“As you say, but—”
“But?”
“Nothing. I was just thinking about Pine Island.”
“Okay, on that non sequitur, I will leave for warm water.”
Chapter Twenty
A few hundred miles to the south, in Langley, Virginia, Charlie Garland sat at his desk drumming his fingers. The cadence was intended to be that of Scott Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag,” but given Charlie’s notoriously bad sense of rhythm, it could have as easily been the “1812 Overture” or the theme to “Gilligan’s Island.” He stopped when his index finger caught an errant paperclip and sent it flying across the room. He reached for the laptop’s keyboard and began tapping on it instead. He opened a recently created file, clicked on the tool bar, and then PRINT. Charlie, unlike the majority of employees at the CIA, had permission to use his own, that is to say, personal laptop. He had a government issue machine sitting on his desk as well, and it would normally be the one in play. But because his position as internal watch dog required a measure of flexibility and privacy from the eyes of even his colleagues, there were times and programs he needed to run without the knowledge of the rest of the agency, with its constant, nearly paranoiac monitoring. For the same reason, he had his own off-line printer.
When the printer stopped bzz-bzzting, he removed the sheets and returned attention to the computer. He took one last look at it and then wiped the file from memory. A simple delete would not do. He did not want anyone to discover at some later date that he had wandered into the director’s hard drive when he’d run tracking software in his effort to discover who had been snooping around his phone logs. He’d been told to look for an internal leak. That was all. No directive had been sent his way to do anything else. But he had software that could back-trace hackers, and the program had, in fact, done what it was designed to do, but it wasn’t what he’d hoped for or could comfortably use. After some more reflection, he also erased the print history from his laptop. A guy who’d been in his office for a job interview had showed him how to do that. Charlie hadn’t hired the guy but wrote a glowing letter of recommendation to the HR department at NSA, a venue he thought the guy’s skill set more nearly matched. He felt slightly foolish erasing the history, but under the circumstances, he felt he had no other choice. If the answer to a question he would soon put to the director came out wrong, his days with the agency might well be drawing to a close. It was not a happy thought.
He shoved the paper copy into his middle desk drawer and slammed it shut. If this were a Humphrey Bogart film, he thought, he would now open the right-hand desk drawer and remove a glass and a half-filled bottle of bourbon. Bogie would have pronounced it bore-bon. But no bottle or glass sat in that drawer, and he wasn’t the late Humphrey Deforest Bogart, either. He settled, instead, for one-half of a Mounds Bar and dialed the director. It was getting late, but he knew his workaholic boss would still be at his desk. Among other things, he needed to tell him about Al Jackson.
And then…
***
Ruth put her glass down and stared at Ike. “Wait a minute… did I hear you say you…you want me to buy Pine Tree Island?”
“You did.”
“Why do I want to buy Pine Tree Island? And with what money, by the way?”
“I understand the relative poverty imposed on those dedicated to a life of self-sacrifice in the halls of academe so, consider it a wedding present, pre-nup so to speak, for me. I’ll give you the money.”
“Let me get this straight. You want to give me money to buy you an island that’s not even a third the size of a football field and give it to you as a wedding present? Why don’t you buy it yourself? And what on earth do you want it for?”
“I read in The New York Times that within the president’s proposals to raise revenue and reduce the deficit, he suggested selling islands, courthouses, maybe even airstrips, not to mention generally idle or underused vehicles, roads, buildings, et cetera. Among the listings is Plum Island, N.Y., by the way.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t believe the government is selling surplus property?”
“No, I don’t believe you read the New York Times. Were you in a hostage situation” What?”
“Doctor’s office, smarty pants, and a week-old copy at that. So, if I understand the procedures for the purchase of government surplus property, and I’m not saying that I do, local interests have the right of first refusal when a property is for sale. You are a property owner here on Scone Island, you have that right. I am not, so I do not. Not yet, anyway. You can do this for me.”
“Government surplus property? The government owns Pine Tree Island?”
“I think so. There were painted markings, almost completely obliterated, on some construction I found on the island that looked like Property of U.S.C.G. That would be the United States Coast Guard. I’m guessing the construction was started and then abandoned toward the end of World War II. I want you to buy it for me, for us, as an investment. That is if I’m right.”
“Right about what? You want to fill me in on the big secret?”
“Both Staley and this guy Barstow were attempting, in different ways, to develop the island. Barstow wanted to build a first-class resort and Staley a bed-and-breakfast. He may have been old and cranky and currently dead, but I don’t think he was stupid. Both had spent money, a good deal of money I think, on property and who knows what else. I think each in his own way thought he had an edge. Barstow intended to buy up as much as he could, spring his surprise, and resell at a huge profit at least. He was on his way to see Staley the night of the murder. I think he wanted to make a deal.”
“What kind of a deal?”
“Not sure, but I think a quick look through Staley’s things will turn up the answer. I’ll have a look tomorrow. Who knows, we might get lucky.”
“You’d break into Cliffside? You’re a cop. You can’t break into a house.”
“I can if it’s a crime scene.”
“It’s out of your jurisdiction. I’m no lawyer, but I’m pretty sure you’re out of bounds here.”
“Didn’t you hear Deputy Stone ask me for help? I’d be helping.”
“But what are you looking for?”
“A hydrological survey, among other things.”
“‘A hydrological survey, among other things?’ What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Part of a puzzle that is bugging me and might be useful to solve for a later day.”
“Still not with you, Schwartz.”
“Trust me.”
“Ha!”
Ike pumped up the Coleman lantern. It began to hiss and he lit it. The mantle caught and glowed a bright white. He snuffed the candle he’d been holding and placed it beside the lantern on the table.
“There,” he said, “isn’t that almost romantic?”
“Almost.”
Ike stretched his legs out and sipped his drink. “It’s a shame we can’t use the light I brought.”
“Next time you shop, remember to put light bulbs on the list. By the way, I thought I saw a duffle in the car that you didn’t bring over to the island with us when we arrived. What’s in it?”
“A tent.”
“A what?”
“Two-man, sorry, a two-person tent. It’s one if those pop-up things.”
“So, you brought a tent, or did you buy it? And why, she asks knowing full well she is not going to like the answer.”
“Behaviors, good and bad, become habit and, even after they are no longer needed, automatically pop up when you get involved in a particular task or bit of business, like our running away from home. You know, they kick in with the right Pavlovian stimulus.”
“I still don’t follow. To what behaviors do you refer to, Dr. Pavlov?”
“Spook survival. Once we set in motion the actions we wanted to assure that we could not be found, by Charlie in particular, I went into a ‘leave no trail’ mode. Behavior from another life.”
“Like the disposable cell phones?”
“Exactly. So when I picked up the generator and stuff to bring some measure of civilization here, I also bought the tent on the assumption that if anyone who might be on our trail discovered the other purchases, he’d have a little information about our destination. Not much, but some. If he was quick enough he might figure it out. So, I bought the tent. Now, if the tracker is on the scent, he will assume we went camping. People don’t go north to camp at this time of year. He’ll look south. You see how it works?”
“You were thinking all this in the store as you stockpiled this junk?”
“I wasn’t thinking about the items at all actually. I reacted automatically and the next thing I knew the clerk was ringing up a tent. Besides Essie told Charlie we’d gone camping.”
“And all this to evade Charlie Garland?”
“No, of course not. Charlie would have to be really desperate to go to the trouble to put a search in motion. As I said, it was a conditioned reflex. I started the process with an eye to making it difficult for anyone to trace us. The rest followed—like riding a bicycle. So now, whether we need it or not, we have left a false trail that could, in more perilous times, buy us hours, days, weeks even.”
“That is amazing. Terrorists with bombs, angry ex-faculty, guys you put away in the slammer, bill collectors from Netflix, none of them can find us now. Wow. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. It’s always a treat to know you’re appreciated.”
“Un-huh. Did it ever occur to you while you were plunking down good hard cash for a two-person tent, not to mention all this other stuff, that you were spending the kids’ inheritance?”
“Kids? I think you may be a little ahead of yourself there, kiddo. But, if that is something you’d like initiate, we can take this almost romantic lantern upstairs and get started.”
“Alas, due to the wonders of research in reproductive physiology and the easy availability of modern pharmaceuticals, it will require a little more in the way of planning than a quick hop in the sack. Sorry about that.”
“Gone are the days, alas.”
“Were they good old days or bad?”
“Scary, I think. No social commentary tonight, please. Please stay focused on the progeny of our loins, as the Good Book would put it. And don’t forget, before we bring a scion into the world, we must first contact the admissions office at Harvard to see which year they will have an opening for the inevitable prodigal we will produce.”
“Oh, indeed. Maybe we should sort that out now—just in case. One doesn’t like to rush into things and miss the opportunity on the rise. Imagine the poor tyke’s disappointment if Mummy and Daddy were to miss the year and she would have to settle for Yale.”
“Dreadful. Another drink?”
“Yes. Let’s drink to a very confused Charlie and the promise of eventual children—note the plural, I was an only child, as were you, and I do not recommend that circumstance for any of ours.”
Ike started to say something, bit his lip instead, and smiled. Whether or not she would admit it later, Ruth had moved significantly off the dime when it came to the formalization of their relationship. One did not speak of children, even in jest, without the concept infiltrating one’s thoughts, like Indians in an old Western sneaking up on the cavalry’s fort and thus changing the balance of the equation. It was a mixed metaphor but he liked it anyway, especially the image of Indians creeping into Ruth’s fortress.
Chapter Twenty-one
The director of the CIA, as Charlie and everyone else who paid attention to the news knew, had come to the agency after nomination by the director of National Intelligence and with the advice and consent of the Senate. He had moved to that point from a career as a general officer in the United States Army. And he had risen to the rank of general by surviving several combat tours of duty in the Mid- and Far East and more emotionally grueling ones at the Pentagon. Four stars come only to those who show bravery in the field, firmness of purpose in their career, and the ability to avoid the long knives of their comrades in the E Ring. He had done all these things, but at the expense of his marriage, his health, and not a few of his friends. He had been waiting for Charlie Garland’s call for two hours when his phone finally rang.
Charlie would not have known that, of course, but he wouldn’t have been surprised to find it out. Whatever else could be said of the director, political appointee or not, a limited intelligence wasn’t one of them. That claim could not have been made of one or two of his predecessors, one of whom went on to become a presidential candidate.
“What have you got for me, Garland?”
“Some bad news and a question.”
“What’s the question?”
“Bad news first. We found Al Jackson, or rather his control found him through the crime stats of the Baltimore Police Department. He’s dead. That makes two—Archie and now Al.”
“How did Jackson die? And are you sure the two are related?”
“As to the latter, no. The Baltimore cops have it reported as a random drive-by shooting.”
“And I take it you don’t think it was.”
“Oh, I think it was a drive-by shooting, all right, but not random, but the truth is, I really can’t say, director. They found ticket stubs to the ball game at Camden yards in his pocket, a twi-nighter. He’d parked several blocks away, I’m not sure why. It appears he left early and was going to his car when it happened. It’s dark and he’s a black guy in South Baltimore walking along the streets near a neighborhood that used to be called Pig Town. To the north of where they found him is West Baltimore, home to all kinds of bad guys, if I read the papers correctly. Also, he was connected to some of those same bad guys in the past—before we got him. Could it have been random? Sure, but with Archie dead and Neil Bernstein missing, what are the odds? I don’t like coincidences, at least not like this one.”
“No, you’re right. No news from Bernstein either?”
“His girlfriend, partner, whatever, hasn’t heard from him since he left. She says he usually checks in, and he hasn’t.”
“Maybe he’s romping in the sand somewhere with a new playmate and doesn’t want to tell her.”
“Halmi would know and he says no. He says Neil went west to climb a rock. So, is he incommunicado or will we be collecting another body, this time from Colorado? I don’t know, director. I called the Barratt police and talked to the cop on the desk out there, without tipping who I was, of course, and I received very suspicious answers.”
“What do you mean, suspicious?”
“It was weasely, too pat, too smooth. They’re hiding something.”
“You think? Find out. What about Ike Schwartz? Do you still think he is in danger?”
“Assuming these deaths are connected and not accidents either of time or place, I do. Listen, this may all end as a tempest in a teapot—a series of coincidences that defy logic and statistical probability, but I don’t like it.”
“So, have you tried to track down Ike? You did say he was out of the loop.”
“I did, and I have tried, as you well know.”
“Pardon? I know?”
“Yes, sir, and that leads to the question I have to ask you before we talk anymore.”
“A question?”
Charlie slipped the sheets of paper from the middle drawer and spread them across the desk top. “As I told you earlier, I discovered my phone calls were being monitored, hacked actually. I borrowed, you should pardon the expression, a program from a colleague over at NSA that back-tracks hackers, and I traced the source.”
“Yes, so, who’s your Peeping Tom?”
“You are, sir. The program dropped me off at your doorstep, you could say.”
***
Sandy Ansona considered himself a good cop. He resented the jibes he and his small-town colleagues received from people passing through the town, tourists and the stuck-up folk from Boulder. He never understood that—the Boulder business. And
bikers on their way to some idiot rally where they’d all get stoned and show off the mess they’d made by customizing their expensive Harleys. The worst happened when the locals started referring to him and the other guys as Buford or Barney. But the real trouble lay with both the chief and the lieutenant who, sadly, deserved the abuse. If they weren’t fixing tickets for the mayor’s teenage daughters, they were rousting various citizens—those of foreign extraction mostly—for anything from free donuts to favors of a more intimate nature.
He really did not like the business about the stiff they brought down from the mountain. The guy was wearing a steel and gold Rolex that mysteriously disappeared from the deceased’s inventory along with his M-11. The pistol was important, Sandy knew, but wasn’t sure how. He’d spent a little time in the MPs and he knew government issue when he saw it. Since the chief now sported the Rolex, he assumed the gun went to the lieutenant. Spoils of war, they would say. More like grave robbing—without the grave.
He wheeled his cruiser around and started back along Main Street. Patrolling Barratt was a matter of form. Nothing much happened here except tourists on their way through and cowboys drinking too much once a month. If it weren’t for the occasional speed trap the chief set up, the town would dry up and blow away. He passed Frank’s Diner and glanced in the few windows not yet steamed up. The lieutenant was chatting up Gloria, the new girl down from Wyoming. Would she or wouldn’t she? And would the lieutenant’s wife hear about it?
He reached the town’s limits and pulled over on the shoulder to think. What kind of a guy goes rock climbing in one-hundred dollar sneakers and wearing a gold and steel Rolex? Whatever else Neil Bernstein might have been, Sandy did not think he was a fool. He didn’t fall off that cliff, either. And what was a helicopter doing in that mountain meadow? Who could he talk to who would not immediately blab to the chief? His brother, of course. He was a state trooper. If there was something crooked going on in Barratt, they’d be the ones to investigate. But his brother stood pretty low on the totem pole, or was it high? He’d been told by someone, he couldn’t remember who or when, that the place of greatest honor on a totem pole was at the bottom, so maybe high was it. Either way his brother was on the wrong end. All he would do is tell his sergeant and it would go up the line and land right back on the chief’s desk. Then Sandy could say goodbye to his job and career in law enforcement. That’s how things worked in “the Thin Blue Line” he knew. “We cover our own,” the chief had said to him when he joined the force after came home from his last tour in Afghanistan. He knew that. Besides, his brother would tell him to forget it and that “you have to go along to get along.”
Scone Island Page 10
