Malvone the poker player was enjoying himself tremendously, trying to guess what “cards” Castillo might still be holding after playing his high ace. He liked the new sometimes upside-down chain of command, but he needed to get a feel for exactly how far he could push his somewhat murky and undefined connection to the White House. Even with his new undeclared promotion, he was technically still junior to Frank Castillo, but he was in no real sense the Deputy Director’s subordinate any longer in the larger picture…for the moment.
Without saying so, they both understood that his new power flowed directly from his informal connection to the White House, at least for as long as their operations went well, and as long as the SPD wasn’t blamed for a major flap. In that event, if the White House threw him overboard, if there was blood in the water, then Castillo and Boxell and the other jealous sharks at ATF and the Justice Department would undoubtedly rip him to shreds. He was attempting to learn the unwritten rules as he went, and he found the entire game to be more than slightly entertaining.
“All right Walter, we’ve got enough problems this week as it is, without looking for any more in-house.”
“I agree, Frank.” Frank! Calling the Deputy Director “Frank” to his face in his own office was priceless. “On that we see eye to eye.” He could only imagine Director Boxell in his office, hiding under his desk, undoubtedly listening in on an intercom, chewing his fingernails down to the knuckles as he contemplated the prospect of another major ATF scandal.
Castillo leaned forward across his desk, rising slightly out of his chair. “Walter, I want to tell you…there’s a lot that I hear, but I don’t really know. A lot. So I just want to ask you for one thing, man to man.”
“What’s that, Frank?”
Castillo closed his eyes momentarily at the sound of his first name. “Don’t embarrass us.”
Malvone paused and stared back at Castillo. “Excuse me? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Walter…please. Just don’t embarrass us. Don’t embarrass the ATF.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Frank. I really will.” Malvone got up out of the chair with an earnest look on his face, said goodbye and, without a backward glace, he strode out of the office. He was laughing inside, he felt like whistling, like dancing. With Hammet dead, his tracks were covered forever. Hammet’s death was going to be lost among the dozens of other deaths of FBI and ATF agents this month.
The brown-nosers who flocked around Boxell and Castillo at Headquarters could take their Ivy League graduate degrees, roll them up into tight tubes, and shove them up their asses. They meant nothing to him now. His years of pretending to fit in, of carefully biding his time while planning and preparing were over.
****
When Brad and Ranya eventually unlatched the cabin door and came back up to the pilothouse, there were no smirks or leers or winks. The three older men had lived a long time, and they knew that the young “newlyweds” might be able to enjoy no other honeymoon beyond the brief time they managed to steal together as the Molly M cruised up the Potomac.
“Where are we?” asked Brad, looking around at the shore. Stately mansions stood atop bluffs, on wide lawns amidst dense stands of hardwood trees. He was back in his comfortable camo pants and blue hooded sweatshirt, but he was barefoot. Ranya was in her new black warm-up suit, also barefoot, her long brown hair loose and unbrushed around her shoulders. Both of them had reddened and bleary eyes as if they had been crying.
Captain Sam had a yellowed and coffee-stained chart unfolded in front of him next to his controls. “Just passing Quantico,” he said. He stabbed at their position on the chart with a gnarled finger. He had a beaten up pair of black binoculars lying next to the throttle lever, and he used them to read the numbers on the green and red channel buoys, taking his glasses off and slipping them into his shirt pocket each time. Captain Sam had not entered the GPS era; the old buoys and markers and landmarks on shore did fine by him.
Carson and Wheeler were sitting across from one another at the dinette table, which was covered with maps, sketches and lists. Carson said, “We’ve got less than twenty miles to the target; we should go over the mission again. The primary plan, the alternates, the cover stories, evasion plans…everything. Is that all right, or am I being a pain in the ass?”
Ranya shrugged okay, and slid into the booth beside him. Brad squeezed in beside Wheeler.
“Instead of going over the whole briefing again, how about we ask each other questions? Okay? All right. Ranya, do you remember the first vehicle rendezvous point across from Tanaccaway Creek?” For now, they quit using their alias first names among the four of them. These four all knew each other, and they weren’t worried about Captain Sam.
“Number one is Dogue Creek Marina, between Mount Vernon and Fort Belvoir. The truck will be behind the restaurant.”
“It’s called Barnacle Bill’s,” said Wheeler. “My turn. Brad, what’s the closest Metro stop to Malvone’s house?”
“Huntington Station. Straight across the river, at the end of the yellow line. The last train leaves at 1:30 AM.” Brad asked Carson in return, “Hammet said Malvone doesn’t have any guard dogs, but what if he’s got them now? How do we deal with guard dogs?”
And so they continued peppering each other with questions about the potentially fatal minutia of the operation, as they wound their way up the river. They worked through every conceivable sentry stalking scenario, several possible ways to gain entry to Malvone’s recreation room, and a variety of escape and evasion plans.
Every fifteen minutes they heard Tony’s voice over the VHF, telling them in brevity code that the river was clear and free from security patrols. Edith, in the truck, used a new prepaid cell phone to send numerical mile marker codes to a new pager on Carson’s belt, indicating the truck’s position on the Virginia side, in case they had to make an emergency link-up.
Finally, Tony sent one last VHF brevity code indicating that as planned Chuck was increasing the Baycruiser’s speed to twenty knots, in order to deliver him to Malvone’s creek for his kayak recon.
The Molly M was fifteen miles from Tanaccaway Creek at four PM. As planned, they diverted from the main channel and headed south into the mouth of the Occoquan River, to top off her fuel tank at the Riverside Marina. If the Molly had to make a high speed run down the bay after the mission, they’d want every gallon of diesel they could carry to obtain the maximum range. Fully fueled, the boat would be able to make it non-stop to Guajira’s anchorage at its best speed.
Brad and Ranya gladly stayed hidden in the forward cabin during the refueling stop to make the Molly less memorable to the marina employees. Wheeler got off the boat and looked for another emergency extraction site where it would be easy to bring the Molly in close enough to shore for them to rendezvous with Archie’s truck. Carson paid for the sixty gallons of diesel with cash, wearing sunglasses and a ball cap. Long after they untied from the fuel pier and shoved off again, Brad and Ranya remained below in the forward cabin.
49
Tanaccaway Creek is actually a small bay on the Maryland side of the Potomac, running two miles from east to west, where its half mile wide mouth opens into the river. The winding Potomac makes one final sharp turn here, then it runs seven miles straight north into Washington. Much of the land on both sides of the upper Potomac is government property, under military or park service control, and is preserved in a state very close to its original natural beauty. The remaining private waterfront land has largely been divided into large estates, and retains most of its abundant tree cover.
The south bank of the creek forms Tanaccaway Park, a 6,000 acre wildlife refuge which extends another mile beyond the creek along the Potomac. Fort Jefferson, another national park, occupies thousands of more acres around the mouth of the creek on the north side. Only the eastern half of Tanaccaway Creek, along its north bank, is privately owned, divided into properties ranging from one to several dozen acres. This was where Wally Malvone lived on his mo
ther’s ancestral land.
By nine PM the Molly M was anchored in a small indentation in the Maryland shoreline, one and a half miles southwest of Malvone’s property, just outside the mouth of the creek. Close behind the boat loomed the heavily forested and utterly dark western shoreline of Tanaccaway Park, which was emptied of hikers and birdwatchers each night at sunset. Occasional river traffic out in the channel passed by without noticing the anchored Chesapeake Bay dead-rise workboat. Their late-arriving wakes rolled the Molly M as their stern lights faded from view.
The tide was beginning to run and the crab boat strained against her anchor line. The gray Zodiac was already inflated and tied along her starboard side; its outboard motor was mounted in place and had been run to make sure it would be ready. Brad and Ranya sat in the Molly M’s long cockpit on the two white plastic chairs, watching thin clouds glide past the half-moon that was setting across the river. The lights along the George Washington Parkway leading to Mount Vernon gleamed like a diamond necklace across the Potomac; the reflection of the moon on the black water was the pendant hanging from the center. They were both already dressed for the mission in their black warm-up suits, holding hands across the two armrests.
“I wonder what old George Washington would think about this,” asked Brad. “I mean, so close to his house.”
“Think about what? You mean about what we’re going to do?”
“Sure, that, and about the whole BATF thing. The Special Training Unit, secret police, all of it…about those guys being a part of the government. His government.”
Ranya shook her head slowly, regretfully. “I don’t think he could ever have imagined it. Not secret police, especially not national secret police. Not in America.”
“But they must have thought something about it. The founding fathers, I mean. That’s what they wrote the Second Amendment for, right? For dealing with situations like this? Things like national secret police?”
She thought about this. “You know, those dead white guys, they were pretty smart, they sure had some vision. They couldn’t possibly tell what was going to happen in two-hundred years, but they knew we’d need guns to deal with it, eventually.”
“Two-hundred years…” Brad mused. “I’ll tell you what: this river’s seen a lot of history. Every other mile something’s named after a president, a general, or a battlefield. Revolutionary war, Civil War…”
“And it’s not finished yet. It’s going to see some more history tonight.”
“More history,” said Brad. “And then we’re finished, we’re done. We’re on Guajira, and we’re out of here.”
“And then we’re out of here,” she agreed, squeezing his hand and laying her head on his shoulder.
“And then we’re sailing to the islands.”
“Straight to the islands.”
****
The pilothouse door opened, and Carson stepped out into the cockpit; he was also wearing his dark track suit. “Tony just called on the walkie-talkie; he’s coming out.” He used Victor’s nom de guerre; they had gradually fallen into the habit. When Tony or Chuck were around, they were Rev and Robin and Bob to each other, all except Carson, who was the hub at the center of the spokes. The first name aliases were very light cover. Mainly they served to remind them all to maintain security, and not ask meddlesome questions.
They each realized that the operation had to go off smoothly, and if it didn’t, the consequences would be severe. The evasion kits they carried sealed in plastic bags in black daypacks could not, realistically, be expected to carry them far against helicopters, police dogs, roadblocks and the Coast Guard. Their plan depended above all on surprise and speed, and if either element was lost, then they were lost.
Just before eleven PM, the kayak appeared out of the gloom from the shoreline, and Tony paddled directly for the side of the Molly M. He turned neatly with a dip of his two-bladed oar and brought his plastic boat against the side of the inflatable. Brad climbed down into it to help him secure the kayak and unload his gear. He took the small waterproof rafting bags from Tony and passed them to the others aboard the Molly. These contained Tony’s recon gear consisting of binoculars, Hammet’s night vision goggles, a notepad, walkie-talkie, a water bottle and other items. After Tony crawled into the gray Zodiac, they both lifted the dripping kayak out of the water and slid it over into the workboat’s cockpit. Tony was wearing his black nylon tracksuit, and black neoprene dive boots.
“Okay,” said Carson, “let’s get inside. You want some coffee?”
****
Tony slid behind the dinette table and began sketching a map of Malvone’s property on a blank piece of paper. The rest of the small table was covered with river charts and road maps, lit by a single red dome light above them in the pilothouse ceiling.
Carson asked, “Where’s Chuck? Have you seen him? Have you made any contact with him?”
While he drew his map Tony said, “Chuck’s gone, as far as I can tell. He left after he dropped me off. I haven’t seen him since before sunset, and he never answered on the radio. I thought maybe he was just out of walkie-talkie range. You haven’t heard from him either?”
“Nope, he hasn’t answered on VHF. We were refueling on the Virginia side, maybe he passed us then,” said Carson. “Or maybe he’s still up here, somewhere.”
“So your friend chickened out,” said Tony, looking disgusted.
“Looks that way.”
“Don’t be too hard on him,” said Wheeler. “Chuck’s had a soft life. We’re lucky he went this far. We couldn’t have done this without a scout boat up ahead of the Molly. And don’t forget, he let us use the halfway house. I’d say he’s done his share, and as long as he keeps his mouth shut, I’ll be happy.”
“He’ll keep his mouth shut,” said Phil Carson.
“How can you be sure?” asked Ranya, standing next to Brad. They were leaning over the back of the crowded dinette, holding onto it as the Molly rolled from a passing wake. Captain Sam was heating water for coffee on the propane stove across from them. “How do you know he didn’t go straight to the Coast Guard or the FBI?”
“Because,” answered Carson, “he’s more afraid of me than the feds. He knows me, and he knows something about my friends. Or he thinks he does, which is even better. Chuck likes his life on easy street too much; he won’t want to go into the witness relocation program. He won’t want to trade his houses and his boats and his girlfriends for an apartment in Tucson. Not at his age.”
Tony finished drawing his sketch map, and used his pencil for a pointer. “Here’s what we’ve got. There’s a narrow pebble beach, rocks and mud all along the shore, maybe five or ten feet wide, it varies. Then there’s a steep bank, very steep, maybe seven or eight feet high above the beach. Nobody up top can see you down there unless they’re right at the edge looking straight down. But if they do look down, there’s no place to hide, no cover.
“Malvone’s house is right here, about forty or fifty yards back from the river bank. There’re some trees and bushes between the bank and his house. Mostly it’s just grass, though. He’s got a tool shed here, and a brick barbeque here on the patio by the back door.”
“How close did you get?” asked Carson.
“Right here. There’s thick woods all along the west side of his property. We can move right through there, no problem. I was watching from here most of the time.” Tony pointed to the spot on his sketch map. “It’s about forty feet from the woods where I was sitting to his house.”
“What are these blobs and arrow things? Trees?” asked Ranya.
“Hey, I failed art class, what can I say? Right, those are trees and bushes around his house. I’m not exactly positive where each one is, I’m just approximating.”
“So who’s there?” asked Carson. “Are they having a party? What’s going on?”
“Malvone’s there for sure. I saw his bald head and mustache, just the way Hammet described him, no question about it, it’s him. He’s wearing a white
shirt, mostly white, sort of like an alligator shirt. You know, with a collar. And blue jeans. I’d say there’s at least four or five of them left; I’m guessing four or five because I never saw them all together at one time. Some folks came and went; you can hear when Malvone’s driveway gate rolls open, it’s a noisy grinding thing. I couldn’t keep track of who came and who left.”
“Four or five?” asked Ranya. It was an important number.
“Right, that’s what I said, four or five. Sorry, that’s the best I could do. They didn’t come out and line up for me. I’ve got descriptions in my notepad.”
“Well, okay,” said Carson, “That’s good. We can handle four or five. Are they acting loose and casual, or nervous and paranoid? Are they packing guns?”
“They’re all wearing pistols, as far as I could tell. No, wait, not Malvone, unless maybe he’s got a backup in a pocket. His shirt was tucked in, definitely no gun there unless it’s a real small one. The others were wearing loose shirts and jackets, but I could tell, they were all packing. One guy took off a jacket over by the barbecue, kind of like a camo windbreaker, and he had a pistol right here.” Tony pointed to his right hip. “They sure didn’t seem very worried. They did cook outside, but they didn’t spend much time in the yard. It’s about a thousand yards across the creek, maybe less. I don’t know if they were worried about snipers. There were a few times when I could have walked up and grabbed a steak. I could smell it, hell; I could hear the meat sizzling. If they were paranoid, I couldn’t see it.”
The rest of the little team listened attentively to Tony’s report; his simple words taking on life and death importance.
“They finished up on the barbeque and went inside before it got dark. They always used the door on the southeast corner here, across the patio from the barbecue. There’s a balcony that runs all the way along the house here on the river side, that’s up on the living room level. I really suck as an artist, that’s what this line here is. The first floor on the land side is the second floor on the river side, right? I mean the ground slopes down. There’s steps on the outside here on the west side of the house to take you from the ground up onto the balcony.
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