Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  “Okay, okay. Madox is going to ship them someplace out of the country. My guess is the Mideast, or another Islamic country.” She went on, “I called Garrett Aviation Service back and got a guy on the phone who said that the Cessna Citation could not make a Pacific crossing unless it went up the West Coast to Alaska, then the Aleutian Islands, then Japan, and so forth.” She pointed out, “This would involve many refueling stops, not to mention customs checks along the way. So, I think we can rule that out.”

  I nodded and processed all this. Madox’s Cessna Citations had landed Sunday night in LA and San Francisco. The pilots and co-pilots had left no local address, but had indicated that they were flying out Wednesday—tomorrow—and heading back to New York. And I was sure that the pilots thought they were, and maybe they really were. Meanwhile, where was their cargo? Most probably it was not with them any longer.

  I said to Kate, “I’m thinking that Madox is going to use—or has already used—one of his own oil tankers to transport these nukes someplace. That is why his aircraft landed in seaport cities.”

  Kate nodded. “I came to the same conclusion, and I asked Doug to begin a search of ships and containers at both ports, beginning with GOCO-owned ships.” She said unnecessarily, “This is a big job. But if they get the NEST teams activated soon, and the port security people, who also have gamma-ray and neutron detectors, we might get lucky.”

  “Right . . . but they need to sweep not only ships and containers but also warehouses and trucks . . . and for all we know, those nukes are going to be shipped by commercial air carriers.”

  “They’re also checking all area airports.”

  “Okay. But this really is like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  “These needles are radioactive, and we have a good chance of finding them.”

  “Maybe, if they’re still in LA and San Francisco. But here’s a more likely scenario—those nukes are already on their way by sea or air to their final destinations. I mean, it’s been almost two days since they arrived on the West Coast.”

  “You may be right, but we need to search for them in these cities in case they’re still there.” She added, “It will be easier to find the pilots, especially if they turn up at LAX and SFO tomorrow.”

  “Right. Okay, here’s the bottom line on those pilots. It would be nice to find them, but I don’t think the FBI will find them with their suitcases. The pilots will, however, know where they delivered the suitcases, or maybe who picked them up. But the trail will probably end there.” I pointed out, “Unfortunately, we’re about forty-eight hours late on this, and the next time those suitcase nukes are seen, it will be in the form of four mushroom clouds over Sandland.”

  Kate stood silent and motionless for a while. “God, I hope not.”

  “Yeah.” Well, it seemed that Kate and what’s his name in LA had done all they could on short notice, and they’d done a good job—though this was not rocket science, or nuclear physics for that matter. It was standard police and FBI work, and it would yield the four pilots, and maybe even some information about the suitcase nukes. The problem, however, was—as it had always been with this case—time. Madox had started the game before the visiting team had even shown up, and he had points on the board before his opponents took the field.

  But there was, possibly, good news. A weak link in this nuclear chain. I said to Kate, “The ELF transmitter. That is how he is going to detonate those bombs.”

  She nodded. “That’s what ELF was about. Each bomb must have an extremely low frequency receiver connected to the detonating device. The ELF waves, as we discovered, can travel around the world and penetrate anything. So, when the bombs are where Madox wants them to be, he sends a code from here, and within an hour, the signal reaches the receivers in the suitcases, wherever in the world they are.”

  “Right. So it seems as though this asshole built this elaborate ELF station almost twenty years ago to send bogus messages to the U.S. nuclear submarine fleet in order to start World War III. But that didn’t work out, so now he’s figured out another way to make his investment pay off.”

  Kate nodded and said, “It all makes sense now.”

  “Right . . . and Putyov was the guy who did whatever he had to do with those suitcase nukes to make them detonate by way of an ELF wave.”

  “Also, I discovered online that miniature nuclear weapons need periodic maintenance, so that was also Putyov’s job.”

  “The late Dr. Putyov.”

  Kate nodded.

  I asked, rhetorically, “Where the hell did Madox get these nukes?” Then I answered my own question. “I guess they’re for sale from our new friends in Russia—which is why Madox hired a Russian. Shit, I couldn’t even find a good Swedish mechanic to fix my old Volvo, and fucking Madox has a Russian nuclear physicist to tune up his atomic bombs.” I added, “It’s all about money.”

  “Money and madness are not a good combination.”

  “Good point. Okay . . . so, I guess four cities someplace are in trouble in a few days . . . or a few hours—Islamic cities. Right?”

  “Right. What else makes sense?”

  I thought about who might be in Madox’s crosshairs. But the potential targets were too numerous to count. And it depended to some extent on if those nukes were being transported by air or sea or some combination of air, sea, and land. I wouldn’t put it past this guy to nuke Mecca or Medina, but maybe this was purely a business deal, and he’d picked oil-shipment points in countries that had pissed him off. Bottom line—what difference did it make?

  Kate said, “Well, I think I did everything I could, and Doug is going to do everything he can.”

  “Yeah . . .” I glanced at my watch. “This will give the LA field office something to do before their evening aerobics classes.”

  “John—”

  “But on the subject of who knows what, and when—Washington does know something about this. It’s just that they forgot to tell us about it.”

  No comment from FBI Special Agent Mayfield.

  “That’s the only way Harry’s assignment makes any sense.” I continued, “The Justice Department and therefore the FBI in Washington know what Madox is up to. Right?”

  “I don’t know. But, as I told you, this was something a lot bigger than you realized when you started sticking your nose into a Justice Department investigation.”

  “I think we both understand that.” I said to Kate, “Here are two conspiracy theories for you: one, the government knows what’s going on at Custer Hill, and Harry was the sacrificial lamb sent to give the FBI an excuse to bust down Madox’s doors and arrest him. But here’s a better one—the government knows what’s going on at Custer Hill, and Harry was the sacrificial lamb sent to get Madox and his friends off their asses so that they’d pull the trigger on those nukes.”

  Kate shook her head. “That is insane.”

  “Yeah? Do you see FBI SWAT teams descending on the Custer Hill Club?”

  “No . . . but . . . they may be waiting for the right time—”

  “If that’s true, they may have waited a little too long.” I reminded her, “Harry was at Custer Hill Saturday morning. Madox’s meeting with his friends was Saturday and Sunday. Putyov showed up on Sunday morning to tune up the nukes. Madox’s aircraft landed on the West Coast Sunday night. Monday was probably the day the nukes were making their way to Sandland. Today is Tuesday, and Potsdam Diesel is finished tuning up the generators.” I concluded, “Sometime tonight or tomorrow is detonation day.”

  Kate didn’t reply.

  “And Madox is not acting alone. It was not a coincidence that his weekend guests included two, possibly three, and maybe more high-ranking men in the government. Hell, for all we know, the directors of the FBI and the CIA are in on this.” I added, “Maybe it goes higher than that.”

  She thought for a few seconds, then said, “Okay . . . but does it matter at this point who else may be involved with Madox, or who knows about this? The point is, if this
is what it seems to be, then I’ve done the right thing by calling the FBI field office in LA—”

  “I assume you didn’t tell your friend about Madox, ELF, or where you were calling from, or—”

  “No . . . because . . . I wanted to speak to you first. What if I’m wrong about all of this? I mean, if you think about it, there could be another explanation for everything—”

  “Kate, you’re not wrong. We are not wrong. Harry was not wrong. It’s all very clear. Madox, nuke, ELF. Plus, Putyov.”

  “I know. I know. Okay, so now we have to contact Tom Walsh and have him officially notify FBI Headquarters as to the source of this information, meaning me . . . and you, and what we’re basing this—”

  “Right.” I looked at my watch again and saw it was 6:10 P.M. “You do that. Meanwhile, I have a dinner date.”

  She stood and said, “No. There’s no reason to go there.”

  “Sweetheart, Madox is tuning up his ELF transmitter, awaiting some sort of message that his four suitcase nukes are where they’re supposed to be. Then, an ELF wave will be making its way slowly across the continent, and the Pacific Ocean—or the other way across the Atlantic—until it’s picked up by the ELF receivers in those four suitcases.” I added, “Millions of people will die, and a radioactive cloud will blow across the planet. The least I can do is try to stop this at its source.”

  She thought about that, then said, “I’m going with you.”

  “No, you’re going to call out the cavalry and get them to the Custer Hill Club—without a fucking search warrant or probable cause or any of that crap—by telling them truthfully that a Federal agent is on the property and is in danger.”

  “No—”

  “Call Walsh, call Schaeffer, call the local sheriff if you have to, and call Liam Griffith and tell him where he can find John Corey. But give me a thirty-minute head start.”

  She didn’t reply.

  I went to the kitchen table and got my act together by loading my two Glock magazines with 9mm rounds and clipping the two BearBanger launchers in my shirt pocket alongside my pen, and finally putting on my new socks, which didn’t seem so important any longer. Also, I couldn’t think of a use for the air horn, but I took it anyway, in case Rudy’s van horn didn’t work.

  While I was doing this, Kate was banging away at the laptop, and I asked her, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m sending an e-mail to Tom Walsh, telling him to contact Doug in LA, and revealing that I was the source of the information.”

  “Don’t send it until you hear from me.” I added, “I hope Walsh is checking his e-mail tonight.”

  “He usually does.”

  On that subject, the FBI still has only internal, “secured” e-mail, so, as unbelievable as it sounds, Kate could not e-mail Walsh’s FBI account, and couldn’t reach or copy anyone in the office, such as the after-hours duty agent. Therefore, she was e-mailing to Walsh’s personal account, hoping he checked it regularly. And this is a year after 9/11.

  I said to her, “Okay, I’ll call you on my cell phone when I get close to the Custer Hill Club.”

  “Hold on. Okay, I sent it to a service. Delayed send for seven P.M.” She unplugged the laptop, placed it on the kitchen table, then put on her suede jacket. “Who’s driving?”

  “Since I’m the only one going, I guess I’ll drive.”

  She put the box of .40-caliber ammo in her purse along with the two magazines, then picked up the laptop and walked to the door. I held her arm and asked her, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  She reminded me, “You said Madox specifically asked for me, darling. You wanted me to go. So, I’m going.”

  I informed her, “The situation has changed.”

  “It certainly has. I’ve done all I can here.” She pointed out, “You put me through two days of shit to get where we are—now, I want to be in on the action. And you’re wasting time.” She pulled away from me, opened the door, and walked outside. I followed her.

  It was dark now and cold. As we walked to the van, I said to Kate, “I appreciate your concern for me, but—”

  “This has more to do with me than you, for a change.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “I don’t work for you. You work for me.”

  “Well, technically—”

  “You drive.”

  She got in the passenger seat of the van, and I got in the driver’s seat and drove toward the main house.

  Kate said, “Also, I am concerned about you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You need supervision.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Stop here.”

  I stopped at Wilma and Ned’s house, and Kate said, “Here. Return Wilma’s laptop. She has ten minutes before her auction closes.”

  I had no idea what that meant, but it sounded important, so I took the laptop, got out, and rang the bell.

  The door opened, and Wilma stood there. She looked like a Wilma, and I wouldn’t want to arm wrestle her for the laptop.

  She looked me over, then glanced at the van and saw Kate. She informed me, “I don’t want no trouble here.”

  “Me, neither. Okay, here’s your laptop. Thanks.”

  “What do I say if the husband comes looking for her?”

  “Tell the truth.” I said to her, “Do me a favor. If we’re not back by morning, call Major Hank Schaeffer at the state police headquarters in Ray Brook. Schaeffer. Okay? Tell him John left some stuff for him at the Pond House.” I added, “Good luck with the auction.”

  She glanced at her watch, said, “Oh . . . God . . . ,” and shut the door.

  I got back in the van, and off we went.

  Kate was loading her two magazines and commented, “This van is gross.”

  “You think?” I related my brief conversation with Wilma, and Kate responded, “We’ll be back before morning.”

  That was optimistic.

  The dashboard clock said 3:10, which may have been wrong. My watch said 6:26, and we’d be fashionably late for cocktails.

  I had this sense that somewhere, someplace, another clock was ticking.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  As I drove, I asked Kate, “What did you put in that e-mail to Walsh?”

  “I told you.”

  “I hope you didn’t mention that we were on the way to the Custer Hill Club for cocktails and dinner.”

  “I did.”

  “You weren’t supposed to do that. Now, the posse may intercept us—or be there ahead of us.”

  “No, they won’t. I told you, I sent the e-mail to a service that will send it later. Delayed send, at seven P.M.”

  “I never heard of that.”

  “It was specifically invented for situations like this, and for people like you.”

  “Really? That’s neat.”

  She explained, “You want to be inside the Custer Hill lodge before anyone knows we’re even going there. And by the time Tom Walsh reads my message, we are, hopefully, resolving some issues there. Correct?”

  “Right.”

  “And, we’ll be heroes.”

  “Right.”

  “Or dead.”

  “Now, don’t be thinking negative thoughts.”

  “Do you want to turn around now?”

  I looked out the windshield. “Why? Did I miss my turn?”

  “John, do you think this might be a good time for you to come to your senses?”

  “No, this is not a good time for that. Did you come along to bug me, or help me?”

  “To help you. But if you drive to the state police headquarters, I’d think you were very smart.”

  “No, you’d think I was a chicken-livered, yellow-bellied, ball-less wimp.”

  “No one would ever call you that. But sometimes, like now, discretion is the better part of valor.”

  “Some wimp made up that expression. Look, I’m not stupid. But this is personal, Kate. This has to do with Harry. Plus, there’s a time element here.” I
explained, “The ELF station is, or will be, up and running, and I don’t know if anyone in law enforcement could get on the Custer Hill property faster than we, who have been invited.”

  “That may or may not be true.”

  “What is true is that I want a piece of that sonofabitch before anyone else gets to him.”

  “I know that. But are you willing to risk a possible nuclear incident to satisfy your personal vendetta?”

  “Hey, you sent that e-mail on a delay.”

  She pointed out, “I can call Major Schaeffer and Liam Griffith right now.”

  “We’re going to do that right before we get to Custer Hill. For now, we need to get there without interference.”

  She didn’t reply to that but instead asked me, “Do you think Madox is going to send that ELF signal tonight?”

  “I don’t know. But we have to assume that our invitation to dinner has something to do with his timeline.” I suggested, “Turn on the radio and see if we hear a breaking news story about nuclear blasts somewhere. If we do, I can slow down and not worry about being late for dinner.”

  She switched on the radio, but nothing happened. “It doesn’t work.”

  “Maybe the ELF waves knocked out AM and FM. Try the ELF channel.”

  “Not funny.”

  I was on Route 56 now, heading toward South Colton, and I took the Hyundai keys out of my pocket and put them in her hand. I said, “I’m stopping at Rudy’s gas station, and you’re taking the Hyundai and driving to state police headquarters.”

  She opened the window and tossed out the keys.

  “That’s going to cost me fifty bucks.”

  “All right, John, we’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Let’s take this opportunity to discuss what to expect, and what we need to say, and do. Plus, we should discuss some contingency plans, and what our objective is in going there.”

  “You mean a game plan?”

  “Yes, a game plan.”

  “Okay. Well, I thought we’d play it by ear.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “All right . . . well, first, don’t allow a metal scan. And certainly not a frisk.”

  “Goes without saying.”