Cole pulled back onto the highway and slowly accelerated. He watched Sharpe recede in the mirror until he was no more than a dot. Then he floored it for home. Okay, so “home” wasn’t the right word. But for now it was all he had. And tomorrow it would become his new place of work, his own little air force base with its own mini-Predator. Back in the saddle, indeed. He took a deep breath and drove on.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Trip Riggleman checked his notes a final time, stacked them neatly, and slid them into the folder. There were two copies — one for him, one for General Hagan. He was always a little tense before these review sessions, especially the first one, when it was paramount to show signs of progress.
Today there were additional grounds for concern, including some items that he could mention only with the greatest care and delicacy, if at all. His earlier uneasiness over the unusual nature of this case, which he hoped would disperse as he dug deeper, had only intensified and grown more complex. Something was in the air with this one.
“General Hagan will see you now.”
It was Hagan’s secretary, standing in the open doorway, hair pinned up in a ’do straight out of a 1960s sitcom.
“Thanks.”
Riggleman stood, checked the creases of his trousers, the neatness of his shirttail, the position of his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. Everything in place, everything ready. Except for his stomach, which grumbled in warning, a product of nerves and three cups of coffee.
As he entered the office, a squadron of jets roared over the building. The floor trembled, the windowpanes buzzed in their frames. It had been going on all morning at Nellis, and the whole base reeked of jet fuel. Even in here, with the air-conditioning tuned to a crisp 68 on an unseasonably warm morning, there was the slightest whiff of the runway.
“Sir.”
He snapped off a salute, which Hagan returned from behind the desk. The general broke into a slow smile of anticipation as Riggleman placed a copy of his notes on the corner of the desk and slid into a facing chair.
From experience, Riggleman knew there would be no small talk, not for a while yet. Nor would the general offer food or drink. Hagan’s style was to get right down to business. They waited for his secretary to shut the door, then the general cleared his throat.
“What do you have for me, Captain?”
Riggleman knew better than to offer the most important material first. Hagan liked him to save the best for last, and, like any armchair detective, he relished a blow-by-blow of how his favorite sleuth was proceeding.
There was an art to Riggleman’s spiel. A smattering of geekspeak, a few of his own terms. It never hurt to show off a little, and it gave him license to resort to bullshit at points where the material was thin — and there were certainly a few of those points this time.
Cole was proving to be an elusive quarry, a complicated man. A fuckup, yes, or he wouldn’t have washed out to begin with, but a fellow who seemed to be proceeding with caution and deliberation. Not that Riggleman wouldn’t eventually find him, as long as General Hagan gave him the necessary time and resources. And that was part of his job today, to convince the general that he’d earned the chance to finish. That made it all the more necessary for Riggleman to present his findings professionally, smartly, in a manner that would hold Hagan’s attention to the end. He drew a deep breath and began.
“First I took a fresh look at the preliminary findings — credit records, phone records, airport security footage,” he told Hagan. “The legwork was solid but incomplete. I expanded the credit search to include his in-laws and anything under his children’s names. His parents are deceased, but I checked their names as well in case he might have used an older identity. Nothing. He was an only child, so there were no siblings. I did the same sort of sweep for phone records or any other sort of activity that might have raised a red flag. Still nothing.
“I took the available security footage from Vegas International Airport and from Logan and the Portland Jetport and ran it with some video enhancement software and a few facial recognition tools, using images from two fairly recent photos of Cole that were on file with the DOD.
“When that came up empty, I used the same tools to analyze video footage from the identical time period for four additional regional airports here and in the Northeast, plus three Amtrak stations, two local bus stations, and multiple toll facilities on all major highways leading out of Vegas and in the corridor between Boston and Moultonborough, New Hampshire.
“There is very little facial capture at the tollbooths, although sometimes people without E-ZPass capability will lean out their windows enough for a pickup. Admittedly a long shot, but no luck. Most of the footage from the train and bus stations was of such poor quality that it was virtually useless. I did sample a few random public rest stop facilities on theoretical eastward routes for the days in question, but at some point you’re dealing with the law of diminishing returns.”
“Understood. Continue.”
He could tell that Hagan was loving it — the thoroughness, the tech at Riggleman’s fingertips, his ease in employing it. In a weird way, the general also seemed to be enjoying the apparent elusiveness of their quarry. Or maybe Riggleman was projecting his own admiration. However Cole had proceeded, he seemed to have shrunk his footprint to the bare minimum. Not off the grid, perhaps, but close to it.
“All of Cole’s current and past email addresses have been inactive for more than a year. Complete radio silence under all known cyber-identities. So I used data mining software to forage all recently created accounts for Gmail, Hotmail, AOL, and other major servers. I swept that material searching for anything that might allude to his own name, his children’s names, or any of his known Air Force nicknames, such as Monkey Man.”
“His Viper call sign,” Hagan said with a hint of fondness. “Remember it well.”
“I focused especially on Internet signatures from Nevada. Again, nothing. I augmented this with a data sweep of message boards, chat rooms, and discussion forums with any topics related to DOD policy on UAVs, Afghanistan, Air Force issues, you name it. A few suspicious entries turned up, but all of them were accounted for.”
Hagan nodded, still a captive audience. But Riggleman had arrived at the delicate portion of his presentation, material that was tricky not so much because of what he’d discovered — precious little — but because of how the process had unfolded.
“Personal interviews were next,” he said. “I began with Owen Bickell, the former CIA man. He declined to be interviewed in person but agreed to speak over a secure line, which I arranged.”
“He was cooperative, I hope?”
Riggleman paused, weighing his words.
“Yes and no.”
“No?”
Hagan had nearly come up out of his chair.
“He was cordial and pleasant. He fully acknowledged Cole’s visit, and he candidly discussed their previous relationship of a few years ago, when Captain Cole trained him and two other Agency officers in UAV operations and techniques, out at Creech.”
“Which we already knew.”
“Yes, sir. But when I asked about the nature of their recent conversation, he referred me to his superiors.”
“Superiors? Hell, he’s retired. He has no superiors.”
“Yes, sir. Nonetheless.”
“Do you think this was some kind of legal precaution, a way to cover his ass until you produced the necessary paperwork to authorize him to speak?”
“No, sir. He made it clear he has no intention of discussing this matter with us under any circumstances. He said any sort of comment would be up to the Agency.”