Scone Island

by Frederick Ramsay

  Somebody had a secret. But did it have anything to do with his current predicament? Probably not, but then again, perhaps it did. He would make a visit to the building after dark.

  He’d been staring at the door and its lock for several minutes when he felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He couldn’t be sure, but this sixth sense had served him well in the old days and now suggested he was being watched. A quick three-sixty sweep of his surroundings revealed nothing. Potter had his back to him at the store. Stone had wandered off somewhere. His eyes weren’t what they used to be, of course, and he might have missed someone in the shrubbery. The feeling did not go away. Someone had him in sight, of that he was sure. He guessed it was time to start packing his hand gun.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Ike found Ruth sitting on the porch chin in hand and deep in thought, or so he assumed. He didn’t know whether he dared disturb her or not. The ancient wicker creaked and groaned as he took a seat next to her. He waited.

  “Schwartz, are you absolutely sure there are no alternatives, more attractive alternatives, available other than a shoot-out at the Not So OK Corral? I want to know that if I am about to cash in my chips early, I am exercising the best possible option.”

  “You know full well that there is a better scenario with respect to your chip cashing—you leave the island right now.”

  “And you would tackle the assassins or whatever they are alone. Yes, I know about that one. I have rejected it out of hand. Or, more accurately, I have put you on the famous horns of a dilemma. And, in case you’re approaching dotage and have forgotten, I gave you my reasons for rejecting it. I’m asking if, other than me bailing out, there might not be a safer course.”

  Ike let his gaze shift across the roadway and then south toward The Bite. Was there? None he could think of. “Nope, but I’m open to suggestions.”

  “This is not my game, but it occurs to me that we have an advantage we need to exploit.”

  “And that is?”

  “They have no idea where they must look to find us. We, on the other hand, once they have landed will know exactly where they are all the time. That being the case, and you being the cool hand that you are, why don’t we lure them into the open say over there where the path meets the road and, using Mister Whitlock’s very sophisticated rifle, snipe them.”

  “Snipe them?”

  “We set up the widow’s walk as one of our lurks and shoot them from it. Isn’t that what a sniper does? We’ll have our own grown-up version of a snipe hunt.”

  “I don’t think sniper comes from snipe hunt…wait, you know, maybe it does. I never really thought about it.”

  “I looked it up while you were bamboozling Potter and Stone. It refers to the ability of soldiers in colonial India to shoot the snipe which is ‘any of about twenty-five wading bird species in three genera in the family Scolopacidae.’ Apparently the little critters were difficult to bring down. Can’t think why.”

  “Bamboozling? Ah, that would be from the act of hunting the Great Crested Bamboozle of Tasmania which is said to paint its eggs gold so that greedy farmers will hatch them in the hopes of obtaining a goose which lays—”

  “Knock it off. I asked you a question, which you have avoided by punting it back to me. So, okay, you have my suggestion. What do you think?”

  “It is a fine idea. My concern is that if they represent more than two or three, there is a very good possibility the sniper, and that would be me I take it, could end up trapped forty feet above ground with no means of escape.”

  “What if there were two snipe shooters, one up top and one below. If the first volley doesn’t get them all, well, then when they go for the house, number two shoots them from the side.”

  “Possible. We’ll call that plan R.”

  “R? Isn’t it usual to start with A?”

  “It is, but we are on a short string here and R for Ruth seemed more appropriate. The next will be S, you see?”

  “For Schwartz?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I must say, for a couple facing probable extinction, we are taking this with great good humor. Do you mind if I break the mood here and tell you I am scared spitless?”

  “You and me both, kiddo. It’s called gallows humor.”

  “Ah, we agree on that at least. So what is plan S?”

  “Whatever we do, Ruth, will depend on three things at least. How many there are, where and when they come ashore, and what they bring with them. If we can catch them on the steps on the cliff, for example, it will be like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  “Stop! A question for you that requires an answer before we shoot fish, snipe, or anything real or metaphorical. If these bad people are eliminated, and if whoever is behind this, assuming someone is, really wants you dead, won’t he or they simply send another crew? This could go on forever.”

  Ike smiled. No dummy, this woman. “Of course. If shooting occurs, it must be less than lethal for at least one victim, hopefully several. We need to know who or what brought this on. We find that out by taking them alive and asking the right questions.”

  “I see. So, not only must you shoot the snipe or the Greater Crested Bamboozle, but you must also not kill him, it, or her?”

  “That would be best.”

  “Ike, this has gone from being merely difficult to damned near impossible. There are only the two of us. As much as I thought I could shoot straight, you saw for yourself I am a mediocre shot at best.”

  “You’re good enough, and as you noted, played right, we have the advantage of knowing.”

  “Why am I not encouraged?”

  “Because, for all your fantasizing, you are at heart a realist. It will serve us well, I think.”

  “Fantasizing? Who’s fantasizing? You are if you think the two of us are going to pull this off.”

  “Perhaps. But think of what we can tell our grandchildren if we do.”

  “Grandchildren? Now you are in fantasy land.”

  “Okay, so much for support and encouragement. It’s time to call Charlie and get this game started. Once the call is made, we will have eight hours at the outside to get ready. If praying is in your playbook, now is the time to start.”

  “One last thing…This is really silly, and I don’t know why I even bothered except, for all your obvious faults, you usually know what you’re doing. I searched the Internet and I know how to buy Pine Tree Island. You fill out forms in quadruplicate, put in a bid or an offer, etc. etc. Will you please tell me why I am doing this in light of our probable demise?”

  “Because I believe in the two of us. See, if I were to buy into the dying thing, it would be like a…you know…”

  “A self-fulfilling prophesy?”

  “Yes, maybe. Anything else?”

  “That was it. Oh, and before we find out what it’s like to experience rigor mortis, one last goodbye. You think we could manage that?”

  “Done. Okay, here we go.” Ike flipped open the satphone and punched in Charlie’s open number.

  ***

  The FBI wasted no time in storming the Barratt Police department. They operated on the assumption that small towns have highly tuned grapevines and once it became public knowledge they had arrived, every bit of evidence of wrong doing would be shredded, hidden, or disposed of before they got through the front door. They were very nearly right.

  Charlie watched with some satisfaction as the chief and his lieutenant were hauled away and Sandy Ansona installed as Acting Chief. The appointment would likely not last long, but at least for a while the young man would have the satisfaction of having done the right thing.

  He’d installed his erstwhile twin in his official motel only moments before the bureau arrived. He made sure the man who, as it happened did bear a striking resemblance to him, had his instructions about check-out and the return of the rental at Denver International Airport. Once assured he was set, he checked back with the FBI special agent-in-charge, signed off on his end of the
operation, and took off for Laramie, Wyoming. From there he planned to take a twin engine to Helena, Montana, thence to Boise, Idaho, and, his trail by then sufficiently muddled, hop a flight to Manchester-Boston Regional Airport. The least likely place someone would expect him to use if he were headed to Maine. He figured he’d be in Mount Desert Island in less than twenty-four hours. Sometime during that transit he should hear from Ike and the operation would be in play. He only hoped he’d get to the island before it all went down.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Twenty miles south of Laramie Regional Airport, Charlie’s cold phone chirped. He pulled off in a lay-by and answered. Ike.

  “Is it that time?” he asked and checked his watch.

  “Not yet. Something’s come up. I need to check it out first.”

  “Something? What sort of something?”

  “You sound like my mother when I came home late after a date.”

  “I like to think of myself as the mother you never had.”

  “Unfortunately for you, Charlie, I had a very nice mother whose only flaw was to say things like ‘what sort of something.’ It may not be important, but I have an uneasy feeling that we are not alone on this rock.”

  “Not following you, sorry.”

  “No need. I wanted to give you a quick heads-up. I have a job to do tonight. Then I’ll call.”

  “Okay by me. I’m on my way, and a delay will give me an extra twelve hours to get to you.”

  “Charlie, you don’t want to get the sack for me.”

  “If you mean by coming to your aid I will upset the director by refusing to follow orders, I don’t care. If he’s behind this, if he’s the one who ordered a wet squad to eliminate the four of you, then I can’t work for him, and won’t. But if he wasn’t, well, I believe that there are circumstances when it is, as they say, better to seek forgiveness than permission. Besides, there is something else you should know. The bad guys have access to helicopters, or at least one. That changes the odds significantly. I need to be there.”

  “Jesus, Charlie, who are these guys?”

  “I haven’t a clue beyond what we discussed earlier. I was hoping you would remember something.”

  “Sorry, been busy.”

  “Yes. Well, for what it’s worth, we still have our three possibilities. The agency, that is to say the director, for reasons known only to him, has ordered the hit. Libyans who desperately need to stay anonymous are after you, or something happened in Africa that needs to stay buried. In each case, these guys believe that the four of you saw, heard, or know something that can cause them trouble big time.”

  “Or they think we might have and can’t take any chances. I have turned over what you told me, and I am at a loss. I don’t remember squat about those ops. I did have a brief mental jog when you said Africa, though.”

  “What?”

  “Can’t say. It came and went. I’ll call you later. Where are you, anyway?”

  “Outside Laramie, on my way to their airport. I think I will change my itinerary a bit, now that I think of it. I can get a Great Lakes flight from here to Denver, change planes and fly to Chicago and then take Southwest to Manchester. I’ll drive up to you from New Hampshire. I’d planned to take a more circuitous route to keep the bloodhounds confused, but I think we are running out of time, and now I don’t care if they know where I’m headed.”

  ***

  Eden Saint Clare tried Ruth’s cell phone five times before she remembered there was no phone service on Scone Island and Ruth hadn’t taken it with her anyway. A cab drove her to Midway airport where she shopped for a flight east, not the most economical way to book a trip, but she didn’t care. She thought of herself as on a mission of mercy, sort of. Southwest had a flight to Boston only it didn’t really go to Boston. It went to Manchester, New Hampshire. How does that work? Boston was in Massachusetts the last time she looked. The woman at the desk mentioned something about travel time to downtown Boston but Eden cut her off. Boston wasn’t in New Hampshire, period.

  After twenty minutes of haggling with a desk agent she finally purchased a fistful of tickets which, after several changes, would land her in Bangor, Maine at five AM the next morning. Another twenty minutes with another desk agent and she had exchanged them all for a new set that departed later, had an overnight in Boston, where she could get a decent night’s sleep and a bath and then on to Bangor arriving at noon. She found a table in the airport bar, ordered two martinis, an early dinner, and settled in to wait for her flight to be called.

  ***

  The office door cracked open an inch. The director of the CIA stared at it. It would not be good news. Good news burst through his door with a blast of Jeremiah Clarke’s Trumpet Voluntary, figuratively speaking. Bad news entered an inch at a time like a rat seeking a piece of cheese.

  “Come on in, Mark. You can tell me.”

  His rat-seeking-cheese aide sidled in. “Sir, we’ve lost Garland.”

  “You lost him. How, lost him? I was under the impression you had a team assigned to keep round-the-clock surveillance on him, binoculars, listening devices, the best goddam equipment available. How’s it possible he slipped away?”

  “Um…oldest trick in the book, I’m afraid. He hired someone to take his place. The double has been sitting in Garland’s motel room living on room service and pay per view movies since the FBI cleared out of Barratt. I’m sorry, sir. I guess we trusted the gadgets to do the work for us, and somehow he figured it out.”

  “Like before when he knew that if he sat in a busy restaurant at lunchtime the wireless traffic would be so heavy we couldn’t find and trace his store-bought phone. How, exactly, did your people finally figure out he’d run?”

  “They saw a woman, girl actually, go to the motel door and knock. Garland isn’t in the habit of having…Well, when the door opened to let her in, our people saw that it wasn’t Garland.”

  “Who was it? Who’d he hire to sit in his room?”

  “A professional ski instructor. That’s what he called himself.”

  “So, if he hadn’t gotten lonely and called his girlfriend, we might still be camped out across the street?”

  “Yes, sir…”

  “Okay, okay. Maybe we can make this work for us. Garland’s on the move. He’s going to Schwartz—”

  “Sir, we don’t know that.”

  “The hell we don’t. Think about it. Why else would he bolt? If he’s out, he has to use public transportation to get to Schwartz. Slap a full screen on every airport, train station and rental car facility between Denver and DC.”

  “DC? Sir, why DC? Do you think he’s coming back here? Why would he do that?”

  “Where else would he go? He needs to get the files we took from him. Without the files he won’t know where to begin. He’ll be here.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “I want you to set up a back door he can find his way into the files if he wants. Fix that up with electronic security. Just him, mind you, and when he hacks in, we’ll have him. We need him out of the game. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir. In the meantime what if someone else tries to hack in? We could be seriously compromised.”

  “That’s a risk we will have to take. Make sure that doesn’t happen, okay? Damn, where the hell is Schwartz? We need to clean up this mess ASAP.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m on it. There’s one more thing.”

  “Something else. What?”

  “The President’s man called.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He said the President wanted to know if we’d made any progress.”

  “Tell him we’re exploring ‘alternate scenarios’ or some crap like that. Never mind, I’ll call Brattan myself. He was a good man once. He used to work for me in the DIA, did you know that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He did. Colonel Brattan was a damned fine officer back when he still had a backbone, but he went to the dark side and became a politician. I tell you, Mark, you put a man i
n an expensive suit and give him a driver and car paid for by the taxpayers and he’ll turn soft and mushy and yellow like an over ripe banana. Too bad about him. Past redeeming by now. Okay, get on with it. I’ll deal with the CinC and his groupies; you find Garland.”

  Chapter Forty

  Ike waited until the sun set and then, over Ruth’s objections, set out for the abandoned Coast Guard Station. He had no clear idea what he would be looking for, but a shiny new combination lock on the door could not be ignored. In their haste to demobilize in the mid-40s, the Coast Guard may or may not have left something useful behind. He doubted it, but, since someone had recently been in the building, his instinct told him he needed to know why and perhaps who. He had no real use for any materiel left over from the World War II, although a small antitank gun might come in handy if the bastards arrived in a helicopter. What were the odds the Coast Guard would have had an antitank gun? Ike’s experience with government planners suggested that anything, even an antitank gun on an island in Maine, should not be ruled out.

  In spite of the passage of time and the ravages of salty air, the station’s dull olive exterior, though faded and chipped in places, remained intact. The paint scheme had been an attempt at camouflage, doubtless to conceal it from scout planes sent from the Third Reich. How a German plane would manage to cross thousands of ocean miles without refueling did not alter the decision to hide the station. After all, hadn’t Lucky Lindy made it nonstop? Why not some plucky Nazi with murder in his heart and a bomb in the plane’s belly? In 1942, going to war involved everyone. The apparent absurdity of the of the paint scheme had more to do with confirming they were at war than with any real threat from the air. For Ike, the badly peeling paint offered a convenient nonreflective surface. If he were being watched, he would soon disappear against the dark siding.