Fifteen seconds later Cindy is on the phone. “Life or death?” she asks. She doesn’t sound that worried, since she knows I’ll say anything to get what I want.
“Many lives and many deaths,” I say, and relate the situation as quickly as I can, without leaving out anything important.
“Have you spoken to Benson?” she asks.
“I can’t reach him.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Make sure that nothing is happening at that terminal, and maybe find Willie in the process.”
“Andy, I can’t order an FBI terrorist operation on your hunch. That’s not how we operate.”
“Cindy, this is real; I can feel it. If you don’t stop it, we could be looking at a catastrophe. If I’m wrong, we’ll be embarrassed. I’ll take whatever heat I can take. But I know if I spoke to Benson, he’d move on it.”
“Hold on,” she says, and I wait for about three and a half endless minutes before she gets back on the phone. When she does, the stress in her voice is unmistakable. “Andy, I’m on it; I have to go.”
“What’s going on?”
“There’s a tanker due in port in twenty minutes.”
I hang up the phone, then I stare at it and mentally beg for it to ring. Billy and Laurie do the same; we are silent, knowing that there is nothing more we can do, other than wait.
It is five minutes later that Benson calls, and I quickly tell him what has happened, and that I have already spoken to Cindy, who said she was on the move. If he’s annoyed by my intervention in bureau affairs, he certainly doesn’t sound it.
What he sounds is worried.
As he’s about to get off, I say, “I believe the guy behind all this is Colonel William Mickelson; he’s based at the Pentagon.”
“How sure are you?” he asks.
“Eighty percent. But if I’m right, he’s about ready to leave the country.”
Click.
Benson has hung up on me. I hope and believe he did so because he was in a desperate hurry to act on my words. The other possibility is that he hung up for the same reason that people have been hanging up on me my whole life, that they find me an insufferably annoying pain in the ass.
So we wait again.
CHAPTER 91
THE SHIP HEADING IN WAS THE LARGEST WILLIE HAD EVER SEEN.
It seemed to be a tanker of sorts, and Willie guessed that whatever it was carrying would be transferred to the tanks looming over the industrial plant. He thought it might be something like oil, and if so it would make an inviting target.
There was still no movement from the van. Willie was sure that Greer was still in there, but he couldn’t see him in the driver’s seat.
Small tugboats went out to the tanker to bring it in. At least they looked small next to the tanker; Willie figured the Titanic would have been dwarfed by it as well.
The tanker was about a quarter mile from the pier when Willie saw the back of the van open. Greer climbed out the back, pulling something behind him. It was covered in canvas, and Greer dragged it out on to the road, carefully placing it down.
Willie’s mind was racing, not sure when to act, and more importantly not sure how to act when the time seemed right. For the moment he watched, transfixed, as Greer looked around warily and saw no one. He did not think to look up at the road in the distance where Willie stood, but would not likely have perceived him as a threat anyway. Finally, secure that he was alone, he took the cover off.
It was a missile.
There was no doubt in Willie’s mind; he had seen enough war movies to know for sure. It was the type that you put on your shoulder and fire, the type that can bring planes down. And if there was something combustible in those tanks, the kind that could do unbelievable damage.
There wasn’t going to be any way for Willie to approach Greer unseen; there was only one way in, and his presence would be obvious. He also felt that there was no time to move in on foot; if Greer was taking the missile out now, with the ship so close, he was about to use it.
Willie jumped in his car and pulled away, the tires screeching from the sudden burst of speed. Willie feared that Greer would have heard it and prepared himself for Willie’s arrival, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Willie came flying around the curve, leading down to where Greer was standing. He was going so fast that he almost lost control of the car, but he managed to straighten it out.
Up ahead, Greer was paying no attention to him. He had hoisted the missile launcher to his shoulder; it seemed larger than he was. He was standing just behind the van, turned toward the pier, facing the tanker and apparently ready to fire at any moment.
Willie made the instant assessment that he had no time to stop the car, jump out, and prevent Greer from firing the missile. And he had no time to worry about whether the missile would explode as a result of the impact it was about to have.
Greer was intent on his mission, and if he knew that Willie was bearing down on him, he didn’t show it. When Willie was just a hundred yards away, traveling at more than sixty miles an hour, he finally sensed it and turned to look.
That turn caused him to take the impact head-on. Willie crashed into Greer and the missile, crushing them into the van, and totaling both the van and Willie’s car in the process. Greer was killed instantly, but the missile did not explode; it just fell harmlessly to the ground.
Willie was slammed into the front of his car, breaking four ribs and a kneecap, and smashing his head into the window. Just before he lapsed into unconsciousness, he had one thought.
That better have been Greer, and that better have been a real missile.
CHAPTER 92
IT’S AN HOUR AND FORTY-FIVE MINUTES BEFORE WE GET THE PHONE CALL. They are the longest hour and forty-five minutes I’ve ever spent; the same time on a treadmill would fly by in comparison.
The call is from Cindy. “It’s over Andy. Willie stopped it, and Greer is dead.”
The feeling of relief I have is overwhelming, and I repeat Cindy’s words for Laurie and Billy. Then, “How is Willie?”
“He’s hurt pretty badly; he smashed up his car. The medics say he’ll be okay, but he’s going to be recuperating for a while. He just regained consciousness.”
I put her on the speakerphone, and the three of us ask Cindy at least fifty questions, all of which she painfully answers. She ends it with, “Andy, I’m sorry I doubted you. Thousands of people could have died today.”
“All to make somebody rich.”
Laurie, Billy, and I watch CNN until three o’clock in the morning, and their coverage of the incident is constant. It takes a few hours for them to get confirmation of Willie’s identity, and a while longer for them to connect him to me and the Zimmerman case.
Benson calls at about two o’clock, to thank me and tell me that Colonel William Mickelson was arrested at Dulles Airport, just before he could board a flight to the Cayman Islands. Chaplin was taken into custody two hours before that.
“How did you know it was Mickelson?” he asks.
“I didn’t know for sure, but it made sense. He had access to the conspirators in Iraq, and he was smart and sophisticated enough to deal with Landon as an equal.”
“That’s it?”
“No. When I talked to Santiago, I asked him who the target was that day in Iraq. He said that he didn’t know, that it was a decision way, way above his pay grade. Santiago was a direct report to Erskine, so he wouldn’t describe him that way. Mickelson was the next one up the ladder, and he was in Iraq that day.”
“Not bad” is Benson’s grudging admission.
“Also, when I had talked to Mickelson, I told him that one of the soldiers was coming in to talk. He assumed it was Santiago, even though Greer and Iverson were also missing. It’s something I remembered today; I should have done so earlier. And Mickelson knew from me that the state police were going to be protecting Santiago.”
Benson promises to call in the morning to resolve th
e other aspects of our deal, and we get off the phone. Laurie has overheard the conversation, and asks, “Are there any spoken words that you don’t remember?” She asks it with a smile on her face, which is good.
Billy realizes that he doesn’t have a place to stay, since his rented apartment has long since been re-rented to someone else. I offer him an upstairs bedroom, and he gratefully accepts. He and Milo go trudging upstairs, and Laurie, Tara, and I head to our own bedroom.
Before we go to sleep, I call Cindy back to find out what hospital Willie has been taken to. Then I call and wake his wife, Sondra, to tell her what happened. She’s understandably very upset, and since one of my strengths is not talking to upset women, I put Laurie on the phone.
It’s four o’clock when we finally get to bed, and thirty seconds later I’m asleep.
Without setting an alarm, we’re all up by seven thirty in the morning. I call the hospital and am pleasantly surprised to actually get Willie on the phone. “You’re a goddamn national hero,” I say.
“Bigger than that guy who landed the plane in the Hudson?”
“Much bigger. You talk to Sondra?”
“Yeah. Man, how do you talk to women when they’re crying? I can never figure that out.”
“It can’t be done,” I say. “I’ve tried a bunch of different approaches, but it simply cannot be done.”
“They want me to go on the Today show. From right here in the hospital.”
“Are you going to do it?”
He laughs. “What do you think?”
My guess is that Willie is about to break the all-time record for television appearances. I tell him that Laurie and I are going to fly up later today to see him, and we’ll bring Sondra with us.
“Cool,” he says. “Thanks.”
“No, Willie. Thank you.”
Benson holds a televised news conference during which he reveals very few of the details, citing an ongoing investigation. He does credit Willie’s heroism, reveals Mickelson’s arrest for murder and about a hundred other counts, and unequivocally states that Billy is innocent.
Benson calls soon after and tells me that the second part of our deal is arranged. I am going to threaten to file suit against the Department of Homeland Security for false arrest, even though they’re not the people that arrested Billy. They are then going to avoid the suit by settling for two and a half million dollars.
Because it’s under the banner of Homeland Security, everything is going to be classified and under seal, so no one will have to answer any questions about it. As Billy’s lawyer I’m thrilled with it; as a citizen, less so.
“Plus ten percent for my fee,” I say.
“You’re a pain in the ass,” he points out, but promises to get it done.
“I’m a pain in the ass with questions,” I say.
“Answering questions was not part of our deal.”
“I’m going to ask them anyway. Was Erskine in on the explosion in Iraq?”
He hesitates, as if deciding what he can tell me and what he can’t. Finally, “No; he must have found out about it from one of his men, probably Chambers. But he was trying to profit from it.”
“Blackmail,” I say, more a statement than a question.
Benson tells me that Erskine was trying to play it both ways. The FBI was threatening to charge him with the Iraq bombing, but he was holding them off, first by giving them M’s identity, and then by promising to name the top guys, though he only knew about Mickelson, not Landon.
“But first he wanted his money, and he had documents showing that Mickelson had arranged to get his hands on the missile that was to be used in Everett. He hadn’t shared them with us, or told us about Mickelson. I don’t even know if he had documents at all.”
“But that’s what was supposed to be in the envelope?” I ask.
“Yes. But of course they didn’t trust Erskine, with or without the envelope, so they killed him.”
“And you didn’t trust him, so you had him followed that night,” I say.
“Not our finest hour. Are we done here?”
“Almost,” I say. “Who was the bomb in Iraq meant for? The oil minister, or Freeman and Bryant?”
“All of the above. The minister was the key, because that would move the price of oil. Freeman and Bryant were an extra bonus, because they had figured out what Chaplin was doing, and were likely to expose it.”
“Last one,” I promise. “Why did you plant the juror?”
“It was a mistake,” he admits. “And it was my mistake. I just couldn’t take a chance that Zimmerman could be convicted. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself.”
Billy comes back from a walk with Milo, so I let Benson off the phone. Billy wants to talk about my fee, and the fact that he can’t pay it. He also is unsure how he is going to make money to live, though he has ruled out a return to canine thievery.
“What would you do if you had a lot of money?” I ask.
He thinks about it for a few moments. “Probably become a private investigator.” Then he smiles. “And take on Willie as a partner.”
“I don’t think you can count on Willie for that,” I say, “but you can get your own shingle ready.”
He asks what I mean, so I tell him. Suffice it to say, he’s pleased. “Man, am I glad Pete is your friend.”
“Do me a favor?” I ask.
“Anything.”
“Even after you’re a millionaire, make him buy the beer.”
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by David Rosenfelt
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The Grand Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: August 2010
ISBN: 978-0-446-56901-9
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