“Brandon, sir. Leo.”
“Leo, your mark is a professional assassin. He’s responsible for the deaths of twelve of our agents earlier this evening, including your boss.”
“I know, sir. Mr. Fleming recruited me.”
“Keep that in mind.”
O’HARE AIRPORT, SATURDAY 1:32 A.M., CST
“We got a suit coming out on the tarmac,” one of the agents said into his lapel mike. “He’s carrying a sports bag.”
Hardistan quickly answered. “Don’t approach him, let’s see what he does. Keep your eyes on that bag. It probably contains weapons.”
“How did he get weapons through the metal detectors?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. Just watch the bag.”
The man walked casually into the bay and headed for twin-engine D-55.
Hardistan: “Easy everybody.”
Tunny walked straight to the plane and stopped beside the wing. He looked around. What Tunny did not know was that he had been identified. He had been hidden at the Vail cabin since the news had been announced earlier that day and his house had blown up in the FBI raid. He felt assured and comfortable. He swung the bag onto the wing and climbed up after it. He checked inside the plane. The agents on the tarmac appeared to ignore him.
“Take him out when he reaches for the bag,” Hardistan said quietly to the sniper.
The sniper looked up at him for just a moment and then turned back to his rifle.
“All the way?” the sniper asked.
“Put the son of a bitch down,” Hardistan said.
Woodbine took out a key, unlocked the door, and opened it. He turned in a slow circle, casually scanning his surroundings, checking to see if anyone was watching him. As he reached for the bag he looked up toward the second floor of the concourse, his eyes moving past some darkened offices. Then he stopped. He squinted his eyes.
Was there something?
The flash in the dark window looked like a firefly. A moment later the armor-piercing bullet ripped through his chest. Woodbine was blown upward and back, landing on his back on the seat of the plane, his feet sprawled on the wing. He looked up at the ceiling of the cockpit, gasped once, and died.
Hardistan watched him through the binoculars.
“Take an insurance shot,” he said.
“He’s dead, sir.” Brandon said. He stood up and cased his rifle.
“Well done, Brandon. I’ll remember you,” Hardistan said. He took off the headset and walked away.
BOOK FOUR
ARMAGEDDON
He that sets all the knaves at work must finally pay them.
—Anonymous
CHAPTER 35
PEAKVIEW, MONTANA, SATURDAY 9:00 A.M., MST
Abel Stenner, the ex-Chicago cop who had become Martin Vail’s confidant, friend, and partner in the years he was a prosecutor, had been one of the most intuitive detectives Vail had ever known. For ten years, while Vail was a defense attorney, he and Stenner had clashed many times in court. Each had a grudging respect for the talents of the other.
Their most notable confrontation was when Vail successfully defended Aaron Stampler for chopping up a Catholic archbishop with a carving knife. Vail had defended Stampler on the grounds of insanity, specifically that he suffered from multiple-personality disorder and was not responsible for his actions. During the trial, Vail had blistered the homicide detective on the witness stand, only to learn after the trial that the insidious Stampler had bluffed everyone, including Vail.
Disillusioned, Vail had become Chicago’s chief prosecutor, and suddenly found Stenner a strong ally. When Vail had put together the “Wild Bunch” of young, eager attorneys, Stenner became their mentor. His prize student was Dermott Flaherty, a tough street kid turned lawyer. Stenner had seen in Flaherty a hard-boiled young man who turned his education on the mean streets against the kind of criminals he himself might have become.
Flaherty had learned his lessons well. Stenner had approached every crime with cold calculation, often sitting for hours studying the scene of a crime, attempting to get inside the head of the perpetrator. It was that method that Flaherty used in studying the three simultaneous bank robberies in Montana. He had gone back to the scene of the Peakview heist twice, using it as a model for all three of the thefts. The bank employees observed him curiously, sitting quietly in a chair in the bank, at the front, watching every facet of its operation. He was cordial to them but asked no questions. He simply sat and stared.
While Ben Meyer pursued his theory that the small statewide bank chain was laundering the Sanctuary’s IGG, FBI-speak for ill-gotten gains, Flaherty was more interested in the fact that nobody had seen the robbers leave the banks with the loot.
On the Saturday morning after the debacle at Bad Rapids and Tunny’s attack on the Vail cabin, pressed by Vail’s need to seek indictments against the rogue militia, Meyer and Flaherty were back in the Peakview bank, this time with Jim Hines. They were determined to find the “someone” in the bank who was responsible for the money-washing scam. While Hines and Meyer were at work studying the bank’s computer records, Flaherty took his usual position in the front of the closed bank and continued to study it. He was as thorough and as infinitely patient as his mentor had been.
Meyer, meanwhile, was convinced that the money gleaned from robberies and illegal arms transactions was indeed being pyramided, but he needed to study all of the banks’ deposits, transfers, and payouts to find specifically how it was being done.
Hines, the hacker turned FBI computer expert, was there to help them. The search warrants Vail had secured permitted them to study the specific records of several of the Sanctuary’s principals, but did not provide them access to every one of the bank’s transactions. Without that access, Meyer was stymied. He particularly wanted to study similar deposits made on the same day, reasoning that a program had been written to distribute large cash deposits over several accounts to conceal them from the IRS.
And so, while Flaherty worked on the robbery aspect, Meyer had talked Hines into attempting to hack into the bank’s most protected data. Since they were illegally gathering the data, it could not be used in court. But as Flaherty pointed out: “If we shake whoever runs this scam out of the tree and turn him, he’ll tell the whole story in court for us.”
Both Flaherty and Meyer were certain “the link” that could tie all the aspects of the RICO case together was going to be found somewhere in the bank chain.
Two names continually popped up. One was Lewis Granger. The other was Dwight Wolf.
Hines had built up the data bank on both men. “Granger looks good to me,” he said.
“Is he connected to the Sanctuary?” Meyer asked.
“No. He’s a moderate Republican. Self-made man. Doesn’t express any radical political ideas or belong to any radical groups. He’s an elder in the Presbyterian church in Helena and a director in the National Radio Broadcasters’ Association. Actually, Rocky Mountain Communications, Inc., is the main investor in the bank chain. Granger isn’t listed on any of the boards and his title is General Manager of the key radio station in Helena, but… he’s the largest stockholder in the company.”
“How much stock?”
“Fifty-one percent.”
“And what’s the company’s investment in the bank chain?”
“Forty-nine.”
“So all he needs is a shill with two points in the bank chain and he controls both companies,” Meyer said.
“Right. He also is the man who put Brother Abraham on the air and syndicated his hate show. And guess who his shill is? Guess who owns two percent of the bank’s stock?”
Hines tapped the keys of his computer and another file opened.
“Dwight Wolf, chief accountant for chain, recommended for the job by Lewis Granger,” Hines said.
Meyer’s interrogation of the staffs of the three branch banks had turned up the usual information—and one interesting item.
“Wolf makes a m
onthly visit to the all the branch banks,” Meyer said. “It’s not uncommon for an accountant to do that. But it is rare for the chief financial officer to audit the bank records personally every month.”
“Does he do it on the same day of the month?” Hines asked.
“No, but normally within the first three days, depending on where Sunday falls.”
“What’s your theory?” Hines asked.
“My theory is that he personally makes the pyramid deposits.”
“So one of the thieves comes in, gives the loot in hundred-thousand-dollar chunks to Wolf, and he makes the deposit, which then automatically spreads across ten or eleven accounts?”
“Right,” Meyer said. “And nobody in the bank ever sees the money. Wolf puts the cash in the vault, and the bank records justify it.”
“Can we find the program that does this?”
“It might be easier to scan their deposit and transfer records and see if your theory holds up.”
“So do it,” Meyer said.
“This is against the law, you know.”
“We’re not changing anything, we’re just taking a little peek.”
“That little peek could get us about ten years.”
“We’re not even going to take notes,” Meyer said, and tapped his temple with a forefinger. “I’ve got a ten-gigabyte brain.”
Hines rubbed his hands together and blew on his fingertips, like a safecracker getting ready to feel out the combination on a lock. “What the hell,” he said, and smiled. “Reminds me of the old days.”
His fingers raced across the keys, attempting to access the bank files. The computer demanded a code name.
“Eight letters or numbers,” Hines said. He continually talked to himself as he ran the steps. He was using a combination of three or four hacking methods involving one program called Crackerjack, which scanned dictionaries at warp speed looking for letter matches, and another called SALT, which ran number combinations.
Hines leaned back and twirled a pencil in his fingers like a cheerleader’s baton while watching line after line of numbers speed across the screen.
In the main room of the bank, Flaherty abruptly stood up and walked out the rear door. He strolled the length of the parking lot, crossed a street, and stared back at the free-standing building for several minutes.
“Yeah,” he said, and smiled to himself.
In the bank, the numbers and letters kept flashing across the monitor as the Crackerjack program decoded the bank’s encrypted password. Suddenly the screen cleared and the codeword flashed on the screen:
“259HEWHAY176.”
And below it:
“ACCESS APPROVED.”
They were in.
“That was the easy part,” Hines said. “Now we’ve got to start looking for patterns and deposits in transfers.”
“Let’s start with November. That was the month they hit the armored car in Seattle. November nine to be exact. Run the data for one month starting on November nine.”
The monitor screen split into thirds. In one column was listed deposits, in the next, transfers, and finally a tally column. They were listed by individual branches. Hines entered “$8,000 to $9,999 in a search engine, and the cursor stopped on each deposit between the two numbers and moved it into the tally column. He ran the search engine on the three branches and main office.
Next, he collated them by date.
Meyer and Hines highlighted each entry and compared it to others.
“Here we go,” Meyer said.
November 23: three deposits of $8,750 in accounts in Peakview; four deposits of $9,860 in accounts in Wild Bank; three deposits of $9,910, Milltown. Total: $95,429.
All were escrow accounts.
“Beautiful,” Hines said. “The money goes into escrow accounts for property, cars, whatever. The IRS doesn’t check escrow accounts unless they’re looking for something specific.”
“That’s also how the Sanctuary became one of the biggest landowners in the state.”
“And the money was distributed to all four of the churches. There’s your link, Ben,” Hines said. “And look here. Here’s a twenty-thousand deposit going to the Bank of Independence in the Virgin Islands.”
“Very cool,” Meyer said. “The bank in the Virgin Islands then transfers that deposit to a corporation in Panama. And Panama by law will not divulge the names of officers or directors of its corporations.”
“So then they draw the money back here in legitimate bank transfers and it’s completely laundered,” Hines said.
“Or,” said Flaherty, who was now standing quietly behind them, watching the records flash on the screen, “they pay cash for arms they purchase from the international black market without a trace.”
“Yeah, no paper trails,” Meyer said. “And most of it is legal. Even if we legally can get into the records, this information wouldn’t be worth a damn in court.”
“I think I know what is illegal,” Flaherty said.
Hines and Meyer turned and looked up at him.
“I know why nobody saw the holdup men leave these banks with the loot.”
“I give up, why?” Hines asked.
“Because the money never left the banks.”
“What!” Hines said.
“It never left the banks. Look, the thieves broke in, put everybody in the back room blindfolded. Emptied the vault, and put the money in safe deposit boxes in the bank. Then they took off their coveralls and put them and their weapons in a deposit box. When the explosion went off, they just stepped outside empty-handed in business suits and strolled on their merry way.”
“That’s a good theory,” Meyer said.
“It’s the only one that makes sense.”
Meyer considered the idea. “And then they came back when Wolf made his monthly visit,” he said. “Each of the three or four men in the crew had a safe deposit key, put shares of money in a briefcase, went into the private office, and Wolf made the deposits. Then he put the money back in the vault so the bottom line would even out.”
“Nice theory,” Hines said. “The trouble is, we can’t prove any of this.”
“So we need permission to get into those boxes,” Meyer said. “Maybe we don’t need to,” Flaherty said.
“We aren’t breaking into the safe deposit boxes, Flaherty.”
“We won’t have to, Ben. This is a game for the best bluffer alive. Martin will handle it,” he said.
WASHINGTON, D.C., SATURDAY 7:30 A.M., EST
In a room in the basement of the White House, President Pennington, General Jesse James, Colonel Stu Rembrandt, and Claude Hooker were studying huge blowups of the Mount James photographs.
“They’ve set up perimeters,” Rembrandt said. “Zones of defense, starting down here at the saddle and going up to the snow line. Each zone is protected by razor wire and mines. Their troops basically are trapped in between the mine fields and wire.”
General James pointed to a ghostly image on one of the photographs. It appeared almost as a face hidden among the trees.
“We think this is where the bunker is located. The heaviest concentration of manpower is in this circle.” He drew an imaginary circle with his hand. “That’s where Engstrom is. That’s where he’ll be directing his force from.”
“I don’t think Engstrom believes the FBI and the ATF will risk getting into a shooting war up there,” Pennington said.
“I don’t, either,” James said. “He thinks it will turn into a Mexican standoff. They can sit up there forever and send out their people on night forays.”
Pennington nodded. “The provisional headquarters of the State of Sanctuary.”
“They’ll tie up hundreds of Bureau and ATF agents and hardware in a blockade, Mr. President,” Colonel Rembrandt said. “It will cost the taxpayers a fortune.”
“And become a P.R. nightmare,” Hooker said. “We’d be on the six o’clock news every night. He’d harpoon you politically.”
“How close is Va
il to securing indictments against these people?” Pennington asked.
“A week, a month, who knows?”
“Even if he gets them, who are you going to send in to arrest Engstrom and his key staff?” James asked. “The marshal service isn’t equipped to take them on. And the National Guard would get slaughtered up there.”
“Hell, the FBI and the ATF can’t handle it, either,” Rembrandt barked. “You want to break up this picnic, you’ll need Rangers and Special Forces. They know how to deal with this kind of problem.”
“And that is… ?”
“Night drop. Fly in Hueys, drop the Rangers down on lines in specified areas…” He pointed to areas on the large map of the target zone. “… back up the drops with heavy air support. That way we control the situation. We can’t use low drop paratroopers, the winds up there are brutal and unpredictable. The casualties could be disastrous.”
“Christ, this could make Waco look like a romp in the park,” Hooker said.
“What other course of action is there?” Pennington asked.
He paced the room for a long minute.
“Can I invoke the War Powers Act Johnson used to escalate the war in Vietnam? Or the antiterrorist acts?”
“Seems to me that’s a question you should ask your A.G., Mr. President,” General James said.
Pennington sat down and stared at the wall full of photographs and maps. He rubbed his temples with two hands.
“What are we talking about in numbers?” he asked Rembrandt, who would command the force of specialists.
Rembrandt looked at the map. “My recommendation is to drop five hundred men in the first wave. Lay ’em down at the edge of the snow line, which gives us the high ground. Back ’em up with another five hundred once we engage. Lower squads into trouble spots.”
“Body count?” the President asked.
“Once they realize what they’re up against, they’ll surrender in droves. Except for the diehards.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Mr. President, if it goes smoothly, I’d say… we’d lose a hundred, max, against three hundred of the enemy.”
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