The Scorching

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “Yes, Norris, teach them a lesson,” Azar said. “They abandoned the lookout towers and made you a forgotten pariah. Now the forests are more vulnerable than they’ve ever been. Teach them the error of their ways. Teach them with fire and flame.”

  Norris shook his head. “You’re a devil, Azar.”

  “No, my friend, you have your own devils, and now you must deal with them.”

  “Untie me,” Norris said. “I need time to think.”

  “Then think wisely, Mr. Norris, before it’s too late,” Azar said. “If you decide to become my bitterest enemy instead of my dark shadow, you won’t leave this warehouse alive.”

  “You’re keeping me a prisoner here?”

  “Only until you come to your senses.”

  “Then you’ll wait forever.”

  “I don’t want to kill you, Mr. Norris.”

  “You can’t kill me, Azar.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve become a part of you. I’m a cancer that you can’t cut out without dying yourself.”

  “Foolish talk. To me, you’re just another infidel.”

  Norris smiled. “You’re a damned liar, and you know it.”

  “Enough of this babble. I already have a comfortable room prepared for you.” Azar grinned like a cobra. “But bear this in mind . . . my young men are willing to die for the cause, and I really don’t need you anymore.”

  * * *

  “We believe Cory Cantwell to be in Los Angeles,” Nasim Azar said.

  “It is a large city,” the Ukrainian said. His native accent was barely perceptible, slightly nasal, the words coming from the back of his throat in a whisper.

  “And that’s why you must find him,” Nasim Azar said. He extended a silver box with a cedarwood lining. “Cigarette?” The Ukrainian took one, and Azar said, “In recent years fatwas have been issued against tobacco. But I ignore them.”

  The Ukrainian lit his cigarette, inhaled and said, “Turkish tobacco from the Black Sea coast, but blended with Virginia.”

  Azar smiled. “You know your cigarettes.”

  “I know many things, but I don’t know where to find your man Cantwell.”

  “He works for the National Wildfire Service, and they have a base complex in Los Angeles,” Azar said. “Begin your investigation there.”

  “I am paid to eradicate targets, not to do detective work,” the Ukrainian said. “My price has now gone up considerably.”

  “And I will pay it,” Azar said.

  “Fifty thousand dollars. Do you have that kind of money?”

  “And more. There is a certain oil-rich sheik who finances my work for the jihad.”

  “Then book me on the first available flight to Los Angeles,” the Ukrainian said. “Half my fee now, the other half when Cantwell is dead.”

  “It shall be done,” Azar said.

  CHAPTER 24

  Jacob Sensor’s voice was even when he spoke to Sarah Milano, but she sensed the tension in the man.

  “You’ve seen the news about the two hunters murdered in Oregon yesterday?” he said.

  “Yes, I saw it,” Sarah said. “CNN says it was the work of some anti-hunting group.”

  “That’s nonsense we put out to the media,” Sensor said. “There was evidence of attempted burning at the site.”

  “In the Willamette National Forest, according to the TV,” Sarah said. She looked at Cory Cantwell and mouthed the name “Jacob Sensor.”

  “Yes, in the Willamette,” Sensor said. “We suspect terrorism, and I want you to leave for Portland immediately. I’ve booked you and Cantwell on a one-fifteen flight.”

  “Mr. Sensor, isn’t this a job for the FBI?” Sarah said. She’d now caught Cantwell’s undivided attention.

  “Yes, it is, but I want the Regulators in on it. Pete Kennedy will join you in Portland, and I have three more Regulators arriving soon.”

  “Sarah, let me have the phone,” Cantwell said, frowning.

  “Superintendent Cantwell wishes to speak with you, Mr. Sensor,” Sarah said, being formal about it. Cantwell took the phone and said, “Mr. Sensor, Cantwell here. I . . .”

  “You know about the hunters killed in Willamette?” Sensor said.

  “Yes, I saw it on the TV news.”

  “I want the Regulators to help find the killers. I want a success story to impress the President.”

  “The news said the hunters were killed by anti-hunting extremists.”

  “That’s bullshit. They were murdered by pyroterrorists. There was grass and tree scorching found at the site.”

  “I don’t think the FBI will welcome us with open arms,” Cantwell said.

  “I’ve ordered them to give you complete cooperation,” Sensor said. “Superintendent Cantwell, this was a terrorist act, and it can’t go unpunished.”

  “I understand that, sir, but . . .”

  “No buts, Superintendent. I need the Regulators to be in on this investigation. This is your big chance to make a name for yourself and finally put the Regulators on the map. Remember, the terrorists tried to burn the forest once, but were interrupted by the hunters. They’ll be back.”

  “How should we proceed? I mean . . .”

  “Let the FBI do the legwork, they’re used to it,” Sensor said. “Just be in at the kill. Superintendent Cantwell, I have every confidence in you. Now, let me talk with Miss Milano again.”

  Sensor had little to add, except to give details of the flight and Pete Kennedy’s phone number. When he hung up, Sarah said, “Mr. Sensor wishes us luck. We’re booked on a Delta flight departing in . . . an hour and fifteen minutes. We’d better hustle, and I’ll tell Catrina Welsh that she can have her cabin back.”

  “Damn it, Sarah, we’re going to be as much use in Portland as a sidesaddle on a sow,” Cantwell said.

  “You know it, I know it, but Jacob Sensor doesn’t know it. Throw your gear together, we’ve got to move,” Sarah said. “We’ll leave the rental car at the airport.”

  “I badly wanted to ask him if he’d iced Nikola Kraljevic,” Cantwell said.

  “If he told you, he’d have to kill you,” Sarah said.

  Cantwell nodded. “And he would too.”

  * * *

  After a stop at San Francisco, the Delta flight landed in a rainstorm at Portland International Airport at seven-thirty with night coming down. Cantwell rented a Toyota RAV4, tossed their bags in the back, and then Sarah insisted they book into the downtown Hilton on Southwest Sixth Avenue. Adjoining rooms.

  “I’m not slumming it,” she said. “We’ll let Jacob Sensor worry about the expenses.”

  As she’d been ordered, Sarah checked in with Sensor, and an hour later someone knocked on her room door and she opened it to a man in a wet trench coat. Sarah thought he looked like Humphrey Bogart in a 1930s film noir.

  “Miss Milano?” the man said. He sounded like Humphrey Bogart too, kind of lispy.

  “Yes, can I help you?”

  “My name is Tom D’eth.” He spelled it out. D-apostrophe-E-T-H. “I’m with the FBI,” the man said. He showed his ID. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course,” Sarah said. Then, louder, and being formal again, “Superintendent Cantwell, the FBI is here.”

  Cory Cantwell stepped through the open door between the rooms, and the FBI agent stuck out his hand. “Agent Tom D’eth. I was told to check in with you.” He smiled. “And I’ve heard all the jokes.”

  “Can I take your coat, Agent D’eth?’” Sarah said. “You’re dripping all over the rug, I’m afraid.”

  “Sorry,” D’eth said. He took off his coat, then looked around for a place to put it.

  “I’ll hang it over the bathtub,” Sarah said.

  “Good idea,” D’eth said.

  Cantwell waved the man to a chair and then said, “We have a minibar and an expense account. Can I get you something?”

  “Nothing for me, thanks,” D’eth said.

  “Mind if I do?”

  “No, go
right ahead.”

  “Sarah?” Cantwell said. “You want a drink?”

  “Bourbon on the rocks.”

  Cantwell poured the drinks and sat on the edge of the bed opposite the agent. “I guess you know why Miss Milano and I are here?” he said.

  D’eth nodded. He looked wary, a little ill at ease. “You’re here to assist in our investigation into the deaths of the two hunters in the Willamette forest.”

  “That’s what we were told,” Cantwell said. “Although how we can help is beyond me. Miss Milano and I are not detectives.”

  “No, Mr. Cantwell, but you do head up an anti-terrorist unit,” D’eth said.

  “A unit that exists only on paper,” Cantwell said. Then, smiling, “If there is any paper.”

  D’eth did not return the smile. His lined, slightly weary face grim, he said, “The media is content with the anti-hunting story, since it suits their narrative, but there is no doubt that pyroterrorists were trying to light a forest fire when Ben Stevens and Bill Baxter stumbled across them. That’s what we know, but we have a problem.”

  “And that is?” Cantwell said.

  “Our investigation has just begun, but it may already be compromised,” D’eth said. “Mr. Cantwell, if that’s the case, the lives of you and Miss Milano are in great danger.”

  Sarah looked shocked. “How? I mean, no one knows we’re here.”

  “No one?” D’eth said, he looked skeptical.

  “Our boss,” Cantwell said. “Only our boss in Washington, DC.”

  “And he’s got a boss, and that boss has a boss and so on and so forth all the way up to the President,” the agent said. “Somebody, somewhere along the line isn’t playing a straight game.”

  Cantwell shook his head. “I refuse to believe that.”

  “Then believe what you want to believe,” D’eth said. “Do you have a gun?”

  “Yes, I do,” Cantwell said.

  “Take my advice, don’t leave home without it.” He looked at Sarah. “That goes for you too.”

  The FBI agent got to his feet. “I’ll pick you up outside the hotel tomorrow morning at eight,” he said. “I’ll take you to the murder scene.” He saw the perplexed expression on Cantwell’s face and added, “You’ve got to start somewhere, Superintendent.”

  “I’ll get your coat,” Sarah said.

  D’eth shrugged into his wet coat and stepped to the door. “What kind of firearm do you have, Mr. Cantwell?”

  “A Glock 19. And Miss Milano has a Colt Python.”

  “A Colt Python, really? How quaint. See that you have them with you tomorrow,” D’eth said. “We don’t want to be outgunned, do we?”

  After the agent left, Sarah said, “Is there a mole on Sensor’s staff, you think?”

  “I don’t know. Could be,” Cantwell said. “Or on somebody’s staff.”

  Sarah crossed the floor to the minibar. “I need another drink. Do you?”

  “Damn right, I do,” Cantwell said. Then, “Don’t you think that Tom D’eth looks like Humphrey Bogart?”

  “Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon,” Sarah said.

  “No, Rick Blaine in Casablanca, I think.” Cantwell said. “Standing in the rain.”

  Sarah raised her glass. “Here’s looking at you, kid,” she said.

  CHAPTER 25

  Nasim Azar laid down his cell phone with a thump of frustration. He’d sent the Ukrainian to the wrong city. The assassin was already airborne, and it was too late to call him back. According to his informant, Cory Cantwell had left Los Angeles and flown into Portland that afternoon.

  Azar spent the next hour on the phone, ordering, not only his fire warriors, but others in his cell to check every hotel and motel in the city to find out where Cory Cantwell was registered. The story they’d tell the desk clerk was that Mr. Cantwell’s sister had been in a car accident and was in the ICU at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in LA. It was a long shot, Azar knew, but it was worth trying.

  Tomorrow he’d recall the Ukrainian, but all he could do now was wait.

  He slipped his phone into his pocket and looked out the window at the street outside and beyond that, the river. It was raining hard, and there was no one about. Only the occasional car passed by, its tires hissing.

  Adelia Palmer, Azar’s part-time cook and cleaning lady, knocked on the door and then stepped inside. “I’ll be going now, Mr. Azar,” she said. She was an overweight black woman with a round, good-natured face, widowed these fifteen years. She always wore a hat she’d retired from church duties.

  “Did you feed Mr. Norris?” Azar said.

  “Uh-huh. Cornbread, pinto beans, an’ sweet iced tea, just like you said.”

  Azar smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Palmer. It’s raining, so you take care out there on the drive home.”

  “I will. Goodnight, Mr. Azar.”

  “Yes, goodnight, Mrs. Palmer. I’ll see you next week.”

  After the woman left, and without any callbacks as yet, Azar put his .25 in his pocket, left his apartment, and walked downstairs to the ground floor of the warehouse. Mike Norris was held in a room at the back, big enough that Azar had once considered it for his own living quarters. The key to the lock hung by a string from a hook on the wall. His hand in his pocket touching the cool steel of the little Beretta, he unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  Mike Norris’s ankles were shackled to an iron ring set into a sturdy partition beam, giving him sufficient room to sit on an iron cot and stare without interest at the TV mounted on the wall. The room was spartan, furnished with a dresser and a couple of chairs. A half-opened door revealed the presence of a small bathroom. A pile of carpets lay in one corner.

  “You dined well, Mr. Norris?” Azar said.

  “It was garbage, and the black woman was terrified of me,” Norris said. “What did you tell her?”

  “Only that you were a distant relative who’d lost his mind and was locked up for his own safety. Mrs. Palmer is not a questioning woman, that’s why I hired her.” Azar glanced at the TV screen. “Ah, The Thin Man Goes Home. I enjoyed that movie. Did you know that Nick and Nora’s drinking was curtailed in the film because of wartime liquor rationing? It was made in 1944, after all.”

  “What do you want, Azar?” Norris said. “Did you come to gloat.”

  “Gloat? Why would I glory in your fall? Mr. Norris, you’re a poor, pathetic drunk hated by everybody. Don’t you realize that?”

  “Yeah. I began to realize it when a man named Harvey Williams called me a disgrace and an embarrassment to the National Wildfire Service.”

  “Such a cruel thing to say, Mr. Norris. But unfortunately very true.”

  Norris’s anger flared. “Azar, I don’t need to hear it from you, so shut your damn trap.”

  Azar shook his head. “So bitter and so sad.”

  “I need a drink,” Norris said.

  Azar smiled. “Ah, just like Nick Charles. No, you’re not Nick Charles, you’re Mike Norris, a washed-up firefighter with no future.” He stepped back a little and took the Beretta from his pocket. “I could leave this with you. It’s small, but powerful enough to blow your brains out. Put you out of your misery, as they say.”

  “I’m not killing myself, Azar,” Norris said. “I won’t give you the satisfaction.”

  “Why not? It’s a way out your present state of nonexistence. Nobody wants you, Mr. Norris. Nobody even wants to know you. You’re a pariah, an outcast, a renegade.”

  Norris’s expression grew crafty. “There is always revenge, and revenge is sweet. I could wreak my vengeance on all those who wronged me.”

  Azar studied the man closely. There was little doubt that since Indian Wells Norris’s mind was going, teetering along the ragged edge of insanity. Was the man still useful? That would remain to be seen.

  “You have two allies in your camp, Mr. Norris,” Azar said. “One is me . . . the other is fire. You should think about that.”

  “You’re a damned terrorist, Azar,” Norris said
. “A lousy terrorist at that.”

  “And you are not? There are those who would disagree. Have you heard of a man in Washington, DC, called Jacob Sensor? He’s a powerful man, a close friend of the President, and a rabid foe of Islam.”

  “No. I’ve never heard of him.”

  “I think he knows you, Mr. Norris. I think he wants you dead.” Azar smiled and spread his hands. “That is, if my lowly spies at the Capitol are correct.”

  “A lot of people want me dead,” Norris said.

  “Then listen to me,” Azar said. “Across the land, the time of the great scorching draws near and you can be a part of it. Turn the tables on those who castigated you and then cast you out. Yes, take your revenge, my friend . . . taste its sweetness.”

  “Hell, who do you take your orders from, Azar?” Norris said. “Where do you get your money? I saw a Bentley parked at the back of the warehouse. Is that yours?”

  “Yes, the Bentley is mine, but I don’t use it very often,” Azar said. “As for finances, certain interested parties in Iran, a rich sheikh in the Gulf, and many others throughout the Middle East meet my expenses.”

  “For what?” Norris said. “For playing with fire like an overgrown Boy Scout?”

  “No, after the successes of our brothers in California and elsewhere, the Scorching only recently became a major part of the jihad,” Azar said. “Before that, I was the acknowledged expert on the C-4 explosive and the proper use of blasting caps, something I learned in Palestine a few years back, and I still keep a supply on hand.” Azar smiled. “Mr. Norris, in my time I have taught scores of young men how to blow themselves up with C-4, along with as many as the godless as possible. I have not sat idly by while the jihad raged around me. I’ve always taken an active part.”

  “Azar, you’re a damned devil,” Norris said.

  “Perhaps, but I may be the devil that will be your salvation, Mr. Norris.”

  “Get the hell out of here,” Norris said. “Leave me in peace.”

  “Peace? You poor, pathetic creature, don’t you know that only death will bring you peace?”

  * * *

  After Nasim Azar returned to his apartment, his bodyguard Salman Assad knocked on the door and stepped inside. “Well?” he said.