“You’d quit over that issue?” Pennington asked.
“If I bring in this case, Mr. President, I don’t want to lose it over taxes. There’ll be plenty left over for the IRS when we’re finished.”
“You think income tax evasion is that precipitous?”
“No question in my mind, sir. It’s the one part of their agenda that could evoke sympathy with the jury. Remember, we’re going after an army that’s posing as a church. That’s going to be touchy enough without tossing in income taxes. I know people who hate the militia but think they’re absolutely right about their tax stand.”
Pennington leaned back in his chair and made a steeple with his fingers. “Go on,” he said.
“The more complicated we make a case, the more it works for the defendant. We keep it simple, direct, and as uncomplicated as possible. If we bring taxes into the case, we could be introducing an element of doubt. People won’t put up with murder, robbery, or money laundering… but you try to tie a tax case to it, it’s apples and oranges. You’re throwing an obstacle at the jury, and all it takes is one juror to sink a case.”
“Okay,” Pennington said. “What else?”
“Full cooperation from the Bureau and the ATF. And the IRS.” He looked at Randolph. “You people have access to records that we can’t get to legally without a lot of hassle, Mr. Director,” he said.
“Our records are confidential, sir,” Randolph said.
The President had heard all he wanted to about the IRS involvement. “Oh, I’m sure you can work around that,” he said, putting Randolph back in his box.
“I’d like to keep my appointment under wraps as long as possible, Mr. President,” Vail said. “Let’s not put the Sanctuary on notice any sooner than we have to.”
“Good idea,” Pennington agreed.
“There’s one other thing: we need a sympathetic judge.”
“Sympathetic to what?”
“Wiretaps, hard surveillance, access to records, bank transactions, computer hacks.”
“Hmm,” the President said. He thought for several minutes and then turned to Hooker. “How about Lucy McIntyre? She’s in the Eighth Circuit. She’s tough but she’s fair, and my guess is, she’ll look favorably on the request.”
Hooker nodded. “Want me to talk to her?”
“Yes, but not directly to this point. Come up with another excuse to call her and mention it in passing. Don’t give her the idea we’re leaning on her. Then Martin can set up an appointment and make his pitch to her.”
“Yes sir,” Hooker said, and scribbled down notes on a legal pad. The President turned to Vail. “Anything else?”
“No sir.”
“We have a deal, then?”
“We have a deal, Mr. President.”
Castaigne muffled a sigh of relief. Pennington was delighted. “Excellent,” he said. “Welcome aboard. How soon can you start?”
“Tomorrow soon enough?”
Pennington looked at his watch. “Still a lot of hours left today,” he said, and smiled. “Marge, you can do the honors. Swear Martin in and let’s get started.”
He stood up and shook hands with Vail. “Congratulations, A.G.,” he said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Gentlemen, I don’t think Martin is asking for anything more than full cooperation from everyone, and I’m certain he will get it. This is A-priority, top of the list, clear? If there’s a problem in that respect, I’m sure the A.G. can work it out. If she can’t, I will.”
Pennington started to leave and then turned at the door.
“One other thing, Martin. I’d like this case in front of a jury within eighteen months. Thanks, A.G. Gentlemen.”
And he was gone.
Vail looked at Castaigne with shock. “Eighteen months!”
“Didn’t I tell you that?” she said as she was leaving the Oval Office. “Must’ve slipped my mind.” There was a twinkle in her eye.
Vail followed her out.
“Think you can find us a Bible, Millie?” she asked Mildred Ewing, the President’s secretary.
“Oh, I think we can handle that,” the secretary said. She left the office.
Vail whispered: “Eighteen months? Are you crazy?”
“You just heard the man, you have the full force of the government behind you. Anything you need.” She winked at him as Mildred Ewing returned with a worn, leather-bound volume.
The secretary handed it to Castaigne. “It’s the President’s family Bible,” she said softly. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“Thanks,” Castaigne said. She held the Bible out and Vail put his right hand on it, and there, in the doorway of the Oval Office, Martin Vail was sworn in as Assistant Attorney General of the United States.
CHAPTER 17
That morning as Vail and Castaigne were en route from her house to the meeting with the President, Don Woodbine was having breakfast at a crowded diner. He had driven into Lima, leaving his motel at six-thirty. By seven-thirty he was ordering breakfast. He was dressed casually and wearing clear-glass wire rims, not a man anyone would notice.
The night before, he had changed his battle plan. Woodbine was not a heavy drinker, limiting himself to two glasses of wine with dinner and an occasional beer. But he was exhausted from two days of flying and trying to trace the journey Firestone and his mysterious passenger had taken. He had three glasses of the Chianti and it fired up his imagination. Lying in bed, he considered the facts.
Fact: Firestone didn’t fly the AMOC jet into Fort Wayne, switch to a smaller plane, fly to Lima, then rent a car to meet just anybody. Assumption: The subject was in deep freeze.
Fact: The mysterious passenger with Firestone must be important. Firestone wouldn’t risk taking even a family member to see someone in witness protection. Assumption: The stranger was involved in some way with the government.
Fact: He had lost the black Taurus in the clouds for perhaps fifteen minutes. He had flown fifty miles down the interstate and never seen the car again until it returned. Assumption: Firestone had turned off the interstate, either east or west, during the fifteen minutes he had lost sight of the highway.
Fact: Waller had grown up on a horse farm and worked the farm when he lived with the Posse. Assumption: The government had bought him a farmhouse. Not big, it would draw attention. A small place somewhat remote from neighboring farms.
Conclusion: Firestone had come to see somebody in deep freeze, and the conversation had probably lasted an hour, at least. There was a good chance the subject was Waller. Assuming they had an hour-long conversation, that left thirty-three minutes for the trip to the meeting and back to the Lima airport.
He got up and consulted his map. Figuring the distances, he determined that Waller lived in an area ten miles to the east or west of the interstate and within ten miles south of Lima. The largest town in the area was Wapakoneta. There were half a dozen smaller villages within the search area.
He would search the arc closest to the airport first.
He had decided to check out the area by car, looking for small out-of-the-way farms, marking them on the map, and making occasional spot checks from his car on stores in Wapakoneta, stores Waller was most likely to visit—pharmacies, hardware stores, grocery stores—on the chance he might spot him. Woodbine had gone to bed with that plan in mind.
But this morning at breakfast he was reading the local paper and suddenly his eyes were drawn to the real estate page, in particular to two ads, both of which claimed they specialized in farm properties. He sipped his coffee, read each of the small block ads, and then quickly paid his check and sought out the nearest pay phone. He called the first realtor.
“Good morning, Buckeye Realty,” a woman answered, her voice irritatingly cheerful.
“Good morning. This is Walt Dempsey of the Farm Journal. Who is this?”
“I’m Marjorie Wilson, Mr. Dempsey. What can we at Buckeye do for you this morning?”
“Marjorie… is it all right
if I call you Marjorie?”
“Everybody calls me Margie.”
“Margie, the magazine is considering a cover story on farm values in the Indiana-Ohio region. We’ve selected the area between Lima and Wapakoneta as one of several target areas. I was wondering if you could give me a little information?”
“My my, isn’t that exciting! What’s a cover story?”
“That means it will be featured on the cover, probably with a photograph.”
“My goodness, we’ll be famous.”
“I certainly hope so,” Woodbine said in his most unctuous tone. “What I’m trying to find out is how many farms have been sold in that area in the last nine months, how big they are, possibly get the names of the new owners and interview them. You know, what they like about the area, why they came here, that sort of thing.”
“Well, say now, Mr. Dempsey—”
“Walter.”
“Walter… that’s easy enough. First off, farm properties usually sell in the spring and summer, not much turnover this time of year. We’ve sold eight farms since last spring. Wiggins Realty, which is our competitor, moved only two. Let me get the book–-” He could hear pages rustling. “Let’s see…”
She ran off the list, and Woodbine took notes on each of the six. When she finished, he scratched off five as being too large or because the ownership profiles ruled them out. He marked his map as she described the location of the three that might be his target.
“I’d be glad to show you around. Introduce you to folks. I’m sure they’d be delighted to talk to you.”
“That’s really kind of you, Margie. I’ll get back to you on that in a couple of days, if that’s convenient.”
“Oh, well, that’ll be just fine,” she said, sounding disappointed. “The Farm Journal, you say. I don’t know as I’ve ever seen the Farm Journal.”
“Well, you just give me your address and I’ll put you on our mailing list. And I’ll drop the current issue by later in the week.”
“Well, that’s real kind of you, Walter.”
He had the same response when he called Buckeye’s competitor using the same spiel. This time the secretary identified herself as Geri Bloom. The first farm was a thousand acres, too large and right on the state highway. The second one was a different story.
“There’s the old Wainright place south of Uniopolis,” Bloom told him. “Small place, about a hundred and twenty acres, kind of crowded in between two larger farms. We closed on May eighteenth.”
“Who owns it?”
“Ralph Anderson. Nice young man. Newlywed, you know. I don’t have a phone listing for him.”
“Really. How do I find his place?”
“It isn’t all that difficult. According to my sheet, it’s 2.2 miles south of Uniopolis off Geyer Road ’bout half a mile. There’ll be mailboxes along the highway.”
“Excellent,” Woodbine said, and put a star beside Anderson’s name.
As Vail and Castaigne were exiting the elevator on the first floor of the west wing, Hardistan entered the White House.
“Ah, there’s Billy. Time for you two to meet,” she said. “By the way, among his many talents, Billy can chop through red tape faster than a boll weevil can chew up a cotton patch. In this town that’s a very rare talent.”
“It’s a rare talent anywhere.”
Hardistan was a husky man a little over six feet tall who looked more like a Texan than a Virginian. He had hard features, and brown eyes that seemed to be constantly on the move, checking out everything around him. There was also a resolute set to his jaw. He looked like a man who listened but rarely changed his mind.
Castaigne greeted him warmly and introduced him to Vail.
“We’re in business,” she said. “Meet your new boss.”
Hardistan nodded. “We’re gonna be busy,” he said in a quiet voice with just a trace of Virginia in it.
“Looks like,” Vail replied.
“How long you in town for?”
“I’m going back this afternoon. I need to see how my old crew feels about this job.”
“Have time for lunch?” Hardistan asked.
“Sure, my pleasure.”
“We have to go over to my office and fill out the usual forms to put Martin on the payroll,” Castaigne said. “Why don’t you pick him up when you’re through here.”
“Fine. I have to fill in the man on Lost Trail.”
“Do we have anything?” Vail asked.
“Shell casings, rounds, an ear-ball witness, and some other people who think they heard something. Powder tracks from the C-4 they used to blow up both ends of the dogleg. And the numbers scratched on the back of the Humvee. They lucked out with the snow storm, but they were pros. It was clocked all the way. Six minutes and they were gone. We’ve got men crawling all over the mountains, but at this point I’m pessimistic about the outcome.”
“How about the semi?” Castaigne asked.
“Gone. And I don’t think we’ll ever see it again.”
Woodbine guided the plane south down Route 501. Ralph Anderson had real possibilities, he’d decided. The farmhouse had been purchased near the time that Waller had blown the whistle on the Denver bank robbery. It was small and isolated and Anderson did not have a telephone. He decided to scope the place out from the air.
Woodbine’s heart was racing. This was the part he liked best. The hunt. Finding the perfect blind for the shot. Mapping the perfect exit.
The farmhouse was easy to spot. It sat alone a mile or so off the highway, an island in the middle of a sprawling farm. The house sat at one end of a small cultivated field. Three dirt roads crisscrossed the large farm, one of which obviously formed the northern perimeter of the Anderson farm. The house itself lay between two state roads that converged a mile or so north of Wapakoneta. He cut back on the throttle and banked down and around the small house, circling it at about seven hundred feet. He had the video camera out and zoomed to its maximum. As he leveled off he saw a man working on a tractor in the middle of a field. He started the video camera and flew past the house, swung around in a circle, and aimed the camera down at the man on the tractor. The man appeared to be stuck. Woodbine gunned the engine once and the man looked up, shielding his eyes against the sun. Woodbine wobbled his wings “hello” and the man waved back. Woodbine pushed the throttle forward and climbed back up to fifteen hundred feet. He circled around once more, shooting the entire area before heading west.
An hour later he was relaxing in his motel room. It was four-thirty. It would be dark in another ninety minutes. He switched to a black fleece jogging outfit and hunting boots. Then he hooked his video camera up to the laptop and ran the footage. The house was situated about a mile from Route 198 to the west and 501 to the east. Two dirt roads crossed about a mile northeast of the house. He zoomed in on the intersection. Thirty or forty yards west of the crossroads there was a large oak tree sitting on a small bluff. He zoomed back and checked the sight line to the house. It looked clear. The closest house was about two miles away.
Next he traced his getaway route. He decided to drive due east on the dirt road to 501, north to 81, west to 116, south to 117, and then due west to U.S. 127, avoiding two small villages. He carefully measured the distance. If he held his speed to seventy, he could be on 127 in thirty to forty minutes. Another ten to Van Wert, and thirty miles back to the interstate access, then ten minutes to the airport. An hour and a half at the most and he would be airborne. He had made arrangements to leave the car keys in a night box at the county airport, and his motel room was paid through the next day.
Next he zoomed in on the target. He froze on the man on the tractor and zoomed down on him, digitalizing the shot for clarity as he did. The face became clearer as he zoomed in on it. Then he leaned back and smiled.
“Hello, Georgie.” He chuckled softly. “Are you right with God?”
“Do you like Chinese?” Hardistan asked as Vail settled in the seat beside him.
“Sure.�
��
“I’ll spring for lunch. I’m on the tab.”
“And I’m not?”
“Mr. Vail, right now you can have just about anything you want.”
“Good, start by calling me Martin or Marty.”
“Fine. I’m Billy. I told your driver he could go, I can run you out to the plane after lunch. You’re about to have the best Chinese food you’ve ever eaten. The place isn’t big on decor, but the food will stay in your memory for a long time.”
They drove out K Street to a section a few blocks from the White House. An ancient two-story, nondescript brick building was the lone holdout in the area. It occupied a square block dwarfed on all sides by towering, sterile glass towers. The street level of the small building boasted a Chinese grocery store, an antique shop, an herb market, a flower shop, and a pharmacy, but no restaurant.
“Is this block on the skids or going through rehab?” Vail asked.
“It’s a holdout. There used to be a little pocket of Chinese culture hereabouts. The developers have gradually forced them out.”
Hardistan got his briefcase and led Vail through a narrow doorway and up a groaning staircase to a large room in a front corner of the building. Two dozen tables were arranged haphazardly in the main room and there were half a dozen booths lining the side of the dining room. The walls were painted a pastel blue. There were no paintings or tapestries, no dragons or fish tanks. Red tablecloths provided the only color to its otherwise stark interior. The odor was tart and strongly tinged with garlic. And most of the dozen or so customers were Oriental.
Near the head of the stairs was an ancient desk with only an abacus, a receipt tablet, and a pen on it. No phone. An elderly, whitehaired Chinese gentleman in a dark blue suit and a red bow tie sat behind the desk reading a Chinese-language newspaper. He looked up and smiled.
“My friend Hardistan, how good to see you,” he said in elegant English as he led them through the room to a booth in a secluded corner of the room. “I have missed you.”
“Missed you, too. Been busy, Mr. Keye.”
“I assumed. I read the newspapers.”
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