did you get through the fence, sir?”

  “Fence? What fence?”

  “The fence that surrounds the property, sir, and is posted with ‘no trespassing’ signs.”

  “I didn’t see any—. Oh, that fence. Sorry, Carl, I was following a woodpecker, and he flew over, so I found a hole in the fence and—”

  “Why are you here?”

  Harry noticed that Carl’s tone had become a little less polite, and he’d forgotten the “sir” word. Harry replied, “I’m a bird-watcher.” He displayed his guidebook. “I watch birds.” He tapped his binoculars.

  “Why do you have those cameras?”

  “I take pictures of the birds.” Asshole. “So, if you’ll point me to where I can exit the property—or, better yet, drive me out—I’ll be leaving.”

  Carl didn’t reply, and Harry sensed the first sign of possible trouble.

  Then Carl said, “There are millions of acres of public land around here. Why did you cut a hole in the fence?”

  “I didn’t cut any fucking hole, pal. I found a fucking hole. And by the way, Carl, fuck you.”

  Harry, and everyone around him, realized that he was not sounding like a bird-watcher any longer.

  He was about to flash his Fed creds, stand these bastards at attention, and tell them to give him a ride back to his camper. His second thought, however, was not to make a Federal case of this. Why let them know he was a Federal agent sent here to snoop? Walsh would have a total shit fit. Harry said, “I’m outta here.” He took a step toward the forest.

  All of a sudden, rifles were raised and pistols came out of their holsters. The three dogs growled and pulled at their leashes.

  “Stop, or I’ll let the dogs loose.”

  Harry took a deep breath and stopped.

  Carl said, “There are two ways to do this. Easy or hard.”

  “Let’s do hard.”

  Carl glanced around at the other nine security guards, then at the dogs, then at Harry. He spoke in a conciliatory tone. “Sir, we are under strict instructions to bring any trespassers to the lodge, call the sheriff, and have the individual transported by a law enforcement person off the property. We will not press charges, but you will be advised by the sheriff that if you trespass again, you are subject to arrest. You may not, under the
law or under our insurance policy, exit the land by yourself on foot, and we will not drive you off the land. Only the sheriff may do that. It’s for your own safety.”

  Harry thought about that. Though the assignment was belly-up, he could pull out a little win by seeing the inside of the lodge, and maybe getting a little info there, and a little 411 from the local sheriff. He said to Carl, “Okay, sport, let’s go.”

  Carl motioned for Harry to turn and walk toward the Jeeps. Harry assumed they’d put him in one of the vehicles, but they didn’t, so maybe their insurance policy was real strict.

  The Jeeps did stay with him, however, as he was directed to the road and up the hill toward the lodge, accompanied by the whole contingent.

  As he walked, he considered these ten armed security guards with the dogs, the gatehouse, the chain-link fence, the razor wire, the floodlights and call boxes, and what were most likely motion and sound detectors. This was not your everyday hunting and fishing club. He was suddenly pissed off at Walsh, who’d barely briefed him, and more pissed at himself for not smelling trouble.

  He knew he shouldn’t be frightened, but some instinct, sharpened by twenty years of police work and five years of anti-terrorist work, told him that there was an element of danger here.

  To confirm this, he said to Carl, who was walking behind him, “Hey, why don’t you use your cell phone to call the sheriff now? Save some time.”

  Carl didn’t respond.

  Harry reached into his pocket. “You can use my cell phone.”

  Carl snapped, “Keep your hands where I can see them, and shut your fucking mouth.”

  A cold chill ran down Harry Muller’s spine.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Harry Muller sat across a desk from a tall, thin, middle-aged man who had introduced himself as Bain Madox, president and owner of the Custer Hill Club. This, explained Mr. Madox, was not his day job, only a hobby. Bain Madox was also president and owner of Global Oil Corporation (GOCO for short), which Harry had heard of, and which also explained two of the photographs on the wall—one of an oil tanker and another of a burning oil field in some desert or another.

  Madox noticed Harry’s interest in the photographs and said, “Kuwait. The Gulf War.” He added, “I hate to see good oil burning, especially if no one is paying me for it.”

  Harry didn’t reply.

  Mr. Madox was wearing a blue blazer and a loud plaid shirt. Harry Muller was wearing his thermal long johns. He’d been subjected to a humiliating strip search by Carl and two other security guards, who had cattle prods and promised to use them if he resisted. Carl and one of those two guys stood behind him now, cattle prods in hand. So far, there was no sign of the sheriff, and Harry didn’t think the sheriff was on the way.

  Harry watched Bain Madox sitting quietly behind his big desk in the large pine-paneled office on the second floor of the lodge. Through the window to his right, he could see the rising slope behind the lodge, and at the top of the hill, he noticed the tall antenna he’d seen from the woods.

  Mr. Madox asked his guest, “Would you like some coffee? Tea?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Bain Madox stared at Harry, and Harry stared back. Madox looked about sixty, Harry thought, very fit, unseasonably tanned, swept-back gray hair, a long, thin, hooked nose like an eagle’s with gray eyes to match. Harry also thought this guy looked rich, but not stupid rich. There was something about Madox that signaled strength, power, and intelligence. Command and control. And Madox didn’t seem one bit nervous about having abducted and detained a Federal agent. This was not good, Harry knew.

  Madox took a cigarette from a wooden box on his desk and asked, “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “I don’t give a fuck if you burn. Call the sheriff. Now.”

  Madox lit the cigarette with a silver desk lighter and puffed thoughtfully, then asked, “What brings you here, Detective Muller?”

  “Bird-watching.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but that seems like a sissy hobby for a man involved in anti-terrorism.”

  “You’re about one minute away from me placing you under arrest.”

  “Well, then, let me use that minute wisely.” Madox examined the items strewn across the desk: Harry’s cell phone and pager, which were now shut off, his key chain, the Handycam, the Nikon digital camera, the binoculars, the Sibley bird guide, a terrain map of the area, the compass, the wire cutters, Harry’s credentials, and his 9mm Glock 26, the so-called Baby Glock that was easier to conceal. He noticed that Madox had removed the magazine, which was smart of him.

  Madox asked Harry, “What am I to make of this?”

  “Whatever the fuck you want to make of it, pal. Give me my shit, and let me the fuck out of here, or you’ll be looking at twenty years to life for kidnapping a Federal agent.”

  Madox made a face, suggesting he was annoyed and impatient. “Come on, Mr. Muller. We’re well beyond that by now. We need to move forward.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Madox suggested, “Let me play detective. I see here a pair of binoculars, a small video camera, a very expensive digital camera with a telescopic lens, and a bird guide. From that, I can conclude that you are an enthusiastic bird-watcher. So enthusiastic, in fact, that you also have these wire cutters in the event a fence comes between you and a bird. Plus, a 9mm handgun in case a bird won’t stay still long enough for you to photograph it.” He asked Harry, “How am I doing?”

  “Not too good.”

  “Let me keep trying. I also see here a U.S. geological survey map on which is drawn in red the perimeter of my property, plus the gatehouse, and this lodge and other structures. This suggests to me that an aerial photograph was taken of my property, and these man-made features were transferred to your map. Correct?”

  Harry didn’t answer.

  Mr. Madox continued, “I also see here on my desk this badge and a card that identifies you as a retired New York City police detective. Congratulations.”

  “Eat shit and die.”

  “But what interests me most is this other badge and ID card that say you are a Federal agent with the Anti-Terrorist Task Force. Not retired.” He stared at the photo ID, then at Harry Muller and asked, “Working today?”

  Harry decided to try the cover story one more time, just in case this guy wanted a reason to cut him loose. “Okay, let me tell you again what I told your paranoid rent-a-cops. I’m up here for the weekend camping. I watch and photograph birds. I’m also a Federal agent, and by law I have to carry my credentials and my piece. You shouldn’t put two and two together and come up with five. Understand?”

  Madox nodded. “I do. But put yourself in my position. And I’ll put myself in yours. I’m Federal Agent Harry Muller, and I’m listening to a man who tells me that all the circumstantial evidence I see in front of me—evidence of surveillance—can be explained as bird-watching. So, do I let you go? Or do I demand a more logical and truthful explanation? What would you do in my position?”

  “Sorry, I can’t hear you over your loud shirt.”

  Mr. Madox smiled, then opened the Sibley guide, put on his eyeglasses, and selected a page. He asked Harry, “Where are you most likely to encounter a loon, Mr. Muller?”

  “Near a lake.”

  “That was too easy.” He flipped a few pages. “What is the color of a cerulean warbler?”

  “Brown.”

  Mr. Madox shook his head. “No, no, Mr. Muller. Cerulean means blue. Sky blue. One more. Two out of three is passing.” He flipped through the book again. “What color is the male—?”

  “Hey, take that book, put a coat of K-Y jelly on it, and shove it up your ass.”

  Mr. Madox closed the guide and threw it aside. He turned to his computer screen. “Here are your digital photos. I don’t see any birds in them. I see, however, that you seem interested in one of my utility poles . . . and let’s see . . . here’s a telescopic shot of the tower b
ehind my lodge . . . close-ups of my lodge . . . ah, there’s a bird perched on my roof. What is that?”

  “A shit-seeking hawk.”

  Madox picked up the Handycam, switched it to Replay, and looked through the viewfinder. “Here’s the pole again . . . you noticed the plastic boughs, I assume . . . here’s the lodge again . . . nice views from where you were standing . . . that bird is flying away. What was that? Looks like a great blue heron, but he should have migrated south by now. It’s been unusually warm this fall. Global warming, if you believe that crap.” He put down the camcorder and asked, “Do you know what the solution is to global warming? No? I’ll tell you. Nuclear winter.” He laughed. “Old joke.”

  Madox sat back in his chair and lit another cigarette. He blew perfect smoke rings and watched them as they rose and dissolved. “That’s a lost art.”

  Harry Muller glanced around the room as Bain Madox practiced his lost art. He could hear the breathing of the two men behind him as he shifted his gaze to a wall that was covered with framed certificates of some sort. Harry thought that if he could get a handle on who this guy was, it might be helpful.

  Madox noticed Harry’s gaze and said, “The one on the top left is my certificate for the Silver Star. Next to it is the certificate for the Bronze Star, then the Purple Heart. Then there’s my commission as a second lieutenant in the United States Army. Next row are the usual service medals, including the Vietnam Campaign Medal and a Presidential Unit Citation. I served in the Seventh Cavalry Regiment of the First Air Cavalry Division. The Seventh Cav was General Custer’s old unit. That’s part of the reason for the name of this club. I might tell you the other part later, but if I do, then I’ll have to kill you.” He laughed. “Just joking. Hey, smile. Just joking.”

  Harry forced a smile. Asshole.

  “The last row is the Combat Infantry Badge, my Expert Rifleman Badge, my Jungle Training School diploma, and, finally, my Army discharge. I left the service after eight years with the rank of lieutenant colonel. We made rank fast in those days. Lots of dead officers opened up the promotion list. Did you serve?”