It came as no surprise to either of them to discover, upon reaching their drop-off point, that it was deep in the woods of a government-owned wildlife management area, and that the buildings were almost identical to those they had seen back in California.
It was the same procedure: the closed compound, the armed guards, the camouflaged buildings … and a smartassed director.
“You’re late,” he said shortly, without introducing himself.
Both Barry and Kate were tired and gritty-eyed and grimy. And Barry was in no mood to take a lot of lip from some officious desk jockey.
“If you’ll take a good look at the front of that truck, you might understand why we’re late, Mister-Whoever-in-the-hell-you-are.”
The white-coated man looked hard at Barry, then inspected the front of the Kenworth. He looked back to Barry. “Nebbling,” he said. “These look like bullet holes.”
“That’s exactly what they are,” Kate told him. “It’s kind of hard to keep on schedule when people are shooting at you.”
“Did any of them puncture the trailer?” Nebbling asked. Not, “Are either of you hurt?”
No instant camaraderie here, Barry thought. “No.”
“Did you report the incident to the police?”
“No. We took an evasive route. That’s why we’re late.” By about four hours, he thought.
“Good,” Nebbling said, allowing himself a smile. “Very good. Very smart on your part. I congratulate you both. Tell me what you think the dollar amount of damage will be, and I’ll give you the money. Cash.”
Kate had walked to the rear of the reefer. She called, “You wanna inspect the cargo, mister?”
“No!” Nebbling cried. “Don’t open those doors.”
Kate walked around the rig, the broken seal in her hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I popped the seal. I just figured you’d wanna check the cargo.”
“Ah … no. We’ll do that later. But thank you for your concern.”
They received the same instructions as before. Back the rig up to the side of the building. Go get some coffee. Wait.
“Good thinking,” Barry told Kate as they walked to the appointed building.
“I didn’t want them lookin’ too close at that homemade seal.”
“You see the new trailer parked over there?”
“Yeah. And it’s got some weight in it. See how those supports are diggin’ in?”
“Yeah. Whatever it is, we’re not hauling bodies this run.”
“No,” Kate agreed. “Maybe just a lot of pieces of bodies. Mixed in with a bunch of other gruesome stuff.”
“Well, we’ll know when we get our orders.”
When he received his orders, his smile was very thin.
“Where we takin’ this load, Barry?” Kate asked.
“Maine. Way up in the northern part.”
“Where not very many people live, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Like I said, Barry. Pieces of bodies and other gruesome stuff.”
17
Barry got the impression that Mr. Nebbling thought he was just another truck driver—ignorant to the core. He knew that many people thought that. And he knew that many people were wrong. But if that’s what Nebbling thought, fine.
“We were told we’d be headin’ back south after this run, boss,” Barry said. “Deadheadin’. Is there any great rush on this load?”
“Why do you ask?” Nebbling inquired, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“ ’Cause me and the old lady would like to check into a motel and take a good bath, sleep in a real bed; maybe just for one night—if that’s all right with you, that is.”
“Oh. Well. No, I don’t mind. I’m sure it must be … uncomfortable in one of those trucks. Besides, if you leave this instant, you’ll get there on a Sunday. I don’t want that. Yes, spend a night resting. I’ll make a notation in your orders.”
That five-hundred-mile daily limit again.
“I’m sure looking forward to that motel room and a bubble bath, boy,” Kate said.
Barry grinned as he headed south, toward Minneapolis/St. Paul. “Oh, you’re gonna get that bubble bath, Kate. But it’s gonna be a while yet.”
She groaned. “Now what do you have up your sleeve?”
“We’re going to, as my dad used to say, highball it, Kate. We’re going to dodge the scales, get our logbook all screwed up, and maybe get put of the SST business. But we’re going to be in Washington, D.C., thirty hours from now.”
“That’s no hill to climb,” Kate said. “Just put the pedal to the metal and hammer down.”
Stopping along the way, Barry called some friends in D.C. and pulled a few strings, managing to arrange storage of the SST at a military base. Under guard. He had called Ralph from a truck stop outside St. Cloud.
Yes, he had the prints. They made him ill. They were hideous. What the hell was going on?
That’s what we’re going to find out, Barry told him. Then he asked his friend to do a few more things.
Barry and Kate hit the interstate system and kept on trucking. As they rode and drove, Barry firmed up his plans. He was tired of it; tired of not knowing what was going on and who he could trust.
He outlined part of his plan to Kate.
“Isn’t it a little soon to be goin’ for the big enchilada?” she asked.
“Yes. Maybe too soon. But Ralph is arranging for the best PSE operator in the Washington area to be at my apartment. If Linda refuses to take the test, she’s damning herself. I’m tired of not knowing who I can trust.”
“I’m with you, Barry,” she said.
“For better or worse?” he kidded her gently.
She grinned. “You said it, boy. Now I’m gonna hold you to it.”
They shaved hours off Barry’s projected time, averaging 60 mph, rolling night and day. They took a taxi from the base to Barry’s apartment.
“Wow!” Kate said, looking around the luxury apartment. “This is beautiful. This yours?”
“I lease it, yes. One of the bathrooms is that way.” He pointed. “Ralph was going to have someone electronically sweep this apartment.” He looked at his writing desk in the den. His clock was moved to the other side of the desk, a signal that the apartment was clean. “It’s been done. I’ll start setting things up. We’ve got thirty-six hours to play with before we have to move.”
“Bathtub, here I come!” Kate said.
Linda O’Day and Kate Sherman eyeballed each other. It was not what one would call a terribly friendly exchange of glances.
The PSE operator, a man who identified himself as Nesson, was setting up his equipment. John Weston, a senior inspector for the FBI who had been friends with Barry for years, was in attendance, sitting quietly in a chair in the den. Ralph Martin sat on the couch. A very nervous gentleman from the Treasury Department was standing by the wet bar. The man in charge of the Washington, D.C., area IOLDG, Walt, was sitting in a Boston rocker, a faint smile on his lips.
The Treasury man watched as Barry clicked on a reel-to-reel recorder. “This cannot,” he said, “in any way be construed as a legal proceeding.”
“You have something to hide, Jackson?” Walt asked him.
“I have nothing to hide,” Jackson said stiffly.
“I don’t like this a damn bit, Barry,” Linda said. “I stuck my neck out for you and this is the way you’re repaying it?”
“I want the truth,” Barry replied. “Now everybody just sit tight and listen to me for a few minutes. I’m going to take it from the top and let the chips fall.”
He began with his call to New Orleans—it seemed like months back, instead of only days—and took it step by step, day by day, event by event. When he spoke about his suspicions of Linda, he stared at her, never taking his eyes from her. And she met his gaze without flinching.
Barry was surprised when he had finished and glanced at the clock. He had talked for twenty minutes.
Barry sat down beside Kate and looked at John
Weston. “Your turn, John.”
The FBI inspector sighed. “I wish you had come to me in private with this, Barry. Now, if any of your suspicions are valid, I don’t know what I can do about it.”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” Linda said. “The results would have been the same.”
“Would you care to elaborate on that?” Barry asked her.
“I underestimated you, Barry,” Linda said. “I shouldn’t have done that. You’d make a damn fine investigator—if you’d quit playing with guns.”
“Back to that,” Barry replied.
“I don’t like guns, Barry,” Linda openly admitted. “I never have. I’ve always been open about that. But if you, any of you,”—her gaze swept the people in the den—“think I would turn sour and play footsie with the mob over a personal conviction of mine, then I feel … dirtied. And betrayed by the country I work for and the people who pay my salary.”
John said, “Since it’s doubtful any of this is going to leave this room, Linda, would you care to comment on your relationship with Bobby Bulgari?”
“I’ve been meeting with Bulgari for over a year. Slowly building a case on the southern mob. He doesn’t know who I am.”
“You’re not serious?” Ralph said. “Of course the man knows who you are. The mob has more lawyers in this part of the country than the Justice Department has.”
“Fabrello is convinced some people in very high places within the government are involved in the smuggling in and selling of dope,” Barry said. “And I believe him.”
“So do I,” Linda said. “That’s part of what I’m working on. But I am convinced that Bulgari doesn’t know who I am. My cover was done by experts within the …”
She paused for a few seconds. A very thin smile parted her lips.
“By whom, Linda?” John asked.
“Experts within Justice, working with three FBI agents out of some southern office. Shit!” she blurted, disgust in her voice, as the realization that she had been had sank in.
Barry rose to his feet and paced the room for a moment. He turned and faced the group. “Do any of you realize what I’ve accomplished this morning?”
They sat and looked at him, waiting.
“All I’ve succeeded in doing is making matters more complicated.”
“For a lot of us,” John said. “Hoover is spinning in his grave.” He lifted his eyes to Linda. “I’m going to need the names of all who helped set up your cover.”
“I’ll sure give it to you,” she said. Her eyes were blazing with an inner anger, scarcely concealed.
“I’d like to know who the men were who first approached my father about this SST business,” Barry said.
“I can get that for you,” John said.
Nesson had sat quietly, saying nothing, but his eyes had been, for several minutes, on the Treasury man. “You seem awfully nervous, Jackson. Is something the matter?”
Jackson sat down on a padded barstool. He rubbed his face with his hands. “Jesus Christ, people,” he said. “You’re all opening a fucking can of worms. And you haven’t even gotten the lid off yet.”
“And you’re not talkin’ about dope, either, are you, Jackson?” Kate spoke for the first time.
“You know something I need to know, Kate?” Barry asked her.
“I know I don’t trust this slick dude,” she said, pointing at Jackson.
“Well, you’d be wrong in assuming that, miss,” Jackson said. “But correct in assuming my concern is not about dope.”
“Well, my concern damn sure is!” Weston said.
“Ah, crap!” Jackson said. “You all-American types at the Bureau fry my butt! You people are so goddamned concerned about your precious image you’d wade through shit and swear it was roses.”
“I agree,” Nesson said. It was not the best-kept secret in the world that Nesson did a lot of work for the CIA. Very convert work.
“Who asked you?” John said.
Nesson laughed at him. He picked up the pictures Barry had taken and Ralph had developed. He looked at them, then held them out to Jackson. “This is what you’re referring to, correct?”
“Yeah,” the Treasury man muttered. “But it’s out of our jurisdiction. So far, we can’t come into the picture.”
“Would somebody please tell me what is going on?” Kate asked.
“Perhaps you don’t have a need to know,” Linda said primly.
“Fuck you!” Kate told her.
“Now, ladies,” Walt said.
“Go sit on a candlestick!” Linda told him.
“Knock it off!” Barry growled.“Goddammit, let’s don’t start yammering at each other.” He looked at Jackson. “Dope is bad enough. And I’m convinced it’s being hauled by SSTs. But not by my outfit. We were decoys, I’m thinking. Who tried to hijack us and why, Jackson? And what about those … brains we hauled out of California?”
Jackson looked at him. “It’s the end of my career if any of this leaves this room.”
“Looks to me,” Kate said, her face still mirroring the horror of brainless bodies, “a lot of peoples’ careers were ended at that … place out in California.”
Jackson paced the den, alone with his silent thoughts. When he finally spoke, his voice was low-pitched.“I’m convinced the President doesn’t know what is taking place at these facilities. But … someone, I don’t know who, has apparently decided that since these men, these veterans, have all gone off the deep end, no longer functional human beings—crazies, someone referred to them—they could nevertheless make a contribution to the study of combat-related stress. There are, so I’m told, several of these … well, facilities in the United States. VA hospitals are becoming very crowded.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Where does the dope come into the picture?” Barry asked.
“A group of younger agents, looking for a way to make a fast buck, found out about the research. Since SSTs were carrying the … illegal research anyway, why not put three or four million dollars’ worth of dope in with the bodies and brains and so forth.” He looked at Weston. “Don’t worry, John. It’s not confined solely to your All-American bunch. Half a dozen agencies are involved.”
“I think it’s hideous,” Weston replied. “Not just the dope, but the entire gruesome affair. How long have you known about this?”
“Oh … maybe ninety days. Since I don’t know who to trust, I’ve had to work in silence.”
“You intimated that you are not alone with this knowledge,” Ralph said.
“You’re right. I’ve talked with three close friends of mine within my agency. Borman, Jennings, Stemke. We’ve been working very quietly gathering information. It’s been slow going. For obvious reasons …”
“Explain the obvious reasons,” Barry said.
“The project—I don’t know what it’s called—is one reason, naturally. Obviously, it’s going on with the blessings of someone in government. The dope angle, for another reason.” He looked at Barry. “But don’t think for an instant those behind all this don’t know who you are, Rivers. For they do. I think that’s probably the reason you were attacked.”
“Possibly. But if that’s true, then there are sure as hell more than three or four rogue agents involved.”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”
Nesson tapped his PSE machine. “I think we’d best get this over with, ladies and gentlemen.”
Linda stood up and removed her jacket. “I want my name cleared. Let’s do it.”
18
The testing did not take as long as many people unfamiliar with psychological stress testing might think. And when it was concluded, all present had confirmed their innocence.
At least as far as the machine and its operator could take it.
More relaxed now, over fresh-brewed coffee, the group sat and began thrashing the chaff from the wheat.
“How about the pictures, John?”
The FBI man hesitated. “I don’t think one person should have
them all. I think they should be divided among us and more pictures made from the negatives.”
“I agree,” Jackson said. “Barry, what are you haulting this trip?”
“I don’t know, for sure.”
“Let me call Stemke,” the Treasury man said. “He can look at that seal and make a new one. You said a while ago it was different from the last seal that Miss Sherman broke.”
“That’s true. But let’s lay it all out first. Linda, you’ve got coworkers involved in this thing. You’re going to have to be very careful.”
She nodded in agreement. “You really don’t believe Fabrello is involved in any of this, do you?”
“No, I don’t. I can’t tell you why I believed what he told me, but I did. And while I’m thinking about it, let me call him right now. I just remembered something.”
He dialed the capo’s number in New Orleans and got him on the line. “I’ll keep it short. You know who this is. What about the keys in the trash can?”
Fabrello grunted. “I didn’t know whether you was dead or alive. It’s a whole new ballgame, boy. That car was bought by the government. You know what that means?”
“I sure do. Thanks.”
Fabrello hung up.
Barry told the others what the Mafia capo had said.
“He didn’t say what government agency it was assigned to, did he?” Jackson said.
“No.”
Nesson looked at Linda. “Since I seem to be a part of this … well, operation, whether I wanted in or not, tell me this: Is there a chance this Bulgari might be the head of this particular snake?”
“I don’t think so. Bobby is very intelligent man. He’s one of the new breed of hood. Educated at the best schools, speaks several languages. Understands business. But he’s very vain and very greedy. All right, I’ll admit I’ve been stupid about my role. I suppose Bobby does know who I am and he’s been using me. So I get to toss my investigation reports in the garbage. But I don’t believe he’s the honcho of this operation.”
“You’d best break off your association with Bulgari, Linda. Or you just might meet with a very tragic accident. And be careful doing it,” John warned. “It’s a cinch we’ve all got two or three or more coworkers involved in this matter.”
Rig Warrior Page 11
