The Wrong Man (Complete 3-Book International Thriller Box Set)

by Fritz Galt

  Unfortunately, it was the wrong rock. The wrong man from her past.

  She was just trying to lose his voice in the sound of rushing water, when she heard her telephone ring.

  She turned off the shower and grabbed her oversized bath towel. Duty necessitated answering every call, as the U.S. Coast Guard expected 24-hour availability.

  She quickly patted down the full length of her long limbs, sculpted from years of PT Physical Training, then wrapped the towel around her regulation-length hair and padded barefoot across the lightwood floor of her bedroom.

  The clock read 06:00. What had prompted the early call? It could be a distress call from sea, although there were no storms in the area. She was frequently summoned out of bed for an SAR, Search-and-Rescue, sortie. Or it could be him again—Bolton, the bolt out of the blue. She would take a capsized ship with PIW People in Water any day.

  “Hello?” she answered in a somewhat defensive way.

  “Bonnie?”

  “Yes? Who is this?”

  The man on the other end hesitated before identifying himself. She heard the sounds of a car interior—the muffled whoosh of tires, the hum of a motor, the squeak of a car seat.

  “This is George.”

  “George who?”

  “Ferrar.”

  Oh my God. Two men from her past in the same week. What was she, a lightning rod for disaster?

  “George, why are you calling me?”

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “No, I’m not angry with you. I’m just curious why now, after twenty years of pursuing your own quests and me pursuing mine that you feel you must get me out of the shower at oh-six-hundred hours and make me stand here dripping wet trying to get out a coherent sentence.”

  “Bonnie, I’m not calling about us. I’m on an urgent mission and I need to know if Tray has contacted you.”

  She sat down, squarely on her white commander uniform that she had so carefully laid out on the bed.

  “Well, I…”

  “Okay, that answers my question. You’ve spoken to him. How recently?”

  “Slow down, George. I mean, I’ve just sat on my newly pressed dress whites, and I need a second to formulate a response.”

  “How recently?” Ferrar repeated.

  Through his terseness, she detected a note of concern.

  “My God. Has something else gone wrong? After all, at first I thought he was dead. I’d heard that he’d just been put to rest at Arlington. Then two days ago he called me up out of the blue.”

  “I need to know if he’s dead now.”

  “You mean if I’ve heard from him since then? No, I haven’t.”

  “Okay. And you don’t mind if I keep checking in?”

  She whipped off her towel and tried to pat down her uniform. “Well, uh. No.”

  “Thanks.” The phone clicked off.

  Huh? She looked at the phone.

  What was that all about? Was George on a real mission, or was he simply worried about Tray and her? It didn’t matter. Those two men were as thick as thieves, and now they were using her as a telephone answering service.

  To hell with them both. She had a life.

  As he steered his stolen minivan onto the Indianapolis Beltway, Ferrar turned on his tracking device once again.

  “Hallelujah!”

  A round orange circle appeared for the first time, indicating that the transponder was somewhere in the vicinity. Thank God he was on the right course.

  Just as suddenly as the orange blip appeared, however, it vanished without the device having time to calculate the truck’s speed or direction.

  If he were not close enough to the trailer truck bearing the bombs, the signal would tend to fade in and out. He had to pick up his speed.

  He gunned the engine as he joined a steady flow of noonday traffic that circled the sprawling city. The only question he had to resolve was what direction to take. With Indianapolis a transportation hub on the Chicago-Atlanta and Cincinnati-St. Louis axis, he couldn’t afford to guess wrong.

  Aiming west around the northern curve of the ring, he tried to shadow fast-moving cars in the far-left lane. He passed a squad car half-hidden in the grassy median. The cop seemed unconcerned with speed limit enforcement, as the average speed in the passing lane that day was nearing seventy-five miles-per-hour.

  What was the cop looking for?

  A moment later he checked his tracking device. Another blip, this time stronger, indicating that he was not only on the right track, but getting closer.

  Another set of cars, these black and unmarked, sat alongside the road. That didn’t bode well.

  He needed to ascertain which direction the truck would take off the beltway before he could ditch the minivan and continue the chase by some other means.

  As the highway circled counterclockwise, he peered into the glaring sunlight as far ahead as he could see. There were several trucks, but no eighteen-wheel rig bearing a half-height container. As he approached the shade of an overpass, he noticed a man leaning over the far railing.

  Passing underneath, Ferrar cast a glimpse of the man in his side view mirror. He was using binoculars to study the traffic.

  That did it.

  Ferrar floored it. A family car with a Pokémon figure swinging in the back window blocked his lane. He swerved farther right into a slower lane. Another car, this one a small, late-model Chevy, blocked his way. He veered back left in front of the Pokémon car. It was an open lane and he sped for the horizon.

  He mentally ticked off the exits, mostly local, then one big ramp diverting traffic off to Chicago. He had to decide fast.

  He flipped on the tracking device. The blip was stronger than ever. The direction indicator now registered west.

  The beltway was heading west at the time, so he didn’t exit. But was the truck on the beltway circling westward, or had it already exited to the west?

  Suddenly he caught the flash of red and blue strobes in his rearview mirror. The cops weren’t using their sirens. They were trying a sneak attack.

  Then he saw two black sedans slowing in front of him. They had him trapped. All he could do was bang his fist on the steering wheel. The silver minivan with Ohio plates that he was driving stood out in traffic like a flashing neon sign.

  The next exit was within a hundred yards. He drifted out of the center lane to the right, then jerked hard right again. Thrown against the side of his car, he cut off a Greyhound bus and eased off the highway, immediately immersing himself in the steady flow of suburban traffic.

  Behind him, half the cops seemed to have followed him. He took a hard right. It turned out to be a residential street that was altogether too quiet.

  Damn. He needed mayhem. So he pulled a left onto a street that paralleled the main street. He passed garbage bins, restaurants and the parking lots of two small office buildings.

  At last he found what he was looking for. A gas station with a garage. He pulled directly into an empty space in the garage, shut off the motor and jumped out. There was a red button by the garage door. Skittering across the greasy floor, he reached the button and jabbed it. Slowly, the garage door lowered, concealing the minivan.

  A mechanic approached him. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but I saw the space open,” he said, thinking quickly. “I need the tires rotated and the oil changed. But more importantly, do you mind if I use the john?”

  “Key’s hanging in the office.”

  He had eyed an extra set of dark green coveralls hanging on the wall. As he passed out of the room, he snatched them and took the men’s room key.

  Walking outside to the restroom, he didn’t lift his head, but turned his ear to listen to the sounds of traffic. No sirens, no screeching tires. He may have lost the cops for now.

  He unlocked the men’s room door, stepped in and shut it quickly. In the cramped, unheated space, he changed clothes quickly, burying his damp clothes from the quarry at the bottom of the trash.

/>   He emerged wearing the clean grease-monkey suit.

  Out by the pumps, an elderly man leaned from his Lincoln Continental while he waited for the gas to finish pumping.

  Perfect.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Ferrar said, jogging up to him. “I noticed blue smoke pouring from your exhaust pipe.”

  “No kidding,” the old guy growled.

  “It could mean damage to a catalytic system like yours. Do you mind if I check her over?”

  “No, go ahead,” the man said morosely, flipping him the keys.

  The old guy hauled himself out of the car, finished nursing the last few drops of gas into his tank, locked the gas cap, closed the door to the fuel tank and plodded back to the pump to return the hose.

  Ferrar jumped into the car, started the engine and didn’t look back as he pulled onto the busy street. He crossed several lanes and headed up the ramp back onto the expressway.

  With a new car, a new license plate, new duds and a full tank of gas, he felt like a new man. Total time elapsed: ten minutes.

  But how long before the man missed his car?

  As smoothly as zipping his coveralls, he merged with the beltway traffic heading westward, still in a counterclockwise direction. It was time to check his tracking device. The display was weak, and he could barely make out the numbers. No signal. He was losing the truck.

  Easing into the fast lane, he allowed the powerful car to cut loose. The western exit for Springfield, Illinois, and St. Louis was looming. He decided to take it.

  The flashing lights and black sedans were a distant memory, and cars no longer lurked along the side of the road. But the flood of traffic was breaking off into two great streams.

  He tried the tracking device once more. There wasn’t even an orange glow. The batteries were dead.

  He flicked on his blinkers and worked his way toward the Illinois-St. Louis exit, a choice he knew that would decide the fate of the nation.

  Lester Friedman’s bulletproof limousine was just pulling into the front gate of CIA Headquarters in Langley when he received a call.

  Charles White, his faithful assistant, handed him the phone with a whisper, “It’s Hank Gibson.”

  He grabbed it, “Yeah, Hank?”

  “We found him.”

  Lester felt the tension drain physically from his body.

  “Where is he?”

  “Ferrar was in Indianapolis. Where he is now, I do not know.”

  Lester cursed under his breath. “How the crap did you lose him?”

  “We traced the minivan to Indiana. There we chased him, he eluded us and he ditched the minivan. We took fingerprints off the steering wheel. Sure enough, they belong to Ferrar.”

  Lester closed his eyes and held his forehead. “So what can we do?”

  “Step up the manhunt,” Hank Gibson replied tersely.

  “But how do you know what to look for?”

  “We know what vehicle he’s driving now. Only, he’s got a three-hour lead on us. And he could branch off in any direction. But we’ve got the regional alert updated and propagated again.”

  “Damn it,” Lester said. “I can track a terrorist through the back streets of Istanbul. Why can’t you even nail a fugitive in Indiana?”

  “It isn’t as simple as it may sound,” Hank said, and hung up the phone.

  Lester tried to hand the phone back to Charles.

  “Sir,” he heard a voice calling from outside the car. “Sir?”

  He looked up. Charles was holding the door open for him.

  “We’ve arrived at your office, sir.”

  Where was that damned truck? Ferrar pounded his fist repeatedly against the leather steering wheel of the Lincoln Continental.

  With the tracking device dead, desperation was beginning to set in. He had passed Terra Haute and the Illinois border an hour earlier. At the speed he was traveling, he should have reached the loaded truck by then. But, of course, the truck might be on a completely different road.

  As he had for the past three hours, Ferrar scanned the string of vehicles for a giant semi that matched the picture in his memory of the previous night.

  Then, far ahead, he made out a truck pulling a single, half-height intermodal container.

  As he inched closer to the truck to pass it, he noticed that the container had a strip of red tape around it. He felt his heart pounding in his chest.

  He pulled ahead of the rig and tried to match its speed. He zipped by a road sign: St. Louis 150 miles, Denver 1001 miles, Los Angeles 2018 miles.

  From his side view mirror, he couldn’t make out the face of the driver in the semi’s cab.

  The sun flared off the truck’s windshield. Inside, the driver wore aviator glasses. Ferrar couldn’t make out the rest of his features.

  Next to him in the cab were two other men, each with sunglasses as well.

  Ferrar pulled into the passing lane and slowed down to get a better look at the driver. There he saw it. Through the semi’s fogged-up windows, he noticed the man’s hair. It was short and blond. And his red plaid shirt was none other than that of Tray Bolton.

  Oh, no. So Bolton wasn’t on the train.

  Ferrar had to jackknife the truck or tip it over. But how? Unarmed, he wouldn’t stand a chance in an ensuing gun battle. He wasn’t even sure that the Lincoln Continental he was driving could force the semi off the road.

  For a mile, he watched rows of harvested corn, bent and broken stalks yielding to a strong westerly wind. The entire Midwest was bracing for a winter storm. Would they be ready for nuclear winter?

  He couldn’t risk damaging the cargo in the truck. He’d have to call in reinforcements.

  What exactly was their destination? St. Louis was within two hours’ reach. What was in St. Louis? The Rams. The Cardinals. The Arch. He didn’t remember Tray Bolton harboring any particular dislike of the Rams or Cardinals. After all, the Patriots and Red Sox played in the AFC and American League. It had to be the Gateway Arch.

  At the next exit, he pulled off the Interstate, leaving the truck roaring on ahead. He turned abruptly into a Shell station and snapped up the public phone. Dialing “0,” he reached a local operator and asked to place a collect call to Washington, DC.

  “And what number would you like to reach?” the woman asked in her flat, Midwestern accent.

  He gave her Connors’ office number.

  “And your name, sir?”

  “George Ferrar.”

  A moment later, a receptionist answered, “This is Congressman Connors’ office.”

  “I’m calling for Mr. George Ferrar,” the operator said. “Will you accept a collect call?”

  He heard a muffled discussion in the background. Suddenly, two or three phones picked up.

  “Ferrar, is that you?” It was Connors.

  “We’ll accept the call,” the receptionist said.

  The operator clicked off.

  “Tell your men in black to take a hike,” Ferrar snarled. “Since you’ve got them tapping the line, I’ll have to make this quick. The Gateway Arch in St. Louis is the next likely target. The terrorists are due to arrive there within two hours.”

  He hung up.

  He missed his long, leisurely conversations with the congressman.

  Connors stood up behind his desk and glared at the FBI agents seated across from him and around the room.

  “You heard him. Now act on it.”

  The lead FBI agent across the desk yanked off his earphones.

  “He’s yanking our chain. How does he come up with this bull?”

  “I assume he’s still following the shipment.”

  “It’s at the bottom of a lake in Ohio.”

  “Have you found it?” Connors shot back. “You guys are the ones who buried it. Now I think you’d better call Hank. Because if you don’t, I will. If you guys don’t act on this tip, I’ll be the first guest on Nightly News to inform the American public—after the bombs go off.”

  “I’m calling him,�
� the lead agent said, his index finger already jabbing at the dial pad.

  Chapter 19

  SAC Jeremy Fuchsman, Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s St. Louis Field Office, was a busy man. Recent captures of Taliban and al-Qaeda terrorists had yielded a bonanza of leads indicating other terrorist plots and suspects at large around the American Midwest.

  In fact, for the past week, he had been on the road interviewing flight instructors, neighbors, Western Union offices and imams in mosques up and down Missouri’s eastern region.

  When the call came through from the FBI Director, it was by pure chance that Jeremy was back in his office. He stood holding his breath while staring at the gleaming, stainless steel St. Louis Gateway Arch.

  “Attack on the Arch?” he repeated incredulously. “How? When?”

  The recognizable voice of Hank Gibson came back more forceful than ever. “We believe that they are traveling west and that they have bombs, perhaps nuclear devices, on some sort of transport, either rail, road, air or even by ship. Nothing is unthinkable these days. The attack might come within two hours. Make that an hour and forty-five minutes. Mobilize your crew and local law enforcement agencies. You’re point man and you don’t have a moment to lose.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Report back to me directly on a regular basis.”

  By the time Jeremy set down the phone, his flexible young mind had already determined a course of action.

  Through the glass door of his office, he waved at all the available agents to gather around him. While they laid their work aside, he placed a call to the St. Louis Police Department.

  Four agents, two women and two men, assembled around his desk. The two women were young, energetic and athletic. They were highly trained, cookie-cutter products of the FBI Academy, located on the marine training base at Quantico, Virginia.

  One man was a middle-aged legal expert, and the other was an overweight investigative agent named Stanley Welles, with one year remaining before retiring from the bureau.