“I see. Excuse me while I make a call.” Pendergast slipped his cell phone out of his pocket, dialed a number, and turned away. He murmured quietly into the phone for a while. Then he turned back and handed it to Lam.
“What’s up?” Lam asked.
“A computer expert in my employ, specializing in cybersecurity and cyberwarfare. His name is Mime. He wishes to examine your system. I can assure you he is entirely trustworthy.”
“Maybe. But I’m the computer expert around here.” Even so, Lam took the phone with a puzzled expression. Gladstone watched as the person on the other end gave Lam detailed instructions, which he tapped onto the keyboard. It appeared that the anonymous person began controlling the computer remotely after a few moments, because suddenly Lam was no longer typing, just watching as his screen filled with windows dense with scrolling computer code. After ten long minutes, Lam handed the phone back to Pendergast, who spoke into it and then hung up.
“It seems your system has been hacked,” Pendergast informed them as he replaced the phone in his pocket, along with the printout. “By an expert—most likely, someone with government or military expertise.”
“What kind of a hack?”
“Mime called it a ‘cocktail of zero-day exploits,’ but the most pernicious actors were keyloggers attached to every input device.”
“Son of a bitch,” said Lam. “So some bastard has been keeping track of everything I type? Who the hell would want to steal a bunch of drift data?”
“Who, indeed?”
This was said in such an uncharacteristic tone of voice that Gladstone looked over at Pendergast. The wariness she’d noticed earlier had turned into alarm. The FBI agent stared at both of them in turn. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that the time has come for our departure.”
“Departure?” Gladstone asked. “Where?”
“Away from here. And right now.” Then, before she could react, he had taken her arm and hustled her out the door.
44
COLDMOON GRIPPED THE armrests while the plane once again rebounded in turbulence, the captain’s calm voice reminding everyone to keep their seat belts fastened. Christ, he hated flying almost as much as boating. The only reasonable way to travel, he thought, was by foot or car—or horse. Everything else was bullshit.
Back on the rez, there had been a lot of horses wandering around, free for the borrowing. Most were a bit wild, unshod and half-crazy, leftovers from the days when horses were sacred to the Lakota. Now people kept them for no good reason beyond tradition and nostalgia. But Coldmoon and his friends, as a lot of kids did in those days, would occasionally rope a random horse, bridle and throw a blanket on him, and ride him somewhere—if they could stay on—as an alternative to hitchhiking or walking. There was one horse in particular Coldmoon was fond of—he called him Mop because of the massive mane of blond hair. He fed him oats from time to time, which made it easier to catch him by shaking the bucket, and he trimmed his splayed hooves and wormed him. He didn’t know whom Mop belonged to, nobody did, but he wasn’t a bad horse. Riding him was fun. You didn’t get motion sick on a horse the way you did on a plane or boat, and you were in control, at least sort of. The idea of being thirty thousand feet up in a plane, strapped into a seat with nothing between you and the ground six miles down, where you were at the complete mercy of the pilots, and the air traffic controllers, and the mechanics who took care of the plane, and the engineers who designed it, and the weather, and bird strikes, and terrorists, and even to an extent the other passengers, freaked him out almost as much as the bottomless black water underneath a ship—where, with even the smallest boat, all it would take was one hole. And as boats got bigger and bigger they just had more systems that could break, or catch fire, or lose power and drift, or hit an iceberg, or fall to a rogue wave, or encounter Somali pirates, and then, boy, that’s all she wrote…
Another rumble and shake abruptly brought Coldmoon out of these morbid thoughts as the plane passed through more turbulence. They were above the clouds, and great thunderheads rose all around like gigantic fairy towers of white. Clearly the pilots were trying to make their way around a stormy area, and it looked pretty bad, with some clouds flattening into an anvil shape, signifying serious thunderstorms.
Lovely.
He forced his mind back to the case. In his conversation with Pendergast, he had relayed all he’d learned from his trip to Guatemala and Mexico. It was becoming quite clear this case involved something as big as it was bizarre—backed by a powerful, well financed, and widespread organization. Who they were, and what they were up to, remained as crazy a mystery as before. A hundred and twelve feet, crudely chopped off by their owners, deep-frozen, and then set adrift at sea. Why? And how the hell did everything link up: from Guatemala, coyotes and secret border crossings, unexpected apprehensions, to hacked-off feet floating in the Gulf of Mexico? In a criminal investigation, one of the first questions you asked yourself was: who benefits from this crime? But how would anyone benefit from people chopping off their own feet? For what purpose except to free themselves from shackles in the most extreme possible way—but even that had been ruled out.
Another jolt, and the voice of the captain came over the system, announcing that, due to severe thunderstorms, the flight was being diverted from Fort Myers to Tallahassee. There were the usual apologies while the passengers groaned and hissed.
Tallahassee. Where the hell was that in relation to Fort Myers? Coldmoon fished out the in-flight magazine and looked it up, then cursed under his breath. It was way up in the Panhandle, hundreds of miles to the north, a five-hour drive at least.
Another reason to hate flying, he thought.
45
WHAT’S GOING ON?” Gladstone demanded as Pendergast ushered them out of the lab and into the parking lot. She noticed his piercing eyes casting about. “Are we in some sort of danger?”
Without answering, he unlocked his car: a new Range Rover, both sturdy and sleek. “Get in. Both of you.”
She slid into the passenger seat while Lam got in the back. Pendergast started the engine and headed out of the lot, driving slowly.
“We’re dealing,” he said, “with a powerful organization. Through hacking your system, they now know that we know their location—somewhere up Crooked River. I have no doubt they’re reacting to that information as we speak, which puts all of us in immediate danger. Both of you must go to ground.”
“Why don’t you call the FBI or the task force, get a team or something to protect us?”
“Because the investigation has been thoroughly penetrated. There’s nobody we can trust. And there’s also a time factor.” Pendergast swiveled toward her. “I’m bringing you both to a bungalow in Corkscrew Swamp, south of here, where you’ll be safe until further notice.”
“What the hell?” Lam asked. “We’re going in there?”
“Yes. For some time now, I’ve suspected we might be dealing with an adversary more formidable than anticipated. As time went on, I became increasingly convinced, just as I also grew more certain that our task force was leaking information—accidentally or otherwise. It was then I established a safe house in case things went awry; after all, you two are civilians, working at my request, and should not be exposed to danger. But it’s now clear that you are. I realized neither how quickly the threat was accelerating…nor how breathtaking its scope had become. I can blame only myself for not treating it with greater seriousness—when it was still containable.”
“Safe house? Containable? The hell with this.” And Lam reached for the door handle. But just as he did, Pendergast gunned the supercharged engine, pressing his passengers back against the leather seats with the acceleration, running a red light as he headed south from Fort Myers on Route 41.
They blasted down 41 at speeds exceeding a hundred miles an hour as the sun sank toward the horizon in a blaze of orange and red thunderheads. It was one of those spectacular sunsets that looked like the end of the world. Gladstone had been fri
ghtened by Pendergast’s pronouncements, but as they rocketed down the highway she wondered if it wasn’t just an overreaction. He didn’t seem like a dramatic sort of personality, but then again, she didn’t really know him.
Before reaching Bonita Springs, Pendergast turned off the highway, and they proceeded east on an unmarked tar road that quickly left the developed areas behind, stretching like an arrow through yellow pine plantations, swamp, and cypress groves. Soon, in an orgy of blood-red clouds, the sun set and a purple twilight rose.
She noticed Pendergast accelerating still further and, glancing behind, saw a distant pair of headlights. Despite their speed, the lights appeared to be pacing them.
“You know there’s a car following us,” Lam said in undisguised alarm.
“Yes,” Pendergast replied.
She felt a wave of panic. Christ, they were out in the middle of nowhere. Worse, she saw Pendergast remove a massive gun from his suit and lay it on the seat next to him.
“Holy shit!” said Lam. “You really planning to use that?”
Pendergast said nothing.
How the hell had they been followed? How did anyone know where they were going? But then she heard a faint throb from above—and, a moment later, saw lights ahead. They looked stationary, blocking the road.
Even as she took notice of this, Pendergast was slowing down. Now he turned off his lights, and a moment later swung the Rover from the tar road onto a dirt lane that led away at a right angle. There was just enough twilight left in the air to see—barely—but once they were in the trees it was dark. The vehicle slammed through potholes, leaping and bucking. Gladstone had no idea how Pendergast could see where the hell he was going. The sound of throbbing rotors above increased, and through the treetops a chopper came into view, banking to the right and accelerating toward them.
“Undo your seat belts,” Pendergast said.
She fumbled with the clasp, her heart pounding. In the backseat, she could hear Lam breathing loudly, hyperventilating.
“Get ready to exit. If we’re still at speed, make sure to open your door completely, then jump away at an angle, tuck, and roll.”
Pendergast veered off the lane onto what was little more than a track through a denser, tree-covered area. He gunned the big engine, and the Rover slewed through marshy bottoms and mud holes, once again in almost complete darkness. Now the chopper was almost on top of them, keeping pace. A brilliant beam of light stabbed through the tree cover, illuminating the area around with crazy, moving shadows.
A harsh electronic voice came from above. “Stop your vehicle.”
Pendergast, if anything, accelerated, plunging into a low, swampy stretch, mud splattering against the windows.
“Stop or we’ll fire.”
Gladstone, terrified, crouched down, hands over her head.
The heavy vehicle abruptly swerved at the same time that a burst of gunfire sounded from above: a rapid pop-pop-pop. Gladstone screamed as the Rover sideswiped a tree. Another burst of gunfire, this time with a loud hammering sound in the rear of the vehicle, glass flying everywhere, leaves and branches shredding around them in the glaring light. In the backseat, Lam emitted a gargling scream.
Pendergast jammed on the brakes and the SUV slewed sideways to a stop. Gladstone turned back only to see Lam torn apart by gunfire, a sight so horrific that she froze. Pendergast seized her, throwing open the door and hauling her out. He turned and leaned back in, pausing briefly over Lam’s mutilated body before grabbing her again and pulling her away from the scene. As he towed her into the brush, a muffled thump sounded behind as the Rover caught fire, flames leaping up even as the car settled, sizzling, into the muck. The forest lit up a lurid yellow.
Holding her hand, Pendergast pushed forward into a dense tangle of cypress trees. The chopper seemed to have lost them; its spotlight beam was swinging through the trees in a searching pattern.
Pendergast slowed, moving deliberately, still holding her hand as a warm rain began to fall: light at first, then getting heavier. The helicopter’s spotlight was moving around in a more distant location and she had the sudden hope they had lost their pursuers completely. He led them into denser vegetation, the cypress trees giving way to a mangrove swamp cut by narrow, winding channels of water a foot deep. They continued as quietly as they could, wading through the watery maze. Gladstone forced away the image of Lam’s body, making an intense effort to control her panic and focus on moving as quietly as possible.
At a cul-de-sac, Pendergast halted. He reached into the water and pulled up handfuls of mud with which he began coating himself, gesturing for her to do the same, in particular her blond hair. The muck smelled foul, fishy and rotten, but she complied, covering herself as thickly as she could manage. Then they turned and continued moving. But now, the thudding of the rotors was returning, the chopper widening its search pattern. No: it was hovering. Pendergast paused and they peered through the foliage. Men were roping down from the stationary chopper. In the downpour, they looked like aliens, with gray-green helmets sporting multiple stalklike goggles, and bulky body armor bristling with weapons.
Pendergast, gesturing for absolute quiet, turned and they headed away into deeper water, crouching low and pushing into the narrowest lanes among the mangroves, scrambling at last under a bundle of roots and wriggling themselves into a small pool within the densest vegetation. Pendergast leaned toward her and whispered, “Immerse yourself, just your head above water. Apply more mud.”
She did as ordered, sinking into the warm water and smearing more foul mud over her head, even though the rain seemed to wash it off almost as quickly as she applied it.
Just as Gladstone began to think they might have evaded their pursuers, she saw flashlight beams cutting through the mangrove trunks. And then the lights vanished. She strained, trying to hear. Flickers of red, like fireflies, darted through the trees, and she heard a splashing sound of approaching men. She felt Pendergast’s hand stiffen. He leaned to her, mouth at her ear. “Laser sights. Hold your breath. Under the water.”
She took a deep breath and submerged herself in the dark, murky water. She held her breath until she could hold it no more, then tried to angle her face to expose as little as possible above the surface while she gulped in air. As she came up, brilliance flooded her eyes.
“Don’t move!” cried a voice. “Raise your hands!”
She slowly rose and, a few moments later, Pendergast did likewise. Her eyes were dazzled by the sudden glare of spotlights, but could make out, backlit, half a dozen figures carrying heavy weapons.
“Come out!”
They worked their way out of the stand of mangroves. The men surrounded them. One searched Pendergast, taking his gun, a knife, other things from his person.
“Hands on head. Move.” The soldiers pushed them from behind and they proceeded out into the deluge. Ahead, in an island of sawgrass, the helicopter had eased down, whipping the grass into a frenzy.
“To the chopper.”
With their hands on their heads, they waded out of the channel and toward the helicopter. As they approached, the cargo door opened and a woman appeared. She gazed at them for a moment, then said: “Mr. Pendergast. How unlovely to see you again.”
46
IT WAS A DARK, quiet, rainy evening. The police barricades and bad weather had left Captiva Island feeling almost deserted. Turner Beach was still closed and the investigation had driven away most of the usual tourist traffic. A storm was rolling in.
North of Turner Beach, back from the water, sat the Mortlach House. Its whimsical Victorian lines stood against the dark sky. No lights gleamed in its tall windows, and no murmur of voices came from within. It stood among the sleeping dunes, and a curious no-man’s-land of saltwort and sea grapes separated it from the sprawling waterfront properties that began farther to the north. The only sound was the regular susurrus of breakers along the beach, and the occasional car crossing Blind Pass Bridge.
And then a figure rose fr
om an observation point tucked away in the dunes: the figure of a bearded man carrying a canvas duffel, moving with the utmost care. Wearing a lumpy gray raincoat, he was barely visible, approaching slowly, furtively, from the north, weaving a path through the dunes.
The man crossed the plot of wild grasses and reached the side of the Mortlach House unseen. He paused for a long moment, listening and watching, and then moved on.
On the northern side of the house, invisible beneath a stand of cabbage palms, a three-foot piece of high-density polyethylene—painted brown to resemble the surrounding soil—lay on the ground, abutting the structure and pitched at a slight angle away from it. Once he reached it, the man stopped again to listen. There was no noise other than the low crackle of the police scanner that had been left on the porch. It had been there for days now, on twenty-four/seven, with or without any human listener. If anything, its low white-noise hiss had proven useful to him. His long observation had established that the house was quiet. One man had left several days ago with luggage and the pale man had left in the morning. The girl was still in the house, her shadowy figure seen against the gauze curtains in an upstairs bedroom, reading a book.
The man knelt, grabbed hold of the thick HDPE plastic, and slowly moved the edge up to expose a hole. The material was waterproof and virtually indestructible, and he was able to swivel it sideways with relative ease. He slipped carefully down into the black hole that yawned beneath, then pulled the covering back into place overhead, precisely where it had been before he arrived.
The entire operation had been completed without noise of any kind.
Now, beneath ground level and sheltered from the rain, the man crouched. He was no longer visible to anyone: a stray passerby, a cop riding an ATV…or an occupant of the house itself. And yet, his heart was beating fast with anxiety. The meticulously planned successes, the many failures, all combined with long periods of brooding and fearful speculation to make this a moment of triumph mixed with the greatest apprehension. It was this apprehension, in fact, that had caused him to move up this final moment to early evening, instead of his usual nocturnal hours: he simply could not wait any longer. Besides, it was so gloomy it might just as well have been midnight—and in any case, he was no longer visible.
Crooked River Page 24
