Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  “No.” Harry decided to play along. “I was too young, then they ended the draft.”

  “Right. They should bring it back.”

  “Absolutely,” Harry said. “They should draft women, too. They want equal rights, they should have equal responsibilities.”

  “You’re absolutely right.”

  Harry was on a roll and continued, “My son still had to register for the draft in case they ever bring it back. But my daughter didn’t. What’s that all about?”

  “Precisely. You have a son and daughter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Married?”

  “Divorced,” Harry replied.

  “Ah, me, too.”

  “Women will drive you crazy,” Harry said.

  “Only if you let them.”

  “Well, we let them.”

  Madox chuckled. “We do. Anyway, you’re here on surveillance for the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force. Why?”

  “How long were you in Vietnam?”

  Madox looked at Harry Muller for a few seconds, then replied, “Two tours of one year each, then a third tour that was cut short by an AK-47 round that missed my heart by an inch, nicked my right lung, and broke a rib on the way out.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “I tell myself that every day. Each day is a gift. Have you ever been shot at?”

  “Five times. Never got hit.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive.” Madox stared at Harry. “It changes you. You’re never the same again. But it’s not necessarily for the worse.”

  “I know. I’ve got friends who’ve been hit.” He thought of John Corey, but he was fairly sure that Corey was the same wiseass both before and after getting hit. He said, “Sometimes, I think I should have volunteered. Vietnam was over, but I could have still served. Maybe I would have caught the Grenada Invasion or something.”

  “Well, don’t be hard on yourself. Most American men have never served. And to tell you the truth, war is a damned scary thing. And now we’re engaged in this war on terrorism, and you, Mr. Muller, are apparently on the front lines. Correct?”

  “Uh . . . yeah.”

  “And by terrorism, we generally mean Islamic terrorists. Correct?”

  “Yeah . . . but—”

  “So, are you looking for Islamic terrorists here? Can I help?”

  Harry was forming a thought, but Mr. Madox went on, “If there’s anything I can do, Mr. Muller, just let me know. There’s no one who feels more strongly about winning the war on terrorism than I. How can I help?”

  “Uh . . . well . . . here’s the thing. About five years ago, I was on this case of Irish Republican Army guys—terrorists—only about fifteen miles from here. They had a training camp.” Harry filled in Madox on the case and concluded, “We sent eight guys to Federal prison for terms ranging from three to twenty years.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember that because it was so close to here.”

  “Right. So, this is the same thing. We’re checking a lot of private preserves to see if there’s any suspicious activity involving the IRA. We’ve had intelligence reports that—”

  “So, this has nothing to do with Islamic terrorists?”

  “No. Not today. We’re doing IRA.”

  “Seems like a waste of time and resources in light of 9/11.”

  “Well, I think so, too. But we need to keep on top of everything and everybody.”

  “I suppose.” Madox thought a moment, then asked, “So, you think the Custer Hill Club is . . . what? A training camp for the Irish Republican Army?”

  “Well, the bosses had a tip about activity in this area, so I got picked to take a peek. You know, in case people were using your property without you knowing.”

  “No one can enter my property without me knowing, as you just found out.”

  “Yeah, I see that. I’ll report—”

  “Certainly not people engaged in paramilitary training.”

  “Yeah, I—”

  “And that doesn’t explain why you were taking pictures of my lodge. You should be out in the woods looking for these IRA people.”

  “Yeah. I got turned around.”

  “You certainly did. The point is you are on surveillance.”

  “Well, yeah. I need to check about a dozen properties in the area.”

  “I see. So, I shouldn’t feel singularly honored?”

  “Huh?”

  “I shouldn’t feel picked on?”

  “No. Just routine stuff.”

  “That’s a relief. By the way, do you have any sort of government warrant for these activities?”

  “I do . . . but not with me.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to carry the warrant with you?” He waved his hand over the desk and said, “We didn’t find anything, even when we looked up your rectum.” Mr. Madox smiled.

  “Hey, fuck you! Fuck you!” Harry stood. “You motherfucking scumbag piece of shit!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Shove it up your ass. I’m walking the fuck out of here—” He reached for his things on Madox’s desk and an explosion of pain ripped through the right side of his body. He heard a crashing sound and a thump, then nothing.

  He realized he was lying on the floor, and a cold sweat covered his body. His eyes were blurry, but he could see Carl standing over him, tapping the cattle prod into his palm as if to say, “You want another jolt?”

  Harry tried to stand, but his legs were rubbery. The other guard got behind him, lifted him under his arms, and dropped him back into his chair.

  Harry tried to steady his breathing and his quivering muscles. His eyes were still unfocused, and everything sounded tinny in his ears.

  One of the guards gave him a plastic bottle of water, which he could barely hold.

  Mr. Madox said, “It’s amazing what electricity can do to a person. And there’s almost no visible evidence. Where were we?”

  Harry tried to say, “Fuck you,” but couldn’t get the words out.

  “I think you were trying to convince me that you were on a routine assignment looking for IRA training camps. I’m not convinced.”

  Harry took a deep breath and said, “It’s true.”

  “Well then, let me reassure you there are no members of the Irish Republican Army on my property. In fact, Mr. Muller, my ancestry is English through and through, and I have no fondness for the IRA.”

  Harry didn’t reply.

  Madox said, “Okay, let’s cut the IRA crap and go right to the heart of this matter. What, exactly, do your superiors think is going on here?”

  Again, Harry didn’t respond.

  “Do you need electrical encouragement to answer my question?”

  “No . . . I don’t know. They didn’t tell me anything.”

  “But they must have said something like, ‘Harry, we suspect that the Custer Hill Club is . . .’ what? How did they characterize this place and its members? This is really important to me, and I want you to tell me. You’re going to tell me now or later. Now is easier.”

  Harry tried to clear his head from the electrical jolt and think about his situation. He’d never been on the wrong side of an interrogation desk, and he’d never had the experience or training that would guide him in a situation like this.

  “Mr. Muller?”

  He couldn’t figure out if he should stick to the IRA story, or if he should just tell this bastard the little he knew. The goal, obviously, was to get out of here alive, though he could hardly believe that his life was in danger.

  “Mr. Muller? We did bird-watching, then the IRA—which is actually a good story. But not the true story. You seem a bit confused, so let me help you. You were told that the Custer Hill Club was made up of a bunch of rich, old right-wing crazies who are conspiring to do something that may be illegal. Correct?”

  Harry nodded.

  “What else did they tell you about us?”

  “Nothing. I have no need to know.”

  “Ah, yes. Need to know. Di
d they mention that several of our members are very highly placed and influential people in society and government?”

  Harry shook his head. “I have no need to know that.”

  “Well, I think you do need to know. That’s why you’re here, whether you know it or not. Fact is, the members of this club hold a lot of power. Political power, financial power, and military power. Did you know that one of our members is the deputy secretary of defense? Another is a top national security adviser to the president. Did you know that?”

  Harry shook his head.

  “We don’t appreciate some government agency conducting an illegal surveillance of our activities, which are entirely legal. We hunt, fish, drink, and discuss the world situation. The Constitution itself protects our right to assemble, to free speech, and to privacy. Correct?”

  Harry nodded.

  “Someone in your agency has overstepped his bounds and that person will be made to answer for his actions.”

  Again, Harry nodded. He believed Madox. This wouldn’t be the first time one of his bosses screwed up and ordered surveillance on some group or some person who wasn’t guilty of anything. On the other hand, that’s what surveillance was for—to see if a suspicion of criminal activity was accurate or justified. Harry said, “I think they screwed up.”

  “Oh, I know they did. And you just got caught in the middle.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re not an FBI agent?”

  “No.”

  “Or a CIA officer?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “You’re . . . what? A contract agent?”

  “Yeah. Retired NYPD. Working for the FBI.”

  “Low level,” suggested Mr. Madox.

  “Well . . . yeah.”

  “I’ll make sure you’re not punished.”

  “Yeah, and thanks for the jolt.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mr. Madox checked his watch and said, “I’m expecting company.” He stared at Harry. “Did you know I was expecting company?”

  “No.”

  “You just happened to be here on this particular day?”

  Harry didn’t answer.

  “Talk to me, Mr. Muller. I have a busy morning.”

  “Uh . . . well, I was told to . . . see if anyone . . .”

  “You were told to observe arriving guests, photograph them, take down their license-plate numbers, note their arrival times, and so forth.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did these people you work for know there was a meeting here today?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Why did you take a photograph of my utility pole?”

  “Just . . . saw it. Ran into it.”

  “When did you get here?”

  “Last night.”

  “Is anyone with you?”

  “No.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I drove my camper up,” Harry replied.

  “And these are the keys?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where is the camper?”

  “On the logging road south of here.”

  “Near where you entered the property?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you supposed to make a telephone report?”

  He wasn’t, but he replied, “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “When I leave this property.”

  “I see.” Madox picked up Harry’s cell phone and turned it on. “I see you have a message.” He added, “In case you wondered why you have such good service here in the middle of nowhere, I have my own cell-phone relay tower.” He gestured toward the window. “Now you know what that tower is, and you can label your photograph. You can also indicate that it has a voice scrambler so that no one can listen to my calls.” He asked Harry, “Isn’t it nice to be rich?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “What’s your voice-mail code?”

  Harry gave it to him, and Madox dialed voice mail, punched in the code, and put the phone on speaker.

  Lori said, “Hi, honey. Got your message. I was sleeping. I’m going shopping today with your sister and Anne. Call me later. I’ll have my cell with me. Okay? Let me know if you have to stay over. I love you, and I miss you.” She added, “Be careful of those right-wing loonies. They like their guns. Take care.”

  Madox commented, “She sounds very nice. Except for that part about the right-wing loonies and the guns.” He observed, “She apparently thinks you may be staying here overnight. She may be right.” He turned off the power to the cell phone, and said to Harry, “I guess you know these things send off a signal that can be tracked.”

  “Yeah, that’s my job.”

  “That’s right. Amazing technology. I can call my children anytime, anyplace. Of course, they never answer, but they call back after five messages, or when they need something.”

  Harry forced a smile.

  “So,” said Mr. Madox, “you seem to be who and what you say you are. To be quite honest, Mr. Muller, I thought you might be an agent of a foreign power.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not being paranoid. The people who are members of this club have enemies around the world. The right kind of enemies. We are all patriots, Mr. Muller, and we’ve caused some problems for the enemies of America around the globe.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I thought you’d agree. And these same people are your enemies. So, to use an old Arabic expression, ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’”

  “Right.”

  “Sometimes, however, the enemy of my enemy is also my enemy. Not because he wants to be, but because we have a difference of opinion about how to deal with our common enemy. But that’s a discussion for another time.”

  “Yeah, I’ll call you next week.”

  Bain Madox stood, looked at his watch, and said, “I’ll tell you what. Since you and your agency seem so interested in this club and its members, I’m going to do something that I’ve never done before. I’m going to allow you, an outsider, to sit in on the Executive Board meeting, which will take place this afternoon after a welcome lunch for our arriving club members. Would you like to join us?”

  “I . . . No, not really. I think I should get—”

  “I thought you were here to get information? What’s your rush?”

  “No rush, but I—”

  “I’ll even let you take pictures.”

  “Thanks, but—”

  “I think your presence at this meeting can do both of us some good. You’ll learn something, and I’ll get to see your reaction to what we’re discussing. Sometimes, we get into this bunker mentality, you know, where outside reality is excluded, and only our reality is heard. That’s not healthy.”

  Harry didn’t reply, and Bain Madox warmed to his idea. “I want you to feel free to comment, to tell us if we’re sounding like a bunch of crazy old fools—right-wing loonies.” He grinned. “We need your honest opinion about our next project. Project Green.”

  “What’s Project Green?”

  Mr. Madox glanced at the security guards, then went over to Harry and whispered in his ear, “Nuclear Armageddon.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Harry Muller was led, blindfolded and barefoot, down two flights of stairs into what must have been the basement of the lodge. It was cold and damp, and he could hear sounds of mechanical and electrical motors.

  He heard a door open, then he was prodded forward. The door slammed shut, and he heard a metal bolt sliding.

  He stood there, then said, “Hey. You. You there?”

  Silence.

  He listened awhile, then pulled the blindfold off and looked around. He was alone.

  Harry stood in a small room walled with concrete blocks painted the same gray enamel as the concrete floor. The low ceiling was covered with corrugated metal.

  As his eyes adjusted to the glaring light of an overhead fluorescent fixture, he saw that the room held only a steel bed, which was bolted to
the floor. On the bed was a thin mattress, on which were his camouflage shirt and pants, which he put on. He checked his pockets, but they hadn’t given him anything back.

  In a corner of the room were a toilet and a sink. The toilet had no seat and no water tank. Just like in a prison cell. The sink had no mirror over it, not even the plastic or steel mirrors they used in jail.

  He went to the steel door that had no handle and no window, and pushed on it, but it didn’t budge.

  He searched the room, looking for anything that he could use as a weapon, but it was completely bare, except for the bed and a rusty radiator that wasn’t putting out much heat.

  He noticed now a small swivel eyeball camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling, with a recessed speaker beside it. He stuck up his middle finger and shouted, “Fuck you!”

  No one replied.

  He looked around for something that he could use to smash the camera and the speaker, but there wasn’t a single loose item in the room except for himself. He took a running start, jumped, and smacked the camera with his hand. The camera continued sweeping the room, then a shrill, high-decibel sound pierced the room, and Harry covered his ears and backed away from the speaker. The painful noise continued, and Harry shouted, “Okay! Okay!”

  The sound stopped and a voice said, “Sit.”

  “Fuck you.” Bastards. Wait until I get out of here.

  He had lost track of time, but he figured it must be about ten or eleven in the morning. His stomach growled, but he didn’t feel particularly hungry. Only thirsty. And he had to pee.

  He walked to the toilet and the camera followed him. He urinated, then went to the sink and turned on the single tap. A trickle of cold water ran into the basin. He washed up, then used his hands to drink from the faucet.

  There was no towel, and he wiped his hands on the sides of his pants. He went back to the bed and sat. He thought about his conversation with Bain Madox.

  Nuclear Armageddon.

  He said to himself, What the hell is that asshole talking about?

  And what was this meeting that he was invited to? None of this made too much sense unless . . . unless this was all a setup.

  He stood. “That’s it!” This is one of those stupid training camps. “Holy shit!”

  He thought about the whole assignment, from his ten minutes in Tom Walsh’s office, to the Tech guy, to cutting through the fence, to the guards, to this prison cell in a private house—this whole thing was a test . . . one of those SERE courses—Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape.