Cute children. Attractive woman. Riggleman’s hopes went into a nosedive. Maybe this was nothing but a domestic incident that had gotten out of hand, and Hagan was only worried about bad PR. There had been some recent stories in the media about burnout among Predator pilots. Low-key coverage, but it had stirred enough grumbling upstairs that Air Force shrinks and chaplains had been ordered to put a lid on the topic. Maybe that was their worry with Cole. If so, then Riggleman’s job would be easy but boring.
“However,” Hagan said, “we currently do not believe that Cole intends to go anywhere near Saginaw. His interests appear to be elsewhere, and we suspect they are directly related to his previous work as a Predator pilot.”
Riggleman pulled neatly out of his tailspin. Hagan’s next comments soon had him soaring.
“His last known whereabouts were in the vicinity of Moultonborough, New Hampshire, two days ago, at a waterfront home at Lake Winnipesaukee, where he attempted to establish an unauthorized contact with a recently retired employee of the Central Intelligence Agency. We’ll of course supply you with the operative’s name, address, and phone number. As of yet, we’re not certain what means of transportation Captain Cole is using. Of the two personal vehicles registered in his name, one is now in Saginaw and the other was sold more than a year ago. It is suspected but not confirmed that he traveled to Moultonborough by rental car, although it’s not known how he reached the Northeast. A cursory check of security footage from Las Vegas International produced no matches. Ditto for the cameras at the likeliest airports near Moultonborough, which would have been Boston Logan and the Portland Jetport, in Maine.”
Damn. They’d already done a lot of legwork. This was urgent. And how juicy was it that the CIA might be involved? Hagan dropped more papers onto the pile.
“Here are summaries of the most recent activity on his wife’s home and cell phones, and for all of her credit cards. As you’ll see, nothing suggests any contact with Cole. As you’ll also see here”—yet another sheet—“Cole hasn’t used any of his own credit cards for more than a year. Apparently he’s been living by cash only.”
“If I can take the liberty, sir …”
“Please do.”
“He would appear to be using classic espionage tradecraft.”
“Let’s not overstate things just yet, Captain Riggleman.”
“Yes, sir.”
But Riggleman could tell by the look in Hagan’s eyes that the general hadn’t dismissed the idea, and there was an edge to the general’s voice, an undertone of aggrievement and anger that usually didn’t accompany these sessions. He wondered whether, just maybe, this matter might have a personal dimension.
“Permission to ask a nosy question, sir.”
“Seeing as how that’s your specialty, permission granted.”
“Has Captain Cole ever been under your command?”
Hagan hesitated, and looked him over carefully before answering.
“The answer is in his dossier, but your suspicions are correct. What made you ask?”
“Just a hunch, sir. Something about your intensity, I guess.”
A look of grudging admiration gave way to one of mild concern. Hagan shook his head and smiled tightly.
“Captain Cole served under me in Afghanistan. A good man. In those days, anyway. Solid pilot, spectacular at times. Followed orders to the letter.” Hagan paused, as if he wasn’t quite sure how to word his next comments. “But he did show an occasional tendency toward … unwarranted independence. And I suppose that under the wrong influence, that might turn into a point of vulnerability.”
“Well, he was a Viper pilot, sir. Doesn’t that go with the territory?”
Riggleman realized by the look on Hagan’s face that his remark had crossed the line. The general, too, had once been a fighter jock. The same was true of most Air Force brass. It was part of the built-in bias of the Air Force pecking order — an automatic advantage for those who got to have all the fun.
“No disrespect intended, sir.”
“None taken, Captain. I flew Eagles, not Vipers. And your point is valid, although I do think at times you might be a little quick to find fault with skills you might also envy.”
“Yes, sir.” And there was no “might” about it. But that didn’t mean he was wrong.
“You’ll have every resource at your disposal, of course,” Hagan said. “And I say that with full awareness that those of us in the public sector don’t always have the best possible access to certain cutting-edge technology. Sometimes for budgetary reasons, sometimes due to, well, legal technicalities. So I’m authorizing you to be as, ah, flexible as you deem necessary. Understood?”
“Understood, sir.”
In other words, he was free to use better software than the official stuff, for things like data mining, facial recognition, or even outright hacking, if it came to that.
“One other item, which I’d appreciate if you didn’t mention outside these walls.”
Hagan produced a small key and proceeded to unlock a desk drawer. He reached inside and pulled out a black business card and slid it across the desk, carefully, as if a chip of plutonium might be encased within. Riggleman picked it up and saw that it contained only a name in white lettering — Harry Walsh — along with a cell phone number with an area code Riggleman didn’t recognize. Nothing else.
“Take a good, long look, Captain. Commit the name and number to memory. When you’ve finished, hand it back. And don’t write anything down, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
Riggleman studied it. The name was easy enough to remember. So was the number. But he wanted to put on a convincing show, so he waited an extra beat or two before placing the card on the desk and sliding it back, just as carefully as the general had done.
Hagan locked the card back in his desk and cleared his throat.
“Should your labors in this case ever reach a dead end, Captain, or should you ever find yourself in need of any, ah, tactic or consideration or methodology that is beyond your reach, then I suggest you contact this individual. With all due discretion, of course.”
“What’s his affiliation, sir?”
“I’m not in a position to answer that. But, as I said, if a need arises …”
“Of course, sir.”
Now he was almost as curious about Walsh as he was about Cole. He also felt a stirring of self-interest. Walsh was probably some sort of security privateer, and not for the first time Riggleman wondered whether his own talents might be more gainfully employed out in the world at large as a specialist in “information pursuit,” as he liked to call it. This gun for hire. A sort of ground-bound air ace with unerring aim. At the very least, this Walsh fellow might have a few insights on the going rate for his brand of skills.
Then again, help from people like Walsh tended to come with certain risks attached. Riggleman had always been wary of seeking aid from the shadows, so to speak, and unless he could find out more about Harry Walsh’s bona fides — his employer or sponsor, his usual clientele — then he would contact the man only as a last resort. Fortunately, that also seemed to be the approach Hagan preferred.
“To be perfectly blunt, Captain, I suppose what I’m really trying to say is that while I expect you to keep this clean, don’t be overly concerned with playing by the rules. As long as your work remains neat and compartmentalized, do whatever needs to be done. Just find him.”
“And when I do?”
“The exact parameters of any follow-up have yet to be determined. The loop is very tight on this one. But, rest assured, when the time comes you’ll be fully involved in whatever sort of wrap-up is deemed necessary.”
The general’s wording was a jolt. Riggleman had only heard General Hagan use the term “wrap-up” in the context of war gaming, when it had always been slang for “the kill.” Did the general mean it literally this time?