“I’ll run a check on the vehicles. Let us protect you, Wilson.”
“Look Ms. Kohl,” Wilson said, “I’m not suggesting you don’t already know this, but let me underscore it for you. These people are ruthless and relentless. They have their own death squads. They believe anyone can be corrupted at any time and they won’t stop until they’ve won. Do you understand me? They want us dead. They want my family dead.”
After a long pause, Kohl responded, “More than twenty FBI agents have lost their lives since three o’clock this morning. Some of them were close personal friends. We’ve made over two hundred arrests and we expect to double that by midnight. Believe me, Mr. Fielder, we understand.”
“Have you found Swatling or Tate?”
“No, but the NSA and CIA are on it.”
Just then the automated operator came on line, asking for another deposit. Wilson quickly deposited a handful of quarters. “Why the NSA and CIA?”
“We have reason to believe that Tate and Swatling are no longer in the country.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“Somewhere in Europe.”
“Italy?”
“Possibly.”
“Have you heard from Carter?” Wilson asked.
“No,” she said, pausing again. “The undercover agents at Stanford who were in contact with Carter in case we needed information to maintain their covers were murdered early this morning. The men who did it are in custody.”
Wilson collected his thoughts. “Have you talked to Detective Zemke in Sun Valley?” he asked.
“No. Why?”
“You haven’t listened to the tape?”
“What tape?”
“An overnight package from Zemke should have arrived at Fielder amp; Company this morning. Open it. Listen to the tape and then contact Zemke. I think it will shed some new light on what you’re up against.”
“What are you saying?”
“It was Carter who shot my father. And, right now, I’m not sure what he’s up to. Tate and Swatling have gone to Europe to either persuade him or kill him.”
Kohl remained silent, but Wilson could hear her exhaling with a sigh.
“Find Hap. I’ll call you tomorrow,” Wilson said. He hung up the phone before she could respond. He hated to admit it, but there was nothing more he could do to ensure the safety of his family. They were now in Kirsten Kohl’s hands. He could only pray that Hap Greene was still alive. His first impulse was to find another boat and take off for Canada, but that would present other dangers, especially in this weather.
Just to be safe, Wilson made arrangements with Mo Bobicki to sleep on the sixty-foot charter sailboat docked at the marina. He returned to the loft and told Emily about his conversation with Kohl. When it got dark, they pulled the blinds over the windows of the loft and left the television and lights on, and then exited through the inside stairway to the restaurant. They bought a bottle of wine and sandwiches before leaving the restaurant through the back door and slipping into the trees. When they emerged from the trees onto the road between the Marina Restaurant and a row of beachfront homes and condos on the cliffs overlooking the cove, they were unrecognizable. They had borrowed slickers with hoods from the restaurant and were walking as if they’d just left a cocktail party. Wilson carried the bottle of wine in his hand and Emily carried the sandwiches and two wine glasses. Luckily, it was still drizzling outside.
Once inside the well-appointed yacht, they watched television until well past midnight, waiting for a special news report. But there was nothing, except for a sketchy account on a local news channel about the FBI’s involvement in an apparent gang-related shooting in Boston’s Back Bay region.
“I can’t believe they’ve kept it under wraps,” Emily said.
“Why? They’ve done it before,” Wilson said.
“Not with something this widespread,” Emily returned.
“Sure they have. We just don’t know about it.”
They laughed nervously as they turned off the television and got ready for bed. When they finally lay down in the yacht’s cozy master bedroom, they were emotionally and physically exhausted, despite the naps they’d taken in the afternoon. Clinging to each other, they quickly fell asleep.
62
Hap — Bailey Island, ME
Through the scope of his 338 Lapua Magnum rifle, Hap Greene watched his man Jones brace himself against the pylon of an abandoned pier, a thousand meters away on the opposite side of Mackerel Cove. Hap lay in a prone position atop the wooded knoll near Mo Bobicki’s marina loft. Jones had been an outstanding team leader ever since Hap hired him away from the CIA three years ago. But he’d been compromised. Hap guessed at how much Tate had offered Jones-five million, ten million, maybe more-to turn him.
As soon as it had become apparent that the FBI was compromised and Wilson and Emily were going to fend for themselves, Hap had hired two independent contractors and sent them to Mackerel Cove to protect Wilson and Emily. He’d taken extra precautions to make sure no one in his organization knew about them by keeping all his communications with them outside the FBI’s and his company’s network.
Then, just minutes before the fire and explosions at Brattle House, Hap had received a call from the two independent contractors, informing him that Jones and two other men had arrived on Bailey Island and were clandestinely surveying the marina loft. Somehow, Hap realized, Jones had discovered the back-up homing device in Wilson’s wristwatch, even though Hap had told no one about it.
After the situation at Brattle House had been addressed and everyone was safe, Hap traveled to Bailey Island, where he confirmed what his two independent contractors had told him about Jones. He also discovered that one of the other men with Jones was Jules Kamin, who obviously hadn’t died in the explosion at his Manhattan apartment. The third man, he didn’t recognize. Hap had hoped for an opportunity to remove Wilson and Emily from the scene, but Jones’ surveillance was unyielding. He sent the two contractors back to their respective positions, inside the cabin of a lobster boat docked at the marina and near the docks on the other side of the island. Their assignment was to make sure none of the three men they’d been observing got near the loft or the sailboat. Hap was now taking personal responsibility for eliminating Jones, Kamin, and their accomplice.
Hap watched single-mindedly as Jones seemed to be waiting for a few more lights to go out before he unpacked the case he’d set down on the rocks next to him. Jones was skilled in the use of stingers, tear gas launchers, and other man-portable missile systems. It had been one of Jones’ passions since returning from Afghanistan.
Suddenly Jones pulled a cell phone from his pocket, listened for a moment, and spoke a few words. Then he returned the phone to his pocket.
He must be talking to Kamin, Hap thought. Kamin was waiting at the docks in a sixteen-foot fishing trawler on the other side of the island. Earlier in the day, a few minutes after arriving on the island, Hap had identified Kamin with Jones aboard the trawler surveying the loft and the cove. That was several hours ago. Now it was almost two o’clock in the morning. Most of the lights had already gone out along the island’s two slender peninsulas that formed Mackerel Cove.
Jones bent down, opened his carrying case, and withdrew a missile launcher. Before inserting the small missile, Jones placed the launcher on his shoulder and looked into the mounted scope.
Hap knew exactly what he was doing. Using the missile launcher’s computerized laser technology, he was taking a reading of the number of meters between him and the north facing windows of the marina loft. Jones then punched in a few numbers on the small keypad below the scope to program the missile for detonation once it entered the loft. The missile probably contained some sort of gas-chlorine, saran, VX, or phosgene.
Jones removed the long, slender mini-missile from the case-twenty-seven inches of carbon-fiber tubing less than three inches in diameter, with small fins on one end. It probably carried enough gas to kill a few hundred people, especially in humid weather like tonight. Even if the stinger missile took out the entire window before releasing its gas, everyone within a hundred meters could be dead within minutes, including Wilson and Emily in the sailboat two hundred feet away. The only sounds would be breaking glass and something akin to the whoosh of lighter fluid being ignited. Jones inserted the stinger and raised the rocket launcher once more to his shoulder, this time in preparation for firing.