Wolff responded to the call for American flight 581, non-stop for Los Angeles, connecting to Aero Mexicana for Cabo San Lucas. Just before boarding, he sent a short text message to John Harford.
Bright point on horizon
When he stepped off the plane in Los Angeles, he received an equally terse answer.
Meet PSC conference August to select horizon
Departing the American Airlines terminal, Wolff discarded the cell phone in a communal trash bin, shedding himself of all electronic ties to Harford or SI.
Eisenhower Executive Office Building
Office of Information amp; Public Relations
Department of Homeland Security
Washington, D.C.
July
Carlos Castro sat to the right of the end seat as the rest of the Trojan team filed into the room, taking seats around the long, rectangular table. It was the same table where the full team had met the night the roving band of shooters had started their terrorist attack and they had listened to the recorded message from World Jihad. It was three days since Jean Wolff had given them the slip in Illinois. The entire team had a dejected appearance.
General Pug Connor entered the room and took his seat at the end of the table. “The president’s not a happy man. And neither am I.” Everyone remained silent. “Where did he go, Carlos?”
“St. Louis, as best we can tell. We’ve tracked all eight limo drivers, interviewed them and showed them pictures. Two drivers ID’d Wolff, so one of them is mistaken. Or both of them are. One says he took his passenger to just outside Chicago. The other took his to Springfield, Illinois. They both transferred to another vehicle. It was the same story for all eight limos. Drive for six or eight hours, then change vehicles. But we’ve narrowed it down. The police found a body in the trunk of a Ford Taurus in East St. Louis, Missouri, yesterday morning. They caught two local kids trying to steal accessories off the car and found the body in the search. They identified his prints as belonging to a naturalized citizen, Devlin Hegarty.”
“Hegarty?” Pug repeated.
“One and the same,” Carlos replied. “SI’s field man and the head of the pilot program for Domestic Tranquility. Two bullets to the head. I’d say Wolff was beginning to cover his tracks.”
“Or starting his revenge on Harford and SI.”
“That too,” Carlos said. “No further trace. I’d speculate he took a flight from St. Louis. No leads so far. Maybe we should go have a talk with Harford.”
Pug was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. “Don’t want to alert him that we know anything. What are you hearing from your contacts among Harford’s troops?”
“Harry?” Carlos said, turning toward one of the Trojan team members, a Delta operative on assignment to Trojan.
“I know a retired E-8 who works with SI, supervising the crew in Oklahoma and northern Texas. He knows Hegarty,” Harry responded. “He said Hegarty’s been out of the country for about a week. Rumor says he was in Holland.”
“Any knowledge of what he was doing?” Pug asked.
“No, sir,” Harry responded. “He hasn’t seen him for about ten days.”
“And if the police are right, he won’t see him again, either,” Carlos said. “I still think we could put the screws to Harford, General. We’re going to have to call him out sooner or later.”
“Right, but not now. I want to find Wolff first.”
“But if you’re right about Wolff believing Harford flipped him in East Timor, he might find Harford before we can talk with him. We won’t get anything out of him then.”
“Concentrate on finding Wolff. And one more thing. Have one of the team track down the ownership linkage for Strategic Initiatives. I want to know who the major share holders are. Especially any of our elected congressmen or politicians.”
“Are you thinking-” Carlos started.
“I’m thinking that someone has a broader interest in Domestic Tranquility than meets the eye. I’m thinking that just in case Wolff does find Harford, we need to know who that someone is. Give our friend Senator Culpepper a call and you can meet with him to see what he knows,” Pug said. “I’ll check with Senator McKenzie. The rest of you pull out all the stops. Use every resource you’ve got. Find Wolff. Any questions?”
Chapter 38
Conquistador Resort amp; Casino
Las Vegas, Nevada
August
The second week in August, with the sun dropping behind the scrub-covered hills west of Las Vegas, a sleek Gulfstream 650 completed its flight, having originated in Los Cabos, Mexico. The private jet glided on final approach toward the Henderson Executive Airport, ten minutes south of the well-known strip. Besides the two pilots and one cabin attendant, each of whom were of Mexican origin, only one passenger was on board-a French citizen traveling under the name of Philippe Auclair. Immediately the aircraft shut down engines, a solid white limousine pulled alongside and the passenger disembarked, entering the vehicle. The flight crew proceeded to the operations building, where the pilot filed a flight plan for 9:00 A.M. the following morning, non-stop to Santiago, Chile.
Following three weeks in the luxurious accommodations of the five-star Pueblo Bonito Sunset Beach resort in Cabo San Lucas with its award-winning cuisine, Jean Wolff had erased most of the unpleasant memories of six months’ incarceration in the Thomson Federal Correctional Facility. Newly refurbished with a European wardrobe, obtained during a four-day side trip to Paris, Wolff, AKA Philippe Auclair, emerged from his limousine with a far brighter outlook than when an orange jumpsuit had been his sole choice of attire.
Following a quick clearance through airport customs and a short drive to the north end of the strip, Wolff entered the massive, ornate lobby of the Conquistador casino, the newest addition to the opulence which made Las Vegas the most popular tourist and convention center in the world. He stood just inside the lobby for a moment, admiring the one-half scale model of El Castro, the Mayan temple at Chichen Itza, rising just over fifty feet tall-five stories-the visual focal point from all points in the casino. The temple name instantly reminded him of an as-yet unfinished task: Carlos Castro. Wolff’s lawyer had discovered the name of the person who had captured him, and his current assignment. But there would be time for Castro later, and his message tomorrow would make that clear.
Wolff turned and approached the VIP desk, where he used his Auclair ID and credit card and signed his registration form.
“What time is your last FedEx pickup?” Wolff asked the registration clerk.
The young man glanced at the clock behind the counter. “In about forty-five minutes, sir. May I be of assistance?”
Wolff reached into his briefcase and retrieved a slim FedEx prepaid overnight packet and handed it to the clerk. “Please see that this is made available for the courier.”
“Certainly, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“No, thank you.” Wolff turned back toward the casino and headed across the room, pausing again short of the bank of elevators to read the electronic display case which announced the conventions and gatherings for the week. He was not surprised to see a photograph of John Harford, Chief Executive of Strategic Initiatives, who was billed as the keynote speaker for the opening session of the International Association of Professional Security Consultant’s annual conference. He allowed a small smile to cross his lips, then proceeded to the elevator, pressing the button for the thirty-second level.
After a shower, a change of clothes, and ten minutes of watching the news highlights, Wolff returned to the lobby and found a secluded corner table in the Yucatan Lounge. He ordered a drink and watched as the throngs of people made their way through the crowded casino. Over the next two hours, he watched an NFL football game on the large screen, ate a plate of boiled shrimp, and had a couple more drinks. At eleven P.M., a heavily bearded man in Dockers and a long-sleeved plaid shirt approached his table, making eye contact and then taking a seat opposite Wolff.