Perfect Killer (36 page)

I sat in the rearmost seat of the unmarked government van between Tyrone and Jasmine and held her hand. The van idled along the shoulder of the road near the end of the runway at Campbell Field outside Madison.

As we waited, a single-engine Beechcraft Bonanza came in low, filled the van's windshield, and touched down. A radio up front crackled with traffic between the small control tower, the Beechcraft, and other airplanes approaching and ready to depart.

We all watched the Bonanza recede in the distance: Rex and Anita on either side of Talmadge in the seat ahead of me, then up front, the three government contractors who had snatched us more than six hours before.

They had changed into summer-weight civilian clothes that revealed highly fit former military men. The leader of the group, a retired Air Force colonel and fighter ace named Buddy Barner had turned to a second career in special ops when he had been assigned a desk to fly.

The interior of the van hung damp with the mustiness of drying mud caking the piles of combat garb jammed in back with the luggage and gear. The van's airconditioning labored against the hundred-degree heat and matching humidity outside and did little to diminish the mud's fetid dankness.

But no one was complaining about the smell because we had acquired the mud along with Talmadge's microfilm. Years ago when he was still an active hunting guide, Talmadge had sealed the microfilm inside a thick, plastic, river-rafting dry-bag enclosed in an airtight length of black plastic drainpipe with caps glued over both ends.

Talmadge had then buried the package deep in the muck beneath a series of fiftyfive-gallon oil drums used as a duck blind in the middle of a lot of nowhere. The "nowhere" in question, which had eluded the efforts of the U.S. government, was a bootsucking swamp approximately south of an abandoned railroad grade, about twelve miles southeast of the Choctaw Indian Reservation near Wiggins, and not far from where the Coffee Bogue Creek oozes into the Pearl River.

Talmadge hugged the bag on his lap and refused to let it go as he half-dozed beneath the sedatives Anita had given him to help control his seizures.
"Y'all don't worry 'bout me," Talmadge had told us hours ago. "These fits start with some Las Vegas lights in my head. But don't worry none. I'll give you fair warning. You hold me down for a bit and I'll go right to sleep."
Rather than risk a seizure, Anita and I had selected a sedative combination from among the selection our captors had brought. Talmadge lay totally buzzed. Every few minutes, he would chuckle and make a show of embracing the bag, and twice he had wept for his dead wife. Jasmine squeezed my hand in those moments, knowing that I was thinking about past and future, Camilla and her.
I think I knew Talmadge's pain, but could never be certain. Anguish—like everything about consciousness—remains a relentlessly personal drama, played out on an internal stage for just one person, an experience that can be deduced by others but never shared.
A faint turbine whine made its way above the air-conditioner fan and focused us all on the end of the runway.
Barner shook his head. They're still a couple of minutes out."
Moments later, a Citation, fanned out and landed gracefully with little smoke from the fires.
"So,"—Rex leaned toward Barner—"how did you find us? Really. Three old guys when the whole U.S. government is still chasing their tail?"
Barner looked at a thin man with salt-and-pepper hair who sat near the window. They had been stingy with information. Other than to tell us they represented neither Homeland Security nor law enforcement, they had said little.
"No harm," the thin man mumbled. He turned to Rex. "First of all, we had some leads from the folks in California and just asked the right questions, the right way, to the right people." He paused. "See, people actually
like
to talk to me. Which is more than you can say for the numb-nuts, Billy Joe Bad Ass Homeland Security goons." He paused. "And from what we learned, everything eventually pointed to you."
"Uh-huh, exactly," Rex said, "That's what worries me."
The thin man smiled. "You've left footprints. You're a family man now and you've started to forget about your other life. Some folks out there are a little better at remembering, especially when somebody like you materializes and wants to call in really stale IOUs. Some of those folks might seem dumb as a fence post, but they can still connect the headlines to a call from you."
"Who-"
The thin man shook his head. "No can say, podnuh. You need to remember: they did you a favor. They let us get to you first."
"Well," Rex grumbled.
"What he means is 'thank you'," Anita said to the thin man.
Rex opened his mouth to protest when the call sign we had been anticipating sounded loud and clear on the radio. Barner put the van in gear and headed for the airport's general aviation gate. He entered a combination on the keypad and waited for the chainlink gate to slide open.
As we drove toward the arranged spot on the apron, a small jet with the correct number and twin engines at the tail dropped quickly and landed at the very end of the runway. An earsplitting blast of reverse thrust echoed through the airfield.
The jet, marked only by a civilian
N
number, taxied right up to the van. The jet's forward door opened as the aircraft rolled to a halt.
"Stay here," Barner told us as he and his two colleagues got out. The engines were still running as Barner climbed the stairs. Our van's rear doors opened then, and Barner's two men grabbed our bags and my laptop, then transferred them to the jet.
Seconds later, one of the men opened the van's sliding side door and motioned us aboard. They helped me carry Talmadge and settle him in. As soon as we were aboard, Barner introduced us to the two officers aboard, shook my hand, and disappeared.

With an earsplitting whine, the jet leapt from the short runway and pressed me back into my seat. Beyond my window, the earth fell away and the green patchwork of trees and crops shrank to model-railroad scales. I followed this and said a prayer of thanksgiving for outrunning the hellhound again.

The man in the red polo shirt and khaki pants whom Barner had introduced as Brigadier General Jack Kilgore stood up and faced us a the engines throttled back and leveled us off above a scattering of cumulus.

"Sorry about the slingshot takeoff," Kilgore said. He had a John Wayne voice straight from
Flying Leathernecks.
"We needed an aircraft with enough range to fly here nonstop, and they tend to be bigger than what that small airfield usually accommodates."

Force 86M."
"I've heard of you," I said.
Kilgore smiled. And I've heard of you too,
compadre."
Jasmine gave me an intense look.
"Sorry for interrupting."
"Not an issue." He cleared his throat. "You are probably wondering how in hell

you ended up here."
We
all
nodded.
"But, before I start, would anybody like something to eat?" We all nodded eagerly. "Thought so," he said as he made his way to a storage locker aft of the cockpit, pulled out a stack of white cardboard boxes, and passed them around." I

I couldn't suppress my smile as I recalled the tiny bags of kibble I had eaten on my trip from L.A. Kilgore took a lunch box, set it on the seat, and took a sip from a plastic container of Odwalla juice before beginning.

"This whole situation started a few days ago when I got a Mayday call from the first commanding officer of 86M. I served with him and under him."
He took another sip of the juice as he let this sink in. I plowed into my own lunch.
"You've undoubtedly read about my friend Lieutenant General Dan Gabriel."
"Whoa!" Tyrone said. "Braxton's secretary of defense?"
"One and the same," Kilgore said, "Over a giant pile of steam-table egg foo yung, he told me a tale about a closetful of snakes in General Braxton's head."
"I think we know a little about that," I said, nodding to the microfilm bag.
"Affirmative," Kilgore said. "But hold on for a moment and let me tell you Dan's story, then you can fill me in on yours. Together, we might get a better picture of the elephant."
We polished off our lunches as Kilgore related his meeting with Gabriel, their subsequent conversations, Gabriel's last phone conversation regarding Frank Harper, and the significance of the last GPS location of Gabriel's phone before it was turned off.
Kilgore polished off his second bottle of juice and nodded at me. "Your turn."
With help from Tyrone and Jasmine and not a word at all from Rex, I told Kilgore about my mother's funeral and finished with the raid on the VA hospital and the close call with the high-voltage electrical wires.
"Incredible." Kilgore shook his head. He looked at Tyrone. "I hate to tell you this, but you didn't kill David Brown."
"But how—"
Kilgore smiled. "The arrogant, chain-smoking bastard had a coronary. The Marlboro Man killed him." He paused. "I only hope that stinking hemorrhoid was conscious until he hit the ground." He looked around for agreement and found it unanimous.
"Good," Kilgore said. "This is the situation. First we stop the deployment of this Xantaeus, then we rescue Dan Gabriel." He paused. "Not necessarily in that order, because I think Dan knows how to deal with the General and the patch.
"A couple of our former guys work Braxton's security detail." Kilgore continued. "That's not unusual, given the quality of our personnel. Anyway, one of the guys called me from a pay phone in Napa last night and told me he heard Gabriel and Harper are being held at Castello Da Vinci, the General's Napa Valley estate. Rumor says an accident's being arranged for Dan and the doctor. That's what bothered him and why he called."
The small jet hit an air pocket, first lifting us up, then dropping us into a hole. Kilgore casually fended his tall frame off the ceiling with one hand.
"So," he said when the aircraft had regained its equilibrium, "I think we get Dan first because he's got the stuff in his head which will let us take down Braxton and this Xantaeus thing."
Kilgore raised his eyebrows as he looked from person to person. "What do you mean
we
, white man," Rex finally spoke up.
"Damn good question… Tonto." Kilgore cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his tone rang dissonant and discomforted.
"This is a rogue operation. If we don't succeed, it's a lifetime in a crappy military prison for me and my second-in-command, Bill Lewis, who'll be meeting us in Napa. Bill and I know it, we accept it, but we cannot—will
not
—put the personnel under our command at risk.
"And we can't send a request through military channels or even civilian police because it would take too long. Gabriel would be dead by the time we got a response. And Braxton has loyalists up and down both chains of command."
"Are you asking us to go in and rescue your friend?" I asked.
Kilgore shook his head. "Bill and I are committed, but I won't ask you to follow us. That's not why you're here. We came after you because Bill and I are convinced you were framed, and your lives are in danger."
"So we owe you?" Rex asked.
"Wrong, Tonto."
"It's Rex, if you don't mind."
"Whatever," Kilgore said. "Getting the CD from Shanker, rescuing Talmadge, and locating the microfilm outweighs any pathetic effort I've made so far. You don't owe me a thing … Rex."
"Well, its pretty clear without Braxton put away for good, we're marked for the rest of what will probably be very short lives," I said. Jasmine's eyes encouraged me to continue. "For my part, I'd say the only way out of this mess we're in leads right through Castello Da Vinci."
"We could go to the press," Tyrone offered, "but even with everything we have, who'll believe us? Braxton's hugely popular."
"Even if they believed us, would they believe in time?" Jasmine added. "I'm with Brad." She gave me a look that connected to my soul.
"Jasmine's right," Kilgore agreed. He remained silent long enough for reality to sink in.
"Right," Rex said reluctantly, and looked at me. "I'm in, but only because I promised ya'mama I'd take good care of you."
Given my background, his comments drew laughter from everybody but him. Anita looked at him with a combination of fear and pride. She nodded at him.
"I appreciate your sentiment," Kilgore said "But I want you to think about it for the rest of the flight. This has to be a clear and unequivocal decision. We have very limited resources and severe consequences for failure. I'll describe the situation; if you change your mind, I'll understand. Genuine decisions always keep consequences clearly and constantly in mind."

Our jet began a gradual descent.
"Fuel," Kilgore said. The jet got us in and out of Jackson nonstop, but won't get us back. We'll land near Longview, Texas, for a minute. But before we get there, let's go over a few things. Time's awfully short and we'll need to hit the ground running when we land."
Without waiting for us to reply, he retrieved a large brushed-aluminum briefcase from the seat across the aisle, walked back to the rear of the aircraft, unlatched a table, and folded it down.
"C'mon down." He waved at us as he covered the table with topo maps, aerial photos, and street maps.
I stood next to Jasmine and reveled in the warmth of our casual touch.
"First of all, rules of engagement. We
will
avoid hurting or killing anyone except as a last, desperate resort. Other than the one or two folks out to dispose of Dan and the doctor, I'd say we're dealing with good folks just doing their jobs. Let's use that bear repellent and other nonlethal items whenever possible."
"Finally, we're not going to use U.S. government assets or equipment other than information. I do not want to get my quartermaster in trouble, and I do not want to make my legal case worse through multiple charges of misappropriation of government property."
I looked around the jet and back at Kilgore.
He caught my question. "American Express. My personal card. I'll worry about how to pay it off next month—if it matters by then. Same at the other end. Bill Lewis used his card to rent a van and an RV to use as a sort of mobile base. He's done some shopping for us as well."
Talmadge snorted in his sleep then. Anita looked over at him.
"Now, for personnel assignments," Kilgore continued. "Let me finish. Then if you disagree, we can discuss it."
Heads nodded.
Anita, we'll keep him sedated in the RV with you to look after him." She nodded.
"Bill Lewis'll be with his unit, which still believes we're monitoring Castello Da Vinci to assess security readiness. He'll relay the information to me as it happens. Nothing suspicious about that; I'm usually involved in penetration operations against high-profile targets."
"Rex: you, Brad, and I will attempt the main penetration and rescue. Jasmine and Tyrone will mount a diversion from a safe distance since neither's got combat experience."
Tyrone frowned. Kilgore shook his head. "For you I have something that would be fun if results weren't so important."
"Such as?"
"I've read your rap sheet," Kilgore said.
"That's juvenile stuff," Tyrone said "Sealed by the court."
"Uh-huh."
"I'm awfully rusty with that stuff."
Kilgore's smile and eyebrows said he was unconvinced. "I want to see if you can hack Castello Da Vinci's network."
"I can most probably do that."
"Lives depend on it."
"Do they have any wireless parts of their net?" Tyrone asked.
"Just for guests," Kilgore said. "They have hot spots for all the visitors they have. But it's firewalled off from the main network. Plus, everything's encrypted. Guests get a onetime use Wireless Encryption Protocol key."
"WEP's a piece of Swiss cheese," Tyrone said. "Total moving target. Crackers break it, router guys issue some new firmware, which hardly anybody ever upgrades, and even if they did, the crackers are usually a step ahead."
"I thought a WiFi hot spot only went a few hundred yards," Jasmine said.
"Depends," Tyrone said. "Back at a DEFCON hackers convention in Vegas, they had a contest and managed more than fifty miles. My guess is that with all the guests they have and all the rock and stone around Castello Da Vinci, they will have ratcheted up the power of their system and tweaked antennas so their important guests won't get a weak signal. And, if the place is as big as you say—and we know Braxton has access to all sorts of corporate things—he probably has an IT setup there, probably a VPN to his company and maybe links to other places."
The air got rough for a moment as we closed in on the Longview airstrip.
"So you can do it?"
"Yeah," Tyrone said confidently. "I can do it, but I need a decent laptop with two wireless 802.11n cards, some wire, aluminum foil, a couple of Pringles cans, and an hour or so with a good Internet connection to download some software."
"We can do that." Kilgore nodded. "But, remember, you can't access your servers anymore."
"Don't need to. The software I need to blow open the General's network is available for free to anyone with an Internet connection."
"Oh, jeez," Rex said.
"Okay, we've got only a couple of minutes here," Kilgore said as he spread out the topo maps to offer the lay of terrain, roads, and the fortresslike security around and in Castello Da Vinci.
"Our guy's certain Gabriel and Harper are jailed in one of the half dozen barrelaging caves at the base of the complex. None of them have locks, just big iron bolts on the outside. They're off a spur tunnel intersecting the main service tunnel not far from the loading docks.
"Bad news is the weather's hot as hell, well over one hundred degrees. Good new is there's one helluva big wildfire on the other side of the valley and the prevailing winds are blowing it right over the General's place, so visibility's pretty bad.
"More bad news: there's a big party tonight—Pentagon brass, corporate execs— which means extra security and a lot more people we will not want to shoot. The upside's all the caterers, and deliveries of food and wine. That's how we get in."
"Why wine delivered?" Rex asked. "From everything I've read, Braxton's got a multimillion-dollar wine cellar."
"But he doesn't drink it," Kilgore said.
"Doesn't drink it?"
"He's a collector," Jasmine said. "It's all about the collection, not about the drinking."
"Now
that's
crazy," Rex said.
"It's one sign of the type of brain injury Braxton has," I said. "And he picked up his collecting mania right after the head wound."
The pilot interrupted us with his final approach announcement. We helped Kilgore secure his papers and cleaned off the fold-down table until only a single red file folder remained. The jet lurched and yawed as the downdrafts of approaching afternoon thunderstorms tossed it about.
"Here." He handed the file folder to Jasmine. "This describes your mission. Pass it along to Tyrone when you're done."
The landing gear groaned into position. Only then did Jack Kilgore take his seat and buckle in for the landing.