“Don’t take this wrong,” Austin says. “But just between us, is it possible your friend is a terrorist?”
“How can you ask me that?” Gandalf hugs her knees to her chest and buries her face in the sodden fabric. Actually, maybe it is a fair question; at least if anyone has a right to ask, Austin does. She looks up. “I doubt very much that Ahmed is a terrorist. I would be totally shocked if he has any information at all that these guys would want. But how can I know for certain? I really have not seen him in years.”
“That’s what I thought.” Austin turns to Norah. “By the way, I may need a good lawyer.”
“You got it. The Center will go after these pricks.”
“They are Homeland Security, aren’t they?” Gandalf asks.
“And the Army,” Austin says. “And FBI.”
Norah makes a face. “So then we’ll probably lose. We usually lose. They’ve bought Congress and made it legal to do what they do.”
“What does that mean for your lawsuit?” Gandalf asks. “And for us, if we get out of here?”
“Posse comitatus was intended to keep the military out of domestic affairs. But over the years various Presidents and Congresses weakened the safeguards, claiming that new challenges make it necessary to give the armed forces more power. Now troops are brought in to handle crises ranging from urban drug wars to the Olympics.”
“Is that necessarily bad?” Gandalf asks.
“They’re also used to gather intelligence on citizens and to track down terrorists,” Norah says, “like you. You were likely fingered by a computerized anti-terrorism fusion center, co-managed by the military and Homeland Security.”
“Those were Army guys who cuffed and hooded you at JFK,” Austin adds.
Norah leans forward, repositioning her thigh. “The first Bush established detention camps, ready to incarcerate dangerous citizens in the name of stopping terrorism.”
Gandalf lets Norah’s words dissolve into background noise. She asked the question, but cannot concentrate on the explanation. Maybe that was true when Bush was president, and that’s why they elected Obama. Norah admits that she is a Communist, so she would not be happy with any administration. But all Gandalf cares about is getting home.
She rummages in the backpack for another sweater, then turns to Austin. “What happens now?”
“Now we wait.” Austin points at Gandalf. “You’re the hurricane expert. How much longer will this last?”
Gandalf bristles. “I study science, not mumbo-jumbo fortune telling. You think I turn around three times, toss sacred ashes over my shoulder, mutter magic words and the answer pops out from the ether? I can’t even check the radar.”
“Relax,” Norah says. “You must have some idea.”
“The eye is here now. That is why it’s relatively calm. If we’re lucky, our pursuers will be slowed down, or stopped, when the eye wall hits.” She pauses. “Where is my computer, anyway?”
“Where do you think?” Austin snaps at her. “Getting you two out was hard enough. Sorry I didn’t have time to gather up your precious belongings.”
Gandalf touches her arm. “Sorry. I am just worried about my files.”
“I know,” Austin says. “Listen. Before we left the facility, I got Jess’s number from your phone contacts.”
“What good is that without service?”
“I called my Pops before we left this morning and explained what’s happening here. I gave him Jess’s number, and he promised to call her. I gave him your name too, Norah, and the name of your Center.”
Gandalf tries to think about Austin’s words, but the shaky exhaustion makes simple thoughts molasses heavy, sticky. And she is so cold. Still, it is good if Austin’s grandfather calls Jess, who will somehow come and get her. “Thank you.”
Austin looks down. “I also told him that Henry looks really sick. Won’t be surprised if he calls Henry’s wife, too.”
“Damn it, Austin.” Norah looks angry. “Henry is one of them. If his wife calls the feds, we’re screwed.”
“Henry’s not that bad,” Austin says. “He didn’t stop us from leaving. I don’t think Catherine would call anyone. Most islanders have no use for Washington.”
Gandalf shivers to the cadence of their argument. “Please don’t argue. It will not make things better. I’m glad your grandfather is involved, Austin, but what can he do against Homeland Security?”
“Not to mention the military and the FBI and FEMA,” Norah adds.
“Pops knows everyone on the islands. He’ll get us out of here.”
Gandalf isn’t so sure.
“I’ll keep watch,” Austin says. “Why don’t you two rest, try to get some sleep? We’ll have more walking and the boat trip later.”
43. TOBIAS, 4:51 P.M.
His face burns. He holds the handset of the ship-to-shore telephone at arm’s length, then mashes the earpiece into the flesh of his cheek, muffling the Regional Chief’s scorching words.
“You want to be in charge? So prove yourself, Sampson. Take care of the problem. Find those women. Tomorrow’s the goddamn anniversary, and your pathetic facility hasn’t given me squat.” In contrast to the heat of his message, the Regional Chief’s voice is colder than the Cohen bitch’s lonely boob. “I’m sending a team up there in the morning. You can bet Homeland Security isn’t happy about this mess. Last thing we all need is another PR fiasco. Don’t. Screw. Up.”
After the click, the Regional Chief’s words hang in the empty air.
“Yes, sir,” Tobias says anyway. Fair enough, the Bureau has bigger problems. FEMA too, with the hurricane and the flooding and worrying about the anniversary in a few short hours. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything yet about the missing women. Now the brass thinks he’s a worthless wuss.
He stands for an extra moment in the phone closet, willing his face to return to its normal color before returning to the duty room for the shift change meeting. Or what would be a shift change meeting if a new shift was arriving to relieve them.
His staff of six men sits in a row in front of the bank of windows. The rain flings itself against the glass, obscuring the world outside. He stands tall, shifting his weight slightly from leg to leg. This is where he belongs. In front of the room. In charge.
“Okay, men. Let’s take stock of our situation. We’re down five staff until the ferry is running again.” He turns to the boatman. “When will that be?”
“Morning at the soonest,” Bert says. “If the flooding on the mainland isn’t too bad. And if the surge don’t wreck the docks.”
Tobias nods. That means the women can’t sneak off island either. If he can’t find them tonight, he’ll get them in the morning when they are wet and tired from a night in the woods. “What about perimeter security?”
Stanley Mason stands. “The boss put me on perimeter duty, sir. I walked the ropes, saw nothing out of the ordinary.” He looks at his feet. “Frankly, I couldn’t see much, what with the wind and rain. Lots of trees down.”
The boss, huh? Tobias tries to keep his face expressionless, to keep his glee from showing. Better say something now, let them know how it is. He draws himself up to his full five feet eleven.
“I have some bad news, men,” Tobias says. “Henry Ames has been relieved of his duties. In the interim, the Regional Chief has asked me to step in. For now, your orders will come from me and only me.” He locks eyes with each staff member, one by one, silently daring them to ask a question or make a comment. No one looks away. No one speaks.
“Okay,” he continues. “What’s up with the generator?”
Cyrus Carter stands. “I checked it at 1600, sir. Bled the line and recalibrated. To save fuel, I did not restart at that time. I set it to turn on at 1730.” He glances at the wall clock. “Fifteen minutes from now.”
Tobias nods. He can count on Cyrus. He’s career Army, but the guy has potential. There’s a role for him in this situation, maybe even a career move. “Good work, Cyrus. What about the men�
��s section?”
One by one, staff members report on their stations. Tobias reviews the duty roster for the next twelve hours, assigning himself to the monitor room.
Bert raises his hand. “Sir?”
“What is it?”
“None of us has seen Austin Coombs in several hours. She was assigned to the women’s section.” He hesitates, then continues. “I’m worried, with the storm and all. She’s kin to me. Cyrus too.”
Tobias grabs a chair from the end of the row. He turns it backwards, straddles it, and regards his staff.
“I’m glad you brought that up. We have an unfortunate situation here, and I need your help. Our two female detainees, Cohen and Levinsky, have escaped from their rooms. We feel certain they are still somewhere on the island. At first light tomorrow, when the storm has passed through, and our staff is back to full force, we will begin searching for them.” He allows himself a small smile. “They’re not going anywhere tonight.”
“How did that happen, sir?” Stanley Mason asks. “Did Ames screw up?”
“And what about Austin?” Bert adds.
Tobias looks away from the boatman and shakes his head. Time to end this meeting. “Need to know rule. But I can share this much with you. The detainees may have taken Ms. Coombs hostage. Cohen and Levinsky should be considered armed and dangerous. Keep your eyes open tonight and your weapons handy.”
The men nod, grim looks plastered on their faces.
“Carter,” Tobias says. “Stay back a minute. I want to talk to you.”
Tobias and Cyrus don’t speak as the other men file out of the staff room. Drumming his fingers on the top rung of the chair back, Tobias watches Cyrus’s face, noticing the glance he exchanges with the boatman. How to best enlist the soldier’s help? After all, he’s asking him to think big, out of the box, not something the military encourages in its members. Asking him to put duty to country ahead of family loyalty, too. Bad luck that Cyrus is related to Austin, but there’s no better option. He needs someone military, not one of the FEMA clowns, and the other soldier, Mason, has a well-known fondness for his beer.
After the duty room door closes, Tobias points to a chair.
“Take a load off,” Tobias says, wondering what line of attack to use. What does Cyrus want? Probably what any man wants: a chance to impact the world, and look good doing it, to feel powerful. He has to exploit that desire, use it. “We have a sensitive situation here, and I need your help.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tobias crosses his arms on the chair back and leans forward, lowering his voice. “This is for your ears only, Carter. I didn’t tell the other men the whole story. The detainees’ escape is more complicated. It looks like Special Agent Ames helped them break out of the facility. He is AWOL. It’s hard to accept, but the facts point to the conclusion that Ames has betrayed the Bureau and his country. He will face serious charges, maybe even treason. Our job is to capture him and re-secure the two women detainees. You with me so far?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They’ve got to hide someplace until they can get off the island. I figure the most likely place is the old quarry. There are supposed to be caves there. Do you know anything about them?”
“Sure.”
“Good man.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Help me capture Ames tonight, and the women. They’re probably heading for those caves. They trust you. You’re related, so you can get close. When you find them, signal me by flashlight beam. I’ll be waiting on the cliff above.”
Tobias searches Cyrus’s face for clues. Is that disbelief in his blue eyes? Suspicion? He shakes his head.
“I know it’s hard to believe. I’ve worked with Henry Ames for twenty years. He’s a good man. He’s my friend and mentor. But we’ve got to be realistic and face facts. Force may be necessary to neutralize the danger and bring him in. Hopefully, nobody gets hurt. Once the situation is under control, I swear Henry will get the help he needs.”
Cyrus nods slowly. “What about Austin?”
Tobias hesitates. The wind smashes a tree limb against the window, over and over like a beating. “I’m concerned about her. She may be in grave danger.”
Cyrus doesn’t look entirely convinced. Tobias forces himself to wait a few moments, let the man think about it. He looks out the window. Daylight is gone. Tobias anticipated some reluctance. Time to sweeten the pot.
“When I take over this place,” Tobias says, “I’ll need a facilities manager, a second-in-command. Of course, that would mean joining the Bureau. If you’re interested.” He offers his hand to Cyrus and waits.
Cyrus hesitates only a moment before shaking it.
44. HENRY, 5:10 P.M.
Henry opens his eyes to utter darkness. His mouth tastes metallic, sour. His pulse hammers under his jaw, and he touches the place, comforted by the regular drumbeat of it. Tentatively, he inches his hand down towards his chest. The hot explosion from before has dwindled back to the familiar soreness. He rubs his breastbone, willing the habitual motion to trigger his memory. Where is he, and what happened?
He rolls his head back and forth, carefully, testing his neck. He’s lying on something, not a pillow. More like cloth, with the terry feel of a towel. His hand reaches, finds a patch of something dried stiff, and jerks away. His fingers touch something soft lying across his belly, and he recognizes the silky fabric of his slip. He can picture Tobias stealing it from the desk drawer, later flinging it with a dramatic gesture onto what he assumes is Henry’s dead body. Tobias would consider that the final insult. Henry weaves the silk in and out between his fingers and brings it to his face. He inhales through the thin material, imagining graceful families of worms spinning the fibers more delicate than air.
Calmer now, he strains to see through the thick darkness and begins to remember. There was Tobias pacing and bellowing, the pain in his chest mounting and spreading out and taking over. He must still be in the interrogation room; the floor is cement, damp under his body. Clammy. So, the dried stuff on the towel might be blood. His blood? Thick and clumsy, his fingers explore his scalp, but they find no sore or bruised areas, no wetness. He takes a deep breath and rolls onto his side and waits, but the white-hot pain does not return. So maybe it wasn’t a heart attack, because then he would be dead. Maybe Doc Clemman is right about that Japanese heart disease. In either case, he better get up and out of here before the generator kicks in or the power comes back on. Before Tobias comes back to dispose of his body.
Damn Tobias. After all those years, the guy leaves him for dead. But there’s no time to waste on regrets or sentiment.
Stuffing the silk slip into his pocket, he pushes himself up onto all fours. His arms tremble, but hold his weight. He can probably crawl if he has to. The thought of crawling makes his eyes fill. He hasn’t crawled since Melissa was three or four, young enough to ride Daddy like a horsey. Twenty years ago, but it feels like last week. Every Friday evening, she would sit in her child-sized Adirondack chair on the back deck, waiting for Daddy to come home from work in Bangor. All week long, she kept a running list taped to the refrigerator of the things she wanted them to do together over the weekend, dictating the list to Cat until she was old enough to write it herself. They used to get along so well. Then she fell in love with Gabe and changed her name to Lissa. No, he couldn’t blame Gabe. It was Gabe’s death that changed her.
He rocks back and forth on his hands and knees, tentative, testing his balance. Melissa loved his bronco rides, even the time he got a little too exuberant, and she fell off, chipping a front tooth and staining Cat’s light gray carpet with blood. But remembering the good times will not bring Melissa home.
Okay, enough of this. He stands on his knees and digs in his trouser pocket for the flashlight. It still works. Holding it in his left hand, he grabs the rungs of the metal chair and heaves himself upright. Dizzy. His chest complains again, squeezing, but not as bad as before. If he gets through this, he’ll go to
Portland for those cardiac tests. At least that will make Cat happy, if she is even speaking to him. Maybe it would have been better if he died of a heart attack. At least then she might feel sad and forgive him for the other thing.
The spinning in his brain begins to subside and he aims the flashlight beam around the room to locate the exit. Pushing the chair ahead of him like an old man’s walker, he makes it across the room and puts his ear against the metal door to listen. Quiet. Luckily the power is still out and the electronic locks nonfunctional. Leaving the chair inside, he switches off the flashlight and slips into the hallway. He leans his shoulder against the cement block wall and wipes his forehead with his sleeve. How can he be sweating just from walking ten feet? Obviously, he won’t get far, not like this, but he has to get out of the basement. His mind races through the options. The monitor room is just around the corner, but that’s Tobias’s hangout so he can’t go there. The supply rooms, staff lounge, and general offices are one flight up. He might be able to find a safe hiding place there, but it’s risky. He longs for his own office. It might not be the smartest place, but it’s his place. He can hide there, if he can manage the two flights of stairs. He can rest a bit, then take a couple of No-Doze pills.
He steps along the corridor, still leaning against the wall. Not for support, he tells himself, just so he doesn’t trip. It’s slow going and he’s moving blind, but a light might attract attention. He startles when he bumps up against the doorjamb of Interrogation Room C, but is ready for the next two doorways. He stretches his arm out to the side and feels the emptiness of the stairwell opening. A moment of panic, terrified he’ll tip over into the opening, his heart will give out, and he will fall into eternity. So he allows himself a brief moment of flashlight illumination for orientation, for reassurance that the physical world is still ordered and intact. He sticks the flashlight back into his pocket and crawls up the first steps. He has to sit on the landing to catch his breath, but the next flight is easier.
On Hurricane Island Page 20
