Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  Dick was also briefly assigned to the ATTF, where he’d gotten a top secret clearance and learned how the Feds worked, so when he retired he got a gig doing background checks for the FBI on a freelance basis. He’s in a growth industry since 9/11, and he’s making more money than he ever did as a cop with half the stress. Good for Dick.

  The small talk out of the way, I said to him, “Dick, I need some info on a guy.”

  “Okay, but I’m up to my ears in work. I’ll do what I can. When do you need it?”

  “Noon.”

  He laughed. “I have ten background checks I’m doing for the FBI, and they’re all late.”

  “Give them all top secret clearances and send the bill. Look, for now, I just need some public-record stuff and maybe a few phone calls to follow up.”

  “Noon?”

  I noticed that some of the staff seemed interested in my conversation, so I lowered my voice and said to Dick, “It may be a matter of national security.”

  “And you’re calling me? Why don’t you have your own office do it?”

  “I asked, and they referred me to you. You’re the best.”

  “John, are you sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong again?”

  Apparently, Dick remembered that he’d helped me, unofficially, with the TWA 800 case, and now he thought I was up to my old tricks again. I was, but why trouble him with that? I said, “I’ll owe you a big favor.”

  “You owe me from the last time. Hey, whatever happened with that TWA 800 thing?”

  “Nothing. You ready to copy?”

  “John, I do this for a living. If I help you, I could go broke, get fired, or get arrested.”

  “First name, Mikhail.” I spelled it.

  He sighed, spelled it back to me, and asked, “Russki?”

  “Probably. Last name, Putyov.” I spelled it, and he confirmed.

  “I hope you’ve got more than that.”

  “I’m going to make this easy for you. I’ve got a car-rental agreement, and unless this guy used false ID, I’ve got all you need.”

  “Good. Let’s have it.”

  I read him all the pertinent information from the Enterprise rental agreement, including Putyov’s address, which was Cambridge, Massachusetts. Dick said, “Okay, this should be easy. What’s this guy up to? What is your area of interest?”

  “I don’t know what he’s up to, but I think I need to know what he does for a living.”

  “That comes with the basic package. Where do I send my bill?”

  “To my ex-wife.” Dick didn’t need any more reason to do this other than to help a former brother in blue, but to make sure he was motivated beyond the national security angle, I said to him, “Do you remember a guy I work with at 26 Fed—Harry Muller?”

  “Yeah . . . retired from the job . . . you mentioned him.”

  “Right. Well, he’s dead. Died up here, around Saranac Lake. You may see an obit or a piece in the papers, and the story may say he was killed in a hunting accident. But he was murdered.”

  “Jeez . . . Harry Muller? What happened?”

  “That’s what I’m here to find out.”

  “And this Russian guy is involved?”

  “He’s involved with the guy who I think did the murder.”

  “Okay . . . so . . . noon, right? How do I reach you?”

  “Bad cell reception here. I’ll call you. Be reachable.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Thanks. Best to Mo.”

  “Hello to Kate.”

  I hung up and left the kitchen. I needed to find a better place to run this operation.

  I made my way out of the Great Hall, into the rotunda, then out the door, where I saw my car with Kate at the wheel.

  I jumped in the passenger seat and said, “Okay, we’ll know something about Mikhail Putyov by noon.”

  She put the Taurus in gear and off we went.

  I looked at the dashboard clock. “Do you think we can get there in thirty minutes?”

  “That’s why I’m driving, John.”

  “Do I need to remind you of your sheer panic in Manhattan traffic?”

  “I don’t panic . . . I practice tactical evasion techniques.”

  “So does everyone around you.”

  “Very funny. Hey, what’s in the backseat?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “Oh, I thought ahead and had the chef pack us a picnic lunch.”

  “Good thinking. Did you meet him?”

  “I did. Henry. Henri. Whatever.”

  “Were you awful?”

  “Of course not. He’s doing pigs-in-the-blanket during cocktails. Just for me.”

  I don’t think she believed me.

  We passed through the gates, down the narrow, tree-lined lane, and turned onto the road. Kate gassed it, and we were off to see the state police unless they saw us first and pulled us over for reckless driving.

  Kate inquired, “Anything new with Major Schaeffer?”

  “There is. He took my advice and began surveillance on the Custer Hill property.”

  “And?”

  “And, that Enterprise rental car we saw there, which was Putyov’s, was returned last night to the airport.”

  “So, Putyov’s gone?”

  “If he is, he didn’t leave last night from the airport. He . . . or maybe it was someone else driving his car . . . went back to the Custer Hill Club in a van.” As she drove, I filled her in, then took the rental agreement from my pocket and perused it. I said, “This guy Putyov rented the car Sunday morning. That means he flew in that day on the flight from Boston or Albany—”

  “Boston,” she said. “I checked the flight manifests. Mikhail Putyov arrived at Adirondack Regional Airport, Lake Saranac, at nine twenty-five A.M. Sunday.”

  “Right. He lives in Cambridge.” I glanced at the rental agreement. “Putyov rented the car for two days, so he was supposed to turn it in today. Instead, it was returned to the airport parking lot last night.” I asked her, “Did you check the flight reservations we got from Betty?”

  “I did. Putyov is scheduled to depart today on the twelve forty-five to Boston.”

  “Okay. We’ll check that out.” I thought a moment, then said, “I’m wondering why Putyov came in for this gathering later than the others, and why he is apparently still there after everyone else has left.”

  “That depends on why he’s there. Maybe he has oil business with Madox.”

  “Mr. Madox is a busy man. And a multi-tasker. A social weekend with old and powerful friends, then he murders a Federal agent, then he winds up the weekend with a Russian from Cambridge, Massachusetts. I don’t know how he fit us into his schedule.”

  Kate commented, “I don’t think Harry was part of his weekend plans.”

  But he may have been.

  We headed east on Route 86, and Kate seemed to be having fun passing in the oncoming lane as huge trucks hurtled toward us. I said, “Slow down.”

  “I can’t. The gas pedal’s stuck, and the brakes are gone. So just close your eyes and get some sleep.”

  Kate, raised in a rural area, has a lot of these stupid on-the-road jokes, none of which I find funny.

  I kept my eyes open and stared out the windshield.

  Kate said to me, “I need to call John Nasseff. Do you know him?”

  “No, but he has a nice first name.”

  “He’s NCID, attached to the ATTF.”

  I replied, “W-H-A-T?”

  “Naval Criminal Investigation Division, John. He’s a commo guy.”

  “Ask him about my cell phone.”

  She ignored that and continued, “I was thinking about Fred, the Navy veteran. So, if that clue has any relevance at all, then we should ask a Navy commo guy about ELF and see if we hit on something.”

  I wasn’t sure I was completely following this line of reasoning, but Kate might be onto something. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be calling 26 Federal Plaza with questions like that. I said, “I’d rather not
call our office.”

  “Why not? That’s where we work.”

  “Yeah, but you know how everyone there gossips.”

  “They don’t gossip. They exchange and provide information. Information is power. Right?”

  “Only when you keep it to yourself. Let’s just go online and learn about ELF.”

  “You go online. I’m calling the expert.”

  “Okay . . . but make it like a parlor game, like, ‘Hey, John, we have this bet going about extremely low frequency radio waves. My sister says they can hard-boil an egg, my husband says they’ll fry your brain.’ Okay?”

  “Do you want him to think we’re idiots?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m not as good as you are at playing stupid.”

  “Then I’ll call him.”

  “We’ll both call him.”

  We arrived in the hamlet of Ray Brook, and Kate slowed down. About two blinks later, we pulled into the parking lot of the state police headquarters. It was 8:05 A.M.

  Kate took her briefcase, and we got out of the Taurus and started walking toward the building, but a car suddenly pulled out of a parking space and stopped right in front of us.

  I wasn’t sure what that was about, but I was on my guard.

  The driver’s-side window went down, and Hank Schaeffer stuck his head out. “Jump in.”

  We got in his car, an unmarked Crown Victoria, I in the front, Kate in the back.

  I wondered why he was waiting for us in the parking lot instead of the lobby, but he clarified the situation by saying, “I have company this morning.”

  I didn’t need to ask.

  He pulled onto the road and said, “Six of them. Three from the New York field office, two from Washington, and one from your shop.”

  I said, “They’re from the government, and they’re here to help you.”

  “They’re helping themselves to my files.”

  Kate, in the back, said, “Excuse me. I’m FBI.”

  I turned to her. “We’re not criticizing the FBI, darling.”

  No reply.

  I asked Schaeffer, “Who’s here from the ATTF?”

  “Guy named Liam Griffith. Know him?”

  “Indeed. He’s from the Office of Professional Responsibility.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “That’s Fed talk for Internal Affairs.”

  “Really? Well, he’s looking for both of you.”

  I glanced back at Kate, who seemed a little upset.

  Some people called Liam Griffith the Enforcer, but the younger guys who’d seen The Matrix too many times called him the Agent in Black. I called him a prick.

  I recalled that Griffith was supposed to be at that meeting in Windows on the World, but he’d been either late or uninvited. In any case, he’d escaped the fate of everyone who’d been there that morning.

  Also, I’d had a few run-ins with Mr. Griffith during the TWA 800 case, and my last words to him in the bar at Ecco’s had been, “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

  He took my suggestion, though he didn’t take it well.

  Now, he was back.

  Kate asked Schaeffer, “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him you’d probably stop in today. He said he’d like to see you both when you arrive.” He added, “I figured you’d want to postpone that.”

  I said to Schaeffer, “Thanks.”

  He didn’t acknowledge that. “Your boss, Tom Walsh, called right after you left. He asked what we discussed, and I referred him to you.”

  I replied, “Good. I referred him to you. Did you tell him we were staying at The Point?”

  “No. Why?”

  I glanced back at Kate, then said to Schaeffer, “Well, he left a message for us there.”

  Schaeffer reiterated, “I didn’t mention it.”

  Maybe, I thought, the FBI guys from the city, or Liam Griffith, had interviewed my friend Max at Hertz. I asked Schaeffer, “Did Walsh say we were assigned to this case?”

  “No. But neither did he say that Griffith was here to pull you off the case. But I think he is.”

  If Kate and I could speak freely now, we’d probably agree that basically we’d been screwed by Tom Walsh. In fact, I couldn’t keep that in, and I said to Kate, “Tom reneged on our deal.”

  She responded, “We don’t know that . . . Maybe Liam Griffith just wants to . . . make us understand the terms of our assignment here.”

  I replied, “I don’t think that’s why Walsh called the Office of Professional Responsibility, or why Griffith would fly here.”

  She didn’t answer, but Schaeffer said, “Last I heard, you had seven days to crack the case, and until I hear otherwise, you’re the investigating team.”

  “Correct,” I said.

  Meanwhile, I needed to keep one step ahead of Liam Griffith.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Less than an hour after we’d left Ray Brook, we turned off Route 56 at Stark Road.

  Our cell phones and beepers had been unusually quiet all morning, which would have been a real treat if it wasn’t so ominous.

  In fact, our usual phone pal, Tom Walsh, was lying low now that the Enforcer, Liam Griffith, was on the prowl. At this point, Walsh and Griffith had chatted a few times, speculating as to the whereabouts of Detective Corey and Special Agent Mayfield, a.k.a. the renegade agents.

  I was certain that Griffith had assured Walsh that the miscreants would be along shortly, and that before they got halfway across the lobby of state police headquarters, they’d be in his custody and headed out to the airport, where an FBI helicopter was waiting to take them back to Manhattan.

  Well, that wasn’t going to happen.

  I shut off my cell phone and beeper and motioned for Kate to do the same.

  Schaeffer took the same route that Rudy had given us, and within fifteen minutes, we were at the T-intersection where McCuen Pond Road ran north to the Custer Hill Club gatehouse.

  Close to the intersection, I saw an orange pickup truck with a state seal on the door parked on the shoulder. Two men in coveralls were clearing brush.

  Schaeffer slowed down and said to us, “State police.”

  He stopped, and the two guys recognized the boss and came up to the car. They looked like they wanted to salute, but they were undercover, so they just nodded and said, “Good morning, Major.”

  Schaeffer asked, “Any activity?”

  One of them replied, “No, sir. Nothing going in or out. Quiet.”

  He joked, “Don’t work too hard. That’ll blow your civil service cover.”

  Both troopers got off good laughs for the boss, and we moved on.

  Schaeffer said to us, “If they see a vehicle coming from Custer Hill and turning toward Route 56, they’ll radio to an unmarked vehicle who’ll pick up the subject vehicle on the highway, as we did last night with the Custer Hill van and the Enterprise car. If the subject vehicle turns this way, into the woods, then the truck here will follow.”

  Major Schaeffer continued, “Last night, we used a truck from the power company. In a day or so, we’re going to run out of excuses to be at that intersection in the middle of the woods.”

  I asked, “Do you think anyone from the Custer Hill property is even aware of these vehicles?”

  “Absolutely. My guys say the Custer Hill security people run a Jeep out to this road at least twice a day, look around, then go back. Sort of like a perimeter recon.”

  I said, “Bain Madox was an infantry officer.”

  “I know that. And he knows he has to recon outside his perimeter.”

  Madox was also paranoid, which was useful when people really were after you.

  We continued down the logging road, and Kate said, “John, I see what you meant about Harry’s surveillance. It could have been done off the property, back there where Major Schaeffer has his team.”

  “Right. One way in, one way out.” And for those guests arriving in the Custer Hill van from the airport, there should
have been a stakeout at the airport to see who arrived on the Boston and Albany flights and who went into the van.

  Instead, Walsh sent Harry, alone, onto the property.

  This was either a badly conceived surveillance, done on a shoestring budget, or something else. Like someone wanted Harry Muller caught. Well, not Harry specifically, but any ATTF cop who got handed this assignment to check out so-called domestic terrorism. Like me, for instance.

  As interesting as this thought was, it didn’t make much sense. I should just put this under one of the usual categories of piss-poor planning, desk-chair stupidity, or my bad habit of Monday morning quarterbacking.

  Schaeffer broke into my thoughts. “I wouldn’t dream of criticizing how you people run your assignments, but your friend never had much of a chance to accomplish this surveillance on the property.”

  Neither Kate nor I replied, and Schaeffer continued, “If you’d contacted me, I’d have given you the lay of the land, offered some manpower, and advice.”

  I said, “Sometimes, the Feds can be a little arrogant and secretive.”

  “Yeah. Sometimes.”

  To change the subject while also taking Schaeffer’s advice about using his services, I asked him, “Did you locate Fred?”

  “Who? Oh, the Navy veteran. Not yet. I’ll ask around.”

  Apparently, Major Schaeffer hadn’t spent too much time on locating Fred the vet. Also, I’m sure he didn’t think it was too important. Neither did I, until Kate suggested calling the ATTF Navy commo guy about ELF. You just never know what’s going to lead to something, or what might connect two points that weren’t even on the same page.

  We turned onto a dirt trail that was just wide enough for the car. Schaeffer said, “This is the trail where we found the body a mile or so from here, then we found the camper about three miles further.” He added, “It’s almost six miles from the camper to the perimeter fence of Custer Hill. About an hour-and-a-half hike.”

  Neither Kate nor I responded.

  Major Schaeffer continued, “So, you’re thinking that Harry Muller originally parked the camper much closer, and that he entered the property about eight A.M. Saturday morning, got picked up by the Custer Hill security, then somewhere along the line he was forcefully interrogated, then maybe drugged, and he and his camper were moved onto this trail, where he was murdered, and his camper was driven a few more miles up the trail. Is that about it?”