With some help from the Old Man, Harvath had turned his study into a makeshift war room and they officially launched their investigation. They began with what Harvath had hoped would be the easiest and quickest route to uncovering potential suspects—the Internet.
Though he didn’t know much about the Fed, he did know that their critics were fairly outspoken. Some of the better known ran the gamut from pundits to business leaders and members of Congress, while the lesser known were simply day-to-day citizens. He used every mix of search terms he could come up with. He began with a generic search for the “Sons of Liberty” and because of its historical relevance was gifted with over a million prospective returns.
He tried to narrow it down by adding the term “Federal Reserve” to the search and ended up with just over thirteen thousand possibilities. From there, he added the names of the kidnapped candidates and hit a digital wall. As best he could tell, none of the terms appeared together, at least not openly anywhere on the Web.
Stripping out the “Sons of Liberty” from his search, he entered the hostages’ names along with the term “Federal Reserve.” He even tried adding the Henry Hazlitt quote about today being the “tomorrow” that the bad economist told us to ignore. The results were a mixed bag and not very helpful. There wasn’t anyone, at least not on the open Internet, calling for any of the victims to be harmed, much less killed.
Harvath turned his attention to the police reports. He had been through Claire Marcourt’s file a hundred times. It felt like there was something missing, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it.
He read through the reports of the other kidnap victims, searching for some common thread, but the only thing he seemed to be able to come up with was that the kidnappings had been very well executed. They had all happened on the same night, but in different cities, which meant that multiple teams had to have been used. That was a plus, as far as Harvath was concerned. The more people involved in any plot, the greater the chances were that one of them would screw up. The challenge, however, was allocating enough assets to a case in order to see the screw-up the moment it happened, jump on it, and leverage it to your advantage.
The Carlton Group, though, didn’t have many assets, much less extra ones they could move from project to project, as they’d been forced to let most of their people go. At the moment, Harvath was it, conducting the entire investigation himself out of his house, with his study acting as ground zero and the overflow spilling into the hall.
Even the Old Man was limited by how much time he could spare. He had spent a few hours with Harvath on the assignment before having to leave to deal with the fallout from the Sienna Star operation.
Though he didn’t come right out and say it, Carlton had also been troubled by Claire Marcourt’s murder. Harvath could see it in his face and by how much time he had spent with the file. He’d scanned all the contents onto his laptop and uploaded them onto a secure FTP site before walking outside to place a lengthy phone call. When he came back in and announced that he was leaving, he handed Harvath a slip of paper with the address for a warehouse and WWII written on it.
The initials stood for William Wise II. “He’s expecting you,” the Old Man had said on his way out the door.
“Expecting me for what? Who is he?”
“He used to work for the Agency, brilliant guy. Knows something about everything. I gave him the file. He might have some insight.”
Harvath tried to ask what kind of work Wise had done and what made him so special, but Carlton was in a hurry and gone before the conversation could go any further. He figured he’d learn soon enough.
Walking up to the front of the building, Harvath noticed several low-visibility security precautions. While they may have been in response to the neighborhood’s crime rate, Harvath suspected there might be another, much more realistic reason. Whoever this Bill Wise person was, he had some very dangerous enemies.
CHAPTER 16
Bill Wise looked like Santa Claus crossed with one of the toughest bikers the Hell’s Angels had ever produced. He had white hair, a thick white beard, and towered over Harvath by a good five inches and an additional seventy-five pounds.
He wore dark jeans, a pair of black Frye boots, and a faded Dallas Cowboys jersey. On his right wrist was a copper bracelet—the kind used for warding off arthritis, and on his left was an expensive Panerai diver’s watch.
As Harvath stepped inside, Wise stole a quick glance toward the street, closed the door, and then offered his hand.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Wise.”
“First of all, it’s Doctor Wise and second of all, give me a break with all the formalities,” he replied with a smile. “If Peaches says you’re okay, then that’s good enough for me.”
Peaches was the nickname the Old Man had been known by back in the day. According to legend, he was one of the roughest interrogators the Central Intelligence Agency had ever produced. He had a reputation for taking the hardest cases, the worst of the worst, and could be absolutely brutal with the enemy. It was said that if lives hung in the balance and time was of the essence, Reed Carlton was the man you wanted on the job. The fact that he was willing to go to some pretty extraordinary lengths in his interrogations had earned him the amusing and also chilling sobriquet of Peaches. He was anything but sweet.
Signaling for Harvath to follow, Wise led him into the warehouse. They passed through a small reception area, its walls covered with pictures. In addition to noticing that Wise had traveled the world, often heavily armed and in the presence of indigenous fighters, he discerned that the man was a scuba diver, private pilot, Eagle Scout, photographer, motorcyclist, NASCAR and IndyCar fan, and a hunter with a ranch in San Saba County, Texas.
“Do you hunt?” Wise asked after noticing Harvath admiring his ranch photos.
“Strictly bipeds these days.”
Wise chuckled and led him through a heavy sliding door into the main section of the building. It was a large, loftlike space with thick metal trusses and a pristine, epoxy-coated concrete floor. Parked near a wide roll-up door was a trio of perfectly restored vintage SUVs—a green 1960s Land Rover, a metallic gray 1970s International Harvester Scout, and a white 1980s Jeep Grand Wagoneer with wood paneling. Beyond them were a handful of older motorcycles in varying states of refurbishment. Harvath could make out a Triumph Bonneville as well as an Indian and what looked like a Crocker.
“Are you the force behind all of these restorations?” Harvath asked.
“I am,” Wise replied. “Ever since I was a kid, I’ve loved taking things apart and putting them back together.”
As Harvath admired the machines, the man added. “Don’t ever retire. You’d be surprised how expensive ‘puttering’ turns out to be.”
This time, Harvath chuckled. He still had no idea what Wise had done for a living, but if he was like any of the other retired spooks he’d met in his lifetime, Wise had probably done his share of consulting after leaving the Agency and had made quite a few bucks doing it.
The garage portion of the warehouse ended at an enormous floor-to-ceiling glass display case. Inside was row after row of vintage typewriters and antique sewing machines. The display delineated the beginning of Wise’s living area.
There was a stainless steel kitchen, a massive library with columns of twelve-foot-high bookshelves that went all the way to the structure’s rear wall, and a giant drafting table that served as the man’s desk. Hanging on the wall near it were a myriad of degrees, one of them a Ph.D. in psychology, as well as several diplomas and commendations from the Army’s 75th Ranger Regiment and 5th Special Forces Group. Next to those was a sleeping area, then a living room with a sectional couch, and finally a wooden bar that looked like it had been salvaged out of some small Irish pub.