Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  “Well, then, I need to buy a new handbag today.”

  I should learn to keep my smart mouth shut.

  Kate and I exited our apartment house on East 72nd Street, and Alfred, our doorman, hailed us a cab.

  Holiday traffic in Manhattan was light, and we made good time down to 26 Federal Plaza.

  It was a beautiful, clear, crisp fall day, and I hummed a few bars of “Autumn in New York.”

  Kate asked me, “Do you know if Tom Walsh will be in today?”

  “No, but if you hum a few notes, I might recognize it.”

  “You’re a jerk.”

  “I think that’s well established.”

  The taxi driver, a fellow named Ziad Al-Shehhi, was speaking on his cell phone in Arabic.

  I put my finger to my lips and leaned forward. I whispered to Kate, “He’s talking to his Al Qaeda cell leader . . . he’s saying something about Columbus Day sales at Bergdorf’s.”

  She sighed.

  Mr. Al-Shehhi signed off, and I asked him, “Do you know who Christopher Columbus is?”

  He glanced in his rearview mirror and replied, “Columbus Circle? Columbus Avenue? Where you want to go? You say Federal Plaza.”

  “You never heard of the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa María?”

  “Sir?”

  “Queen Isabella, for God’s sake? Are you marching in the Columbus Day Parade?”

  “Sir?”

  “John. Stop it.”

  “I’m just trying to help him with his citizenship test.”

  “Stop it.”

  I sat back and hummed “Autumn in New York.”

  It being a Federal holiday, the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force was not fully open for business, but Kate had decided to go in anyway to keep me company and catch up on paperwork. We’d have lunch together, then she’d leave to catch the Columbus Day sales.

  Even when we’re working the same schedule, we don’t always travel to work together. Sometimes, one of us takes too long with our makeup, and the other one gets impatient and leaves.

  Kate had the Times in her briefcase, and I asked her for the Sports section, but she gave me Section A instead.

  The front page headline read: RUMSFELD FAVORS FORCEFUL ACTIONS TO FOIL AN ATTACK. The story went on to explain that the U.S. needed to act early during the “pre-crisis period” to foil an attack on the nation. It seemed to me that if Saddam was reading the Times, he’d call his bookie and bet on an invasion in late January.

  The other big story was the car bombing of a nightclub frequented by Westerners on the Indonesian resort island of Bali. This seemed to be a new front in the war of global terrorism. The death toll stood at 184 with more than 300 injured, the largest loss of life since September 11, 2001.

  The Times acknowledged that the attack was probably the work of Islamic “extremists.” Good guess. Good New York Times word, too. Why call them terrorists or murderers? That’s so judgmental. Adolf Hitler was an extremist.

  We weren’t going to win the war on terrorism until we won the war of the words.

  I turned to the Times crossword puzzle and asked Kate, “What’s the definition of a moderate Arab?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A guy who ran out of ammunition.”

  She shook her head, but Ziad laughed.

  Humor really bridges the gap between different cultures.

  Kate observed, “This is going to be a long day.”

  As it turned out, she was right.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Harry wasn’t at his desk when we got to 26 Federal Plaza at five to 9:00, and he wasn’t there at 9:15, or 9:30. As per my last conversation with him, he was supposed to see Walsh today. Walsh was in, Harry was not.

  The office was quiet for a change, and I counted three NYPD at their desks, and one FBI—Kate. Also, the command post center, elsewhere on the 26th floor, would be manned by at least one duty agent monitoring the phones, radios, and Internet. Hopefully, the terrorists were leaf watching in New England for the long weekend.

  I called Harry Muller’s cell phone at 9:45 and left a message, then I called his house in Queens and left a message on his answering machine. Then I beeped him, which, in this business, is official.

  At five after 10:00, Kate came across the floor and said to me, “Tom Walsh wants to see us.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no idea. Have you spoken to him yet?”

  “No.” Kate and I walked to Walsh’s corner office. The door was open and we entered.

  Walsh stood and met us halfway, which is usually a sign that you’re not in deep doo. He motioned us to the round table near the window and we sat. The table was strewn with papers and folders, very unlike when Jack Koenig occupied this office.

  On his big picture window, about where you could once see the Twin Towers, was a black decal showing the towers, with the words 9/11—NEVER FORGET!

  It was, as I said, a nice fall day, like the one a year and a month ago when the attacks happened. If it weren’t for the meeting at Windows on the World, Jack would probably have been here in his office and witnessed it as it happened. David Stein, too, would have seen it from his corner office. As it turned out, they saw it from much closer.

  Tom Walsh began, “John, the computer security people inform me that you used your password to try to access a restricted file on Friday.”

  “That’s right.” I looked at Walsh. He was young to be the special agent in charge, about forty, black Irish, not bad-looking, and unmarried. He had the reputation of being a ladies’ man, and also a teetotaler, making him an Irish queer—a guy who preferred women over whiskey.

  He asked me, “What is your interest in that file?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Tom. I couldn’t get into it, so I don’t know if I had any interest in it.”

  He stared at me, showing a little impatience, I thought.

  I used to think I didn’t like Jack Koenig’s Teutonic style, and I thought I’d like Walsh, being half-Irish myself, but this was a case of the job shaping the man—nurture over nature or whatever.

  He said, “What the hell is ‘Iraqi Camel Club Weapons of Mass Destruction’?”

  “Just me being silly.” I glanced at Kate, but she wasn’t amused, only confused.

  “I see.” He looked at Kate, his fellow FBI straight arrow, and asked her, “Did you mention that surveillance to John?”

  “I did, but not until Sunday.”

  Walsh said to me, “So, Harry Muller mentioned it to you.”

  You never rat out a brother cop, so I replied, “Harry Muller? What’s he got to do with the custard . . . ? What’s it called?”

  “All right . . . it’s irrelevant, anyway.”

  “I agree. And while I’m here, can I make a formal complaint about you asking my wife for permission to send me on an assignment upstate?”

  “I wasn’t asking her permission. I was just extending both of you a courtesy. You’re married, and I wanted to see if this interfered with any personal plans you had for the holiday weekend.”

  “Next time, ask me.”

  “Fine. Point made.”

  “Why did my name pop into your head?”

  Walsh didn’t seem to want to discuss this, but he replied, “Obviously, I thought you’d be the best man for the job.”

  “Tom, as you may know, the last rural surveillance I did was in Central Park, and I got lost for two days.”

  He smiled politely, then said, “Well, I was thinking more in terms of other aspects of the surveillance.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, for one thing, this surveillance involved trespassing on private land without a warrant, which is right up your alley. Also, this place—the Custer Hill Club—has good security, and there was a chance of the surveillance person being stopped and questioned by private guards, and I knew you could handle that.” He informed me, “The members of this club are people with some political influence in Washington.”

  I was b
eginning to see why no one wanted to ask a judge for a search warrant. Aside from that, there seemed to be a disconnect between what Harry Muller told me—routine surveillance, file building, and so forth—and what Tom Walsh just said. Since Harry would not lie to me, I concluded that Harry had not been fully briefed by Walsh.

  I said to Walsh, “So, bottom line, you needed a cop to take the fall if anything went wrong.”

  “That’s totally not true. Let’s move on.” Tom Walsh looked at both of us and said, “We haven’t heard from Harry Muller.”

  I had figured that’s why we were all in his office, but I had hoped it wasn’t. “Were you supposed to hear from him?”

  “Only if there was a problem.”

  “Sometimes, Tom, when there’s a problem, that’s when you don’t hear.”

  “Thank you for your insight. Okay, let me tell you what I know.” He began, “Harry Muller, as you know, left here before five P.M. Friday. He went to Tech Support, got what he needed, and went to the garage for his camper, which he’d taken to work in anticipation of this assignment. Jennifer Lupo happened to see him in the garage, they exchanged a few words, and that was the last person we know who saw him.” He continued, “The next time he was heard from was a cell-phone call he made to his girlfriend, Lori Bahnik, at seven forty-eight A.M. Saturday morning.”

  There was a recording device on the table, and Walsh hit a button. Harry’s voice said, “Hi, babe. It’s your one and only. I’m up here in the mountains, so maybe I won’t have good reception for very long. But I wanted to say hi, I got up here last night about midnight, slept in the camper, and now I’m on-duty, near the right-wing loony lodge. So don’t call back, but I’ll call you later from a landline if I can’t reach you by cell phone. Okay? I still need to do something at the local airport later today or tomorrow morning, so I might need to stay overnight. I’ll let you know when I know. Speak to you later. Love you.”

  Walsh commented, “So, we know he got there, and we know he was near the subject property. At nine-sixteen A.M., she called him back and left a message on his cell phone, which we recovered from the phone company.” He hit the button again and Lori Bahnik’s voice 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. Be careful of those right-wing loonies. They like their guns. Take care.”

  I said to Walsh, “Obviously, you’ve spoken to her.”

  “Yes. This morning. She told me that at about four P.M. Saturday, she received a text message from Harry on her cell phone which said . . .” He glanced at a piece of paper on the table and read, “‘Sorry I missed your call—bad reception here—ran into some friends—fishing and hiking—see you Monday.’”

  None of us raised the obvious point that the text message could have come from someone other than Harry. But apparently Lori thought it was from him because Walsh informed us, “She was not happy. She called him when she got the text message, and he didn’t answer. She continued calling and leaving messages and also paged him four or five times. Her last message to him was Sunday evening. She described to me her messages as increasingly angry and emotional. She told him if he didn’t return her calls, they were through.”

  I asked him, “At what point did her anger turn to worry?”

  “At about ten P.M. Sunday night. She had the after-hours number here and called. She spoke to the FBI duty agent—Ken Reilly—and told him about her concern.”

  I nodded. I’ve gotten calls like that from girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands, and wives. You do the best you can to determine if there actually is a cause for concern. In about 100 percent of those cases, the loved one was not dead but would be when he or she got home.

  Walsh continued, “Ken tried to reassure her, but girlfriends don’t get the same courtesy as a wife or family member, so he didn’t offer much assistance. He did take her number and told her he’d call her back if he heard anything. He actually tried Harry’s cell phone and beeper but got no response.” Walsh added, “He wasn’t concerned.”

  In truth, there was no reason why he should be, except for Harry’s failure to answer his beeper. On the one hand, it was the weekend, and agents have been known to forget their beeper, or to be in, say, a loud bar or quiet bed where the beeper may not be noticed or acknowledged. On the other hand, Harry was on-duty. I said, “Maybe the problem is just bad reception.”

  Walsh nodded and continued, “When I got here at eight, I pulled up the weekend duty agent’s reports and saw Ken Reilly’s entry about Lori Bahnik and Harry Muller. I wasn’t concerned, but I called Harry’s cell phone, and house, and beeped him. Then I called Ms. Bahnik and spoke to her. Then, I made a few other calls, including one to the FBI field office in Albany. I asked the SAC in Albany, Gary Melius, to begin a missing-agent response, and he said he would, though I sensed he wasn’t quite sure if Detective Muller was missing in action or missing on purpose. In any case, the SAC notified the state police, and they in turn were to notify the local police, who know the area but don’t have a lot of manpower. They’re checking local hospitals, but so far, no admissions under that name, and no unidentified admissions.”

  He looked at Kate and me, trying to determine, I guess, how this was playing with us and, by extension, how it was going to play when he related his immediate responses to people higher up the chain.

  He continued, “The state police ran Harry Muller through DMV, and they have the make, model, color, and plate number of his camper. As of fifteen minutes ago, the vehicle hasn’t turned up . . . but it’s a huge wilderness, and it may take a while even if the vehicle is still in the area.”

  Kate asked, “Is his cell phone or beeper giving off any signals?”

  “The phone company is still working on that. As of now, the answer is no.”

  As per my conversation with Harry, I knew he was supposed to be here this morning, but Walsh hadn’t mentioned it yet, so I asked him, “Was Harry supposed to report to you today?”

  “Yes. He was supposed to drop off his equipment and his digital camera disks to Tech no later than nine A.M., then see me for a debriefing.”

  “And yet, you’re not quite at the point where you’re worried.”

  “I’m concerned. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he called right now or walked into this office.”

  “I would. Harry Muller would not miss a meeting with a supervisor.”

  Walsh didn’t respond.

  I wasn’t too thrilled with Tom Walsh’s laid-back management style, but new guys on the job needed to be careful not to call the director of the FBI to report that the sky was falling.

  And, of course, there was the other dimension to this problem, which was the Custer Hill Club itself. If Harry Muller had been staking out Abdul Salami in the woods and disappeared, the response would have been very different.

  Also, to be cynical, if Harry Muller was FBI and not NYPD, the response may have been a little quicker, holiday weekend notwithstanding. In fact, FBI Agent Ken Reilly may have called Tom Walsh on Sunday night. Not that the safety of a cop is less important than that of an FBI agent; it has more to do with the unfortunate and partly deserved reputation of New York’s Finest being free spirits.

  I asked Walsh, “Do you think Harry’s disappearance is directly related to his assignment?”

  Walsh had a ready answer. “I don’t want to speculate on the nature of his disappearance, but if I did, I’d say that it’s possible that Harry Muller met with an accident. There are millions of acres of wilderness in that area, and it’s possible that he’s lost or hurt. He could have broken a leg, stepped in a bear trap, or even been attacked by a bear. And from what the Albany SAC told me, people up there sometimes hunt off-season. Harry was most probably wearing camouflage and may have been accidentally shot by a hunter.” He continued, “There are all sorts of dangers in the wilderness. That’s why it’s called the wilderness.”r />
  Kate commented, “That’s why it’s not a good idea to send someone there alone. He should have had a partner.”

  Walsh replied, “In retrospect, that may be true. But I’ve run dozens of rural surveillances with a lone agent. The Adirondacks are not the African jungle.”

  “But you just said—”

  “Don’t second-guess me on this. This is standard procedure, and you never raised that issue when we discussed sending John. Let’s address the immediate problem.”

  I thought Walsh was the immediate problem, so I addressed him. “Tom, what exactly is the Custer Hill Club?”

  He considered a moment, then replied, “I don’t see how this relates to finding Harry, but if you want an answer . . . from what I know, which is not much, it’s a very private and exclusive hunting and fishing club whose members are mostly wealthy, or powerful, or both.”

  “You also said they had political influence.”

  “That’s what I was told. I’d say the membership is about half Washington and half Wall Street.”

  “Where do you get your information?”

  “I was briefed. Don’t ask.” He added, “I’m sure the actual and complete list of club members is not public information, which is why someone in the Justice Department wanted a surveillance of this meeting.”

  “Who called you?”

  “That’s actually none of your business.”

  “Good answer.” Regarding Harry’s phone message to his girlfriend, I asked Walsh, “What was Harry supposed to do at the airport? Which airport?”

  Walsh hesitated before he responded, then said, “Adirondack Regional Airport. Some of the people who were to attend this weekend gathering probably arrived by commercial carrier—they have commuter-plane service there. Harry was to go to the airport Saturday or early Sunday morning and get printouts of the passenger manifests.”

  I nodded. Walsh forgot to mention that airline-passenger manifests could be accessed from anywhere the airline had a computer, or even right here from 26 Fed with the airlines’ cooperation. Therefore, Harry’s other assignment at the airport was to find out who arrived by private or chartered aircraft. And then there were car rentals, and a copy of those rental contracts would be very useful in trying to determine who may have attended this meeting. I was starting to think I might want to follow up on this myself.