He followed his subjects off Route 200, Main Street, onto Seventh Avenue. They parked in front of The Onyx Bar & Grill at the Calvert Hotel. Davis found a spot across the street.
“Why don’t you stop a block back. No need for you to raise eyebrows here with your Great Falls markings.”
“Good idea.”
“Okay folks,” Davis said on open radio frequency they were all tuned to now, “looks like we’re staying put for a while. Don’t know if it’s for an early dinner or for the night. If they settle in, we’ll take breaks in shifts, always keeping a driver in place.”
Two unmarked highway patrol cars went past. Another was a block away.
“Keep warm and be ready to roll,” Davis said, feeling a shiver go through his body. It was fifteen degrees outside, and it would get colder as the sun dropped behind the mountain range behind them.
The zoom lens on the Canon gave Ketz a closer view. “They’re out. Suitcases staying in the car. I’d say they’re in for dinner.”
The comment made Davis’s stomach growl. The only louder sound was his cell phone ringing.
“Hey, how’s my favorite G-man doing in Montana?” Scott Roarke asked.
“Trying to stay warm. How’d you know?”
“Called Mulligan. Wanted to see if you can check out a name for me, but then I heard you picked up the ball from my last trip.”
“Hard to catch without gloves, buddy. It’s fucking freezing here.”
“That cold?”
“That cold.”
“Are you on to them.”
“Like a moth to light. They’re dining at some restaurant in the Calvert Hotel.”
“Where’s that?”
“Lewistown, Montana. Small town, mid state.”
“Hold on, I’ll look it up.”
“You at the office?” Davis didn’t need to say The White House.
“Yep. Hold on.”
Davis was getting hungry. He dispatched Ketz to the McDonald’s before turning onto Seventh. He heard fingers on a keyboard as Roarke did a Google search.
“Lewiston or town?”
“Lewis – L-e-w-i-s town, sounds like frown.”
“K,” Roarke said when he opened to a Montana map. What year is it there?”
“Asshole. It’s a nice place and it’s the same fucking year where you are. Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Gimmie a second.”
“How’s Katie?” Davis asked.
“We’re working something out.”
“Oh? What?”
“Something. Part of which I was calling you about. In person, not for the phone.”
“Got it,” Davis said, appropriately backing down.
“Okay, Lewis-town,” Roarke said, emphasizing the town. “Quaint. Nice place to visit.”
“Right, but I wouldn’t want to…”
“No, it’s a nice place to live, too. Historic. Former trading post. For some reason Croatian builders and stonemasons settled there. Lots of well-preserved buildings. Interesting, huh?”
“Oh, continue professor.”
“Population 6,000. Well, to be precise, 5,901 in the last census. Median annual income for a family, $36,888. Principally agricultural community with few tourists because it’s off the beaten path.”
“I’ll grant you that.”
“Beautiful, for spacious skies. Western town, wide streets, sits within five magnificent mountain ranges, The Snowies, the Judiths, the Moccasins, the Belts, and the Highwoods.”
“Thank you National Geographic Channel.”
“And you gotta love this. It was the site of a gold rush in 1880, and recently the recipient of a federal grant for an important EPA cleanup and a state grant for conservation reclamation.” Roarke read on. “It even has a Mickey-D’s.”
“I know. I just sent out for a Whopper.”
“That’s Burger King, idiot.”
“Whatever.”
“More good stuff. It’ll be on the test, so pay attention,” Roarke joked. “Lewistown is also known for Big Springs and Big Springs Creek which supplies Lewistown with its entire water supply…a natural resource which…”
Roarke stopped short.
“And?” Davis asked.
“What?”
An italicized subheading on the Lewistown Web site triggered his memory to a few days ago—a conversation in a diner, a warning scribbled on a mirror.
“What?” Davis pleaded.
“I know why they’re in Lewistown.”
“Why, for God’s sake?” Davis’s pulse picked up in anticipation.
“Take them down. Take them down now, Shannon.”
“Huh?”
“Take them down.”
“Roarke, what did you find?”
“Lewistown, Montana—Home of Big Springs and the purest drinking water in the world. They’re going to poison the water!”
Thirty-nine
“Forget the burgers.” Davis radioed to Ketz.
“Here, you eat ‘em,” Ketz told the next person in line. He handed the bag to a grateful teenager and ran back to the Expedition. Davis was already putting on his Kevlar vest he brought from Washington.
Mary Perkins was at the SUV along with her partner, Eric Boardman, and four other highway patrol officers.
“Here’s how we’ll play it.” He looked around and picked one of the two plainclothes officers they’d picked up en route. “What’s your name?”
“Erwin.”
“First name or last name?”
“Last. But it’s close. Ernie.”
“Geeze, your parents had no imagination?”
“Not much.”
“All right Ernie Erwin. You’re elected to get a drink at the bar if there is one. A soft drink. Position yourself so you can see their location and any civilians that could be in the way. I want to avoid a hostage situation at all costs. If anything…I’ll say it again just because…if anything looks too dicey, we will wait and get them as they exit the hotel. Everyone hear this. We must take them alive. Alive and very well. Do you have that?”
Shannon Davis looked at each of the Montana officers. The two uniformed troopers were Iraqi War vets that were used to taking orders.”
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.
“Officers Perkins and Boardman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Outstanding job today. You’ll stay on the outside with Ketz, me, and…. .” He addressed the two other plainclothesmen and the uniformed highway patrol officers. “Names?”
They sounded off.
“Klugo.”
“Melnick”
“Tamburro.”
“Gentlemen, thank you for your assistance. “Officers Klugo and Melnick you look like you can run the hundred in ten.”
They laughed.
“Each of you flank the sides twenty-five feet out. If anything happens, use that football experience and tackle the suckers.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Tamburro will do us all a favor and contact the locals. Let them know we’re here and not to interfere. In fact, I don’t want to hear a siren, see a cop car, or see the glare of a badge. Then take up position to the left of the door. Four feet.”
“Now for you, SGT Perkins. Do you have any authority in this city?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Then you have it from me. FBI agent in charge. You’ve earned your way into the dance. You’re on the right side of the door, opposite Officer Tamburro. I’ll be front and center. I’m good at bumping into people. When I do that, you take each of them down. If anyone runs, it’s up to our tackles, Mr. Klugo and Mr. Melnick. Any questions?”
There were none.
“Good.”
“Ernie Erwin. Got a cell?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is it?”
The trooper told Davis. He entered the number and called it. Erwin’s number rang. “Now you have mine. Call me when you get settled. Let me know everything.
“Understood.
”
Davis checked his watch. “Okay, go. They should be ordering now. So this is going to take a while. Don’t be impatient. But when they leave, you fall in behind them ever so carefully. Don’t think cop. Think spy. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Erwin left. The others took position, and Davis texted his status to FBI Chief Robert Mulligan.
Three minutes later Davis’s cell phone rang. Erwin.
“Talk to me.”
“A family in the booth beside them. Some toughies behind them who might not get what we’re all about. Too risky, on site. Sticking to your plan. I’ll call when they get the check and keep the line open until they leave. I’ll fall in behind them.”
“Nice work Erwin.” Davis texted Mulligan again.
Twenty-eight minutes later, Davis answered the phone again. “Cash on the table. They’re not sticking around. No, wait. Bathroom stop. Back left, wall side.”
“Damn,” Davis said to himself. He realized he should have had Erwin check exits near the bathroom. Too late now and too obvious. He crossed the street to Melnick and asked, “Any idea if there’s a window out of the bathroom or a back entrance?”
“Don’t know, sir. I’ll find out.” The senior of the two officers ran to the corner and around the block to the back of the hotel. There was a back door to the hotel. There was a back door, but not off the bathrooms. The kitchen. The bathroom window was too high to be considered an easy route.
Melnick returned and nodded no. It was all Davis needed.
“On their way,” Erwin said on his open phone line.
Davis established eye contact with each of the officers. He tapped his watch and mouthed, “Now.” Davis put the phone up to his ear and pretended to talk as he crossed the street, hardly paying attention.
The door to the restaurant opened. Calib and Haim were armed, but they were definitely not ready. Had they been ready they still wouldn’t have had a chance to fire. As soon as they opened the door and stepped outside, the cold make them shiver. They stopped for a moment to bundle up. A man approached them chatting away in fast English. They ignored him but he stumbled and bumped into them, separating them slightly and throwing them off balance.
It was over in three seconds, without even a broken nose or a bullet wasted. Walker and Tamburro nailed them against the window to the restaurant and cuffed them in five seconds flat.
The local ranchers, the toughies that Erwin had described, watched the operation go down from inside. They were on their feet and out the door ready to come to the aid of the two men who were, from their perspective, just mugged.
“Hold it right there,” Perkins called out. Her uniform gave her instant authority; her gun even more. “Federal crime scene.” She actually liked the sound of that. “Turn around and back inside. Everyone else remains there, too.”
“They were too shocked to move. “Is there something you don’t understand, gentlemen? Back inside. Now!”
The ranchers complied without another word.
Davis was concentrating on his captives, but still caught Perkins’s command of the situation. He made a mental note to talk to her later. Right now, there were other things to deal with.
“I’m an officer from the Federal Bureau of Investigations. You are under arrest for attempted murder. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to…” Davis continued to recite the Miranda by heart as the other agents disarmed them. “Now, let’s check out your car.”
“We haven’t done anything,” Haim stated. Calib was too nervous to speak. “We are visiting.”
“Looks like you made a very funny turn to end up in Lewistown.” Davis found the car keys in Haim’s right front pocket.
“You have no right,” Haim, the chemist, said.
Calib began praying in Arabic.
“Shut up!” Haim shouted.
Perkins and Tamburro walked them to their car. Davis unlocked the trunk. “Flashlight?”
Perkins had one on her belt. “Here, sir.”
Davis put on plastic gloves and took it. Next he examined the trunk, now narrating into a recorder.
“Inside the trunk of suspects’ vehicle, blanket covering…cardboard boxes. Observed boxes put into the car by suspects in Havre, Montana, earlier today.” He gave the date and appropriate time. “Opening the top of the boxes now.” He did so, then described what he saw. “Appears to be six gallon paint cans. Three in two rows. Both boxes. No label.”
“What is this?” he asked the talkative of the two.
“Don’t answer!” yelled Haim.
Davis lifted one can. The label had been ripped off. He checked the others. The same.
“This can’t be good.”
Next Davis opened the front door of the Camry where he found two maps. An AAA road map and a state topographical map with circles around local bodies of water: Lewistown’s reservoirs, which as Scott Roarke observed, contained “the purest drinking water in the world.”
Forty
Floriana
Washington, D.C.
1800 hrs
Many patrons described Floriana, a restaurant in the Dupont Circle section of Washington, as one of the best kept secrets in town. That was doubtful. But Roarke wanted to have a quiet conversation with Katie, and Floriana seemed perfect.
Floriana was located in an historic red brick row house, converted to a comfortable Italian restaurant with a seasonal menu and a welcoming atmosphere. The reviews called it “casual elegant.” Roarke chose it tonight because the conversation was likely going to go better in the hushed tones of the romantic setting. It could very well go the other way in their apartment, and Roarke needed time for Katie to listen before she reacted. With their voices down they could blend in with the other customers and she’d be less likely to leave in mid sentence. At least that’s what he hoped.
Roarke practiced the conversation on the way over from his office. He prayed he’d be able to stick to his script.
He arrived first, entered the small bar in the basement. That’s where they would meet. For chemical support, something he normally didn’t do, Roarke ordered a glass of Trefethen 2007, a silky Napa Valley Merlot that unleashed the taste of sweet plums and cherry. Roarke was into his second glass when Katie arrived.
“Hello, honey,” she said.
“Hey, darling.”
They kissed, but there was something missing from Roarke. She picked up on it. A seat was open and she took it.
“What are you having?”
“A nice Merlot.”
“May I try?”
He smiled affirmatively.
Katie held the glass up to the light. The wine had a magnificent deep red color. She took in the bouquet and liked what the wine delivered. After a sip she ordered her own.
“So, how was your day?” The rules were never to say much. “Productive?”
“Busy. The trouble with charters, no frequent flier miles,” Roarke joked.
“Bummer,” Katie responded. “Everything else okay?
“It’ll take some time to sort stuff out.” This was their code for not really.
As an attorney she listened for clues. Suggestive. Descriptive. Revealing. It’s actually what brought the bright, attractive brunette together with a man quite opposite to her in life experience and personality. But opposites surely attracted enough to turn them into a couple. Tonight, however, she felt a distance, a separation, that troubled her.
“Scott, is this about us?”
“Let’s get a table.”
Moscow
The same time
Arkady Gomenko was playing chess over breakfast at Pushkin Café. His opponent was a disheveled Russian whose real name he never learned. The man was, in fact, not a Russian. He was CIA agent Vinnie D’Angelo. And at almost any given point he could checkmate Gomenko, who was too nervous to concentrate on the game. Not that it mattered. The match was simply a cover for a few words passed between long, thoughtful pauses. Thankfully, no one paid attention to peo
ple playing chess. It was too boring.
Considered over ninety minutes, Gomenko’s comments provided D’Angelo with a clear background of Red Banner. Insightful information. History, missions, and goals. The CIA needed more.
“Dubroff? How does he figure in?”
“Still researching.” Gomenko told him what he found. He also mentioned his watcher, an old man named Sergie Kleinkorn. “I swear, he must think Khrushchev is still in power the way he hovers. Like a bee over pollen.”
“Did you check him out?”
“No. He feels ancient. Pre-Internet.”
“Do it anyway,” D’Angelo said with a warning tone. “And see if the name Ibrahim Haddad comes up at all.” He spelled it.
“Any hints.”
“Nope. Not a one.”
They played for another thirty minutes before D’Angelo gave in, unnecessarily.
Washington, D.C.
The same time
Roarke led Katie up a short flight of stone stairs into the main dining room at Floriana. Once settled, he ordered a bottle of an Italian Pinot Grigio; a 2009 from Lagaria, Veneto, Italy. This was one of Katie’s current favorites. The smooth, fruit-forward flavor worked perfectly in concert with the toasted ciabatta and vine-ripe tomato bruschetta and the steamed mussels they shared. The conversation, however, wasn’t to her taste.
“I have to talk to you. It’s serious,” Roarke finally said. He had a brusk unemotional businesslike tone.
“What, honey?” Katie asked reaching across the table for his hand. It was there for her, but not with the warmth she expected. Not like the other night at the Mansion on O Street.
“It’s about a woman.”
Katie froze. She pulled her arm back. Their relationship had developed at light speed. Katie and Roarke met under the most trying, yet exciting and sexually explosive of situations. They saved one another, and helped the country. It was dangerous and erotic. Their romance was full-barreled, like the bullets that flew around them.
“Scott.” She couldn’t bring herself to say another word.
They were already off his script. Roarke reached forward to touch her arm. She wasn’t there for him. Katie pushed her chair back and was ready to walk out.
Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command Page 24
