Fisher got about halfway to Dulles Airport when he realized he was being followed. It was the sort of break you couldn’t pray for, but the agent managed to contain his glee, unholstering his revolver — the two hideaways were small automatics — and putting it on his lap. He got off the highway and drove a bit farther; when he was sure he hadn’t succumbed to wishful thinking, he started hunting for a bank. Finally he spotted one on the wrong side of the highway; he veered across traffic and pulled into the ATM lane around the back.
His pursuer was obviously driving his own car, because rather than chancing the traffic he drove down the road, turned, and then came back, pulling in front as if he intended to use a teller inside. Fisher, about three vehicles from the machine, jumped out of his car, cell phone in one hand, gun in the other.
He had to dial with his finger through the trigger guard. Doar picked up on the second ring.
“Listen, Doar, this is Andy Fisher, FBI.”
“Mr. Fisher—”
“I have your murder suspect in view, parking lot of FirstWay Bank out here in Taylorville.”
“Murder suspect? Who?”
“Bonham was a Boston Red Sox nut. If he was having a bath, he would have had the TV on in the bathroom and probably been drinking a Scotch. And don’t buy the justifiable-homicide play.”
“But—”
“Gotta go.”
Fisher threw himself down maybe a half of a half of a half-second before the bullet hit the side of the bank where he’d been peering through the window toward the front. The next three shots chipped the sidewalk, sending chips ricocheting everywhere but not actually hitting him. He rolled to his feet, gun in hand, but whoever had fired at him had already retreated. Fisher scooped up his phone and gave a little wave at an old lady staring at him from her car.
Doar was gasping on the other end of the line.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” said Fisher. He walked over to the wall, looking to see if he could find a bullet. “I’m thinking the idea was more to get my attention than to hit me, but they wouldn’t have cried about that, either.”
Fisher walked over to where the gunman had fired from, stooping down to see if he could find any shells. He could hear sirens in the distance.
“Tell me why Bonham is a homicide,” said Doar.
“I told you, he didn’t have the Red Sox on in the bathroom,” Fisher told her. “I checked: They were on national TV that night until after midnight because the game went fifteen innings. I have a plate number I need you to run. You might want to tell the uniform guys about it too.”
“But—”
“Yeah, a pro wouldn’t have been so inept, so the idea is probably just to divert attention for a while. Shame, though: Nobody’s really tried to kill me in must be at least six months, and that was just my boss.”
Part Six
UNFORGIVEN
Chapter 1
Of all the people Howe might have expected to greet him in the dimming light as he stepped down from the F/A-22V after arriving in Alaska, Jemma Gorman rated close to the last.
“Colonel Howe.”
“Colonel Gorman.”
“You can call me Jemma.”
“Yeah,” said Howe.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Okay.”
“Privately.”
Howe looked around. The nearest person, one of the airman tasked to look after the jet, was a good fifty feet away and wearing ear protection besides. But Gorman was already walking down the ramp.
Elmendorf, the large air base near Anchorage that served as the home drome for the 3rd Wing, was overflowing with units associated with the tests. Because of that, Howe, Timmy, and the RC-135 had been sent farther north to a somewhat sparser base that once prepared spy planes for flights near — and in a few cases over — the old Soviet Union. The base now housed a hearty squadron of F-16s, A-10As, and assorted support and reconnaissance craft, as well as accommodated a variety of transients and the occasional stray. It didn’t seem particularly busy at the moment, and in fact most of its resident aircraft were off participating in an exercise with RAF and Canadian aircraft.
Though it was summer, the air temperature was dropping through the forties; even seventy would have been a severe shock after Florida. Howe followed Gorman along the edge of the tarmac, curling his arms in front of his chest as the chill started to eat through his flight suit.
“The plane that went down in China, during the Indian-Pakistani exchange. I don’t believe it had the Cyclops weapon in it,” said Gorman.
“Fisher said that.”
“Yes, well, even Mr. Fisher is occasionally correct.” Gorman continued to walk. “I know you’ve been assigned to look for laser emissions during the ABM tests,” said Gorman finally. “I want to work with you. We’re not technically part of the ABM tests, but I want to make sure that the laser plane doesn’t show up — or, rather, if it does, that we know about it.”
“That’s not up to me,” said Howe.
“That’s true,” said Gorman. She stopped, seeming to find something in the distance interesting. “I still think it’s likely the Russians took the airplane. But we have no evidence, and while Mr. Fisher’s conspiracy theory appears to be yet another of his wild goose chases, I have to admit that it cannot be easily dismissed.”
Her words could be interpreted as trying to talk him out of the theory that Fisher had: that the laser had been stolen by an “inside” group. Then again, they weren’t necessarily wrong. It still made more sense to Howe that a “traditional” enemy had taken the weapon: China if not Russia, even Pakistan or India, someone with considerable resources. He knew from McIntyre that the CIA people also still thought that.
“My mission is to recover the weapon, wherever it is,” said Gorman. “It doesn’t matter to me where it is or who took it. I want to get it back.”
“Me too.”
Her hands bounced as she emphasized her point. “I have broad authorization to carry out my mission. I can shoot down the plane if I see it, or do what I have to to capture it. I can go anywhere—anywhere—to get that done. I can call on just about the entire military if I have to.”
“Uh-huh,” said Howe.
“I want you to work with me voluntarily,” she added.
“Doing what?”
“Coordinating your search. I’ll have support assets, fighters, whatever else we need.”
“The plane probably isn’t going to show,” said Howe.
“We can’t take a chance.”
Howe could see her breath in the cold air. Her face behind it was blocky, not attractive in the least. She was very different from Megan.
If this was a guy standing in front of him, would Howe consider how ugly he was?
No. He wouldn’t be thinking about Megan, either.
“Look, Tom, we want the same thing here. Andy — Mr. Fisher — he comes up with these conspiracy theories all the time. He goes off on a tangent, gets burned, comes back. Occasionally he’s right, but more often he’s wrong. In the meantime he wastes a lot of time and resources.”
“I’m going ahead with the monitoring during the test,” said Howe. “I have orders.”
“Yes, I agree.” Gorman pitched the top half of her body forward. “Some people might interpret what you and Mr. Fisher did in Washington as an end run around me — around my task force and my authority. A political move.”
“I’m not interested in politics.”
“Everybody’s interested in politics.”
“I’m not.”
Gorman studied his face. “Okay. I’m going to be part of the operation.”