The Escape (6 page)

“I don’t see how I can help, John. I don’t really have access to much.”

He sat back. “Know anyone who might and who might be willing to talk to me?”

“There’s one of the guards. He’s actually been talking to me about applying to CID. Maybe it could be a scratch each other’s back sort of thing.”

“Maybe it could. What’s his name?”

“Aubrey Davis, PFC. Nice guy. Young, single. He likes his beer but I hear he’s also serious about getting ahead in his career.”

Puller slid his card out and handed it to her. “Tell him to give me a call on my cell, okay?”

She took the card and nodded. “I will. But I can’t guarantee he’ll help you.”

“No one can guarantee that. Most leads fizzle out. I just try to keep plowing through the ones I have and hope they lead to new ones. Thanks again.”

He left her there and returned to his car. Okay, it would take some time for that angle to work out, he knew, if it ever did. If he were really unlucky, this PFC Aubrey Davis might report the inquiry and up the line it would go at top military speed, resulting in Puller’s getting a call from his CO or probably someone even higher up the chain. If he were calamitously unlucky it would not be a phone call, but a truckload of MPs to haul him in to hear the charges read against him for disobeying an order. But in the meantime he had other things to check out. Namely, how the DB had lost both sources of power on the very same night, letting a highly valued prisoner simply walk out.

And leaving a dead man, who was not supposed to be there, behind.

It was impossible the way he had stated it. So in some way he had to have stated it wrong.

And the only way to get it right was to start digging.

With a very big shovel. Without anyone knowing.

A tall order, he knew.

But this was family, which meant he didn’t really have a choice.

P
ULLER DROVE A
circuitous route that took him around the perimeter of the DB and Fort Leavenworth as a whole. His gaze ran over the transmission lines. He had no way of seeing the natural gas generator configuration since that was behind cinderblock walls and the lines themselves were located underground.

He observed a power crew working inside a chain-link fence enclosing what looked to be twin transformers that might have been connected to the prison. This was probably the substation where the transformers had blown. But he couldn’t officially question them about it. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and contemplated what to do. And that’s when he noticed the Hummer pulling in behind him.

The MPs had arrived. Puller sighed, slid his ID out of his pocket, and waited.

Two armed men in uniform climbed out of their vehicle. They put on their caps and approached, one on each side of the car. Puller kept his hands in plain sight and made no sudden moves. He hit the window button with his elbow when the MP on the left reached him.

“What can I do for you?” he asked. “I’ve got my ID here. I’m—”

“We know who you are, sir. And we’ve been instructed to bring you into Fort Leavenworth for a meeting.”

Puller slowly put his ID away. “You want me to follow you? Or would you rather I went in your ride?”

“Ours, if you don’t mind, sir. Just pull yours a little farther off the road. We’ll make sure it’s here when you get back.”

Well, at least he didn’t say
if
I get back.

Puller rode in the rear seat with one MP next to him. They were both young, in their twenties, ramrod straight, stubborn chins, bulging necks, and eyes that did not see one inch farther than the orders they’d been given. Puller didn’t try to talk to them. They were just the hunting dogs retrieving him to the hunter.

They drove to Fort Leavenworth, where he was handed off to a female lieutenant smartly dressed in her Class B Blues.

They exchanged salutes and she said, “Follow me, please, Chief Puller.”

Well, it seemed everyone knew who he was.

They walked down a long corridor while Army life went on all around them. Military installations were centers of nonstop activity, and yet Puller wasn’t distracted by any of it. He had no idea whether he was walking to his professional death or a stint in the stockade. Or something else entirely. Questions like that got a man to focus.

She opened a door, ushered him in, closed it behind him, and he heard her regulation heels tapping back down the hall. And then he forgot about the lieutenant. Sitting facing him across the small table were the same three gents as before: Army general Rinehart; Schindler, the NSC suit; and the Air Force one-star Daughtrey. Schindler, Daughtrey, and Rinehart, thought Puller. Sounded like a law firm, which didn’t make him feel any better at all.

“Enjoying your visit to Kansas?” began Schindler.

“Up until about ten minutes ago, sir.”

“Why don’t you take a seat and we’ll tell you what you’re going to do,” said Daughtrey tersely.

Puller sat down across from them.

Schindler took a moment to adjust his tie and apply balm to his chapped lips. Then he said, “We understand that you disobeyed a direct order from your CO.”

“What would that be, sir?”

“That would be your driving here through the night with the purpose of investigating your brother’s escape from prison.”

“Investigating?”

“Well, so far you’ve spoken with a woman who works in administration at the prison, Chelsea Burke. And you were hoping to talk with a PFC Davis, who might be able to provide you with some leads. And then you were out observing an electrical substation connected to DB.”

Puller stared across the width of the table, silently marveling at how quickly they had been able to pounce on all this.

“You know all the stuff in the papers about the NSA spying and all, Puller?” said Daughtrey, a tiny smile playing over his lips.

“I read about it.”

“Tip of the iceberg, but ninety percent of an iceberg is hidden underwater. You used your credit card to buy gas and food. We tracked you that way.”

“Good to know, sir,” Puller said sarcastically.

Schindler said, “Intelligence keeps us all safe.”

“So spying on our own people keeps us safe?” said Puller more forcefully than he probably intended.

Schindler waved a hand derisively at this comment. “You don’t think there are Americans working with our enemies? Some of our fellow citizens will do anything for money. Hell, some of the biggest banks and hedge fund concerns in this country have been laundering cartel money and aiding terrorism for decades, and all for the almighty dollar.”

“I’ll take your word for it. So what now?”

“Well, now you have a decision to make, Puller,” said Schindler.

“And what’s that?”

“Basically, work for us or face the consequences.”

“And how exactly would I work for you?”

Schindler glanced at his colleagues before continuing. “Doing exactly what you want to do, what you’re here to do, in fact. Investigate your brother’s escape. But the difference is we’re kept in the loop the entire way. You step outside that box, your career is over.”

Rinehart added, “The decision is yours, Puller. And we’ll respect whichever way you choose to go. But if you choose not to work for us, your butt is on a cargo plane out of here. And just to make sure you don’t come snooping back around on your own time, your next assignment will be overseas, starting tomorrow. Got a couple of unsolved murders on two different bases, one in Germany and one in South Korea. Army hasn’t decided yet which one you’ll be assigned to. My vote would be Korea, and my vote will carry great weight.”

Puller took all this in but didn’t immediately respond. They had him boxed in and both he and they knew it. “Why me?” he said finally. “You’ve got lots of resources at your fingertips. CID. Military Intelligence. You don’t need me.”

Rinehart responded, “On the surface a fair and accurate statement, Puller. But you have something none of those resources have.”

Puller thought he knew the answer but waited patiently for the man to deliver it.

Rinehart said, “You’re his brother. You grew up together. You both served together, albeit in different branches. We know of his assisting you on that investigation in West Virginia. We know you visited him frequently at DB. We know you two talk on the phone. You know him better than anyone else. So we think that you have the best shot to bring him in.”

“Alive,” said Puller.

“Absolutely.”

“If I say yes to your offer, when can I start my investigation?”

“Immediately.”

“No strings attached? No conditions?”

“Other than the one stated, that you report to us.”

“And what about the other people investigating this? You can’t stop them from doing their jobs. There’s no way they’ll leave this case to one CID agent.”

“You’ll just have to work around them. We’ll leave it up to you.”

“And no help from you on that point?”

“We’ll see what we can do. But that ball will largely fall in your court, Puller.”

“And my CO?”

Schindler said, “You’ll get a written directive from him confirming this, of course, with all necessary authorizations. We don’t expect you to take it on faith.”

“Okay, I accept. And I’ll begin my investigation by interviewing all of you.”

The three men exchanged glances and then together looked back at Puller.

Schindler said, “We have nothing to do with this case other than the national security interest in bringing Robert Puller back to prison.”

“You said no strings and no conditions other than the one stated. Are you walking that back now?”

“No, but—”

“Because I am a trained investigator and my training and experience have shown that someone may think they have no valuable information to share, but they actually do. But unless I ask the questions and get the answers, that information never comes to light.”

Schindler slowly nodded. “Okay, what do you want to know?”

“You said this was a national security case. Why?”

“You know what your brother was involved in with the Air Force?”

“STRATCOM.”

“That’s right. The United States Strategic Command. It used to be limited to nuclear defense. Now its mission covers space operations, missile defense, cyber and information warfare, WMDs, global command and control, surveillance, reconnaissance, global strike, the list goes on and on. I can’t think of another military command more important to this country. Your brother worked both at the Missile Correlation Center in Cheyenne Mountain and also at STRATCOM’s HQ at Offutt Air Force Base in Nebraska.”

“I knew all that, sir. I’d actually visited my brother when he worked at STRATCOM at Offutt. But then he was assigned to a satellite office here in Leavenworth, right?” said Puller.

Daughtrey nodded. “STRATCOM outgrew its footprint at Offutt. The new facility won’t be completely ready for a few more years. Leavenworth was one of many farm-out locations. But everything was wired back to HQ.”

“I understand,” said Puller.

Daughtrey added, “There was virtually no aspect of Strategic Command that he didn’t have his fingers in. He was one of the most brilliant people they’ve ever had. The sky was the limit for him. Literally. He was being groomed to head up the whole damn thing at some point. He was just getting his next promotion lined up when everything blew up.”

Puller asked, “I know you’re with STRATCOM. Did you work with him?”

Daughtrey shook his head. “I was assigned to STRATCOM
after
your brother was sent to DB. The assessment I just gave was one based on all who knew and worked with him. To a person, soldier and contractor, he was one of the best.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Puller. “He was at the top of every class. From high school to the Air Force Academy and beyond.”

Schindler said, “Except for the little matter of treason. Let’s not forget that.”

“I haven’t forgotten it,” said Puller, turning his gaze to the suit. “And I’m pretty sure my brother hasn’t. But what does his old job have to do with anything?”

Rinehart said, “Since he’s only been gone for less than three years, Puller, much of the top secret data that rests in his head is still viable and important. The security codes and such have changed, of course. But the underlying technology, strategies, and tactics are the same. You know the military way. We finally get everyone to agree on something and Congress has to allocate the money. Everyone jockeys for their piece, the uniforms for their slice of the command and subsequent promotions, and the contractors for their share of the dollars. Once that is all set, the years-long process of implementation and execution begins. We are many things, but nimble is not one of them. It’s like changing course on a
Nimitz
-class carrier using a handheld rudder: It takes time. So, many of the projects your brother was connected with are still being implemented or are in operation right now. He has intimate and detailed knowledge of some of this country’s most important security programs that in turn deal with some of the most critical challenges we have.”

Puller considered all of this and said, “So he would be very valuable to enemies of this country.”

“Without question,” said Rinehart.

Puller looked at each man and said, “So maybe he didn’t break out.”

Schindler looked confused, an expression he shared with his two colleagues. “I don’t quite get what you’re saying, Puller. He
did
break out. He’s gone.”

“I’m not saying he’s not gone from DB.”

“Then what are you saying?” asked Schindler as he tapped his index finger impatiently against the table.

“That the whole thing at DB was staged, and instead of him breaking out, he might have been
kidnapped
by enemies of this country.”

Q
UARTERS.

Even now Robert Puller couldn’t refer to it as a room, or an apartment, or a flat. It was
quarters
. Military vernacular was drilled into the minds of those in uniform like fingers marking letters in wet concrete that dried to permanency.

His “quarters” was a motel room on the outskirts of Kansas City, Kansas. He had left Leavenworth behind for no other reason than—

I could.

It was a right-angle drive, hands twelve and three on the clock, meaning straight south and then straight east on I-70, the two perfectly equal legs of a right triangle, only awaiting the hypotenuse to complete it, which he might, taking an alternate but no less straight and direct route back to Leavenworth, if necessary. He had always framed things that way, with a reference to math or science or an adjunct of either one, placing them into a perspective that amused some, bewildered others, but was off-putting to most, he had found.

And which bothered him not at all.

There was a bed, a chair, a table, a bureau, and a TV on the bureau with lots of mostly useless channels. The bathroom was barely an afterthought, essentially a niche in the wall with a shower stall so claustrophobic it felt more like a straitjacket than a proper bathing area.

Again, after a prison cell, it bothered him not at all.

His duffel was on the floor and his laptop on the desk. He had purchased a disposable phone along the way, along with a mobile hotspot, set it all up, programmed in some interesting features, and was grinding his way through the military database he’d hacked into back at Starbucks.

It was a special database to which only authorized personnel should have been granted access. Computer security was only as good as the programmer. The one who had firewalled this database had been good—but not great.

Puller had also purchased a small wireless printer and some three-hole paper and three-ring and spiral notebooks along with pens. While his entire professional life had been mostly spent in the digital world, where the language of ones and zeroes dominated, he appreciated the importance of paper, pen, and deliberative thought that working with such old-school items seemed to inspire. And he thought better in cursive. The joined-up writing seemed to spur connective thinking.

He printed his papers, put them in the three-ring, exited the database, and took up his pen and spiral notebooks. He worked methodically for some hours. He didn’t stop to drink or eat or use the bathroom. He was oblivious to whatever else was going on in the world, or at least in Kansas. He was no longer, at least in his mind, the most wanted man in America. He was an analyst, a seer, a prognosticator going over his reams of data, moving their pieces, twisting them, testing them, discounting some, fleshing out others, slowly transforming disjointed intelligence into something that made sense.

After six hours of relentless concentration and the light of day having given over to dark, forcing him to take a moment to turn on a lamp, he put down his pen and sat back, folding his arms over his chest and resting his chin there as well. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and counted his heartbeats until they fell short of sixty a minute. He opened his eyes and ran his gaze down one of his tat sleeves, exposed now since he had discarded his jacket.

They were of his creation. They looked like typical tattoos, but if one looked closely enough the eagles and dragons and other creatures resting there were actually composed of tiny geometric images: squares, triangles, rectangles, and their more complex brethren, the dodecahedron for example, which when viewed flat—meaning as a solid—had twelve faces and was an integral part of his dragon’s scales.

Puller knew that other than him no one would notice. But that had been how much of his life had gone—his noticing, others not.

Except for his brother. And his father. They were curious. They observed. They remembered. They figured things out. His father had mastered leading enormous numbers of men, grand corps and divisions at a time, into battle on a scale and dimension that was as complex as anything ever seen on a chessboard, with the added pressure of human lives by the thousands being at stake. His brother tracked down wrongdoers with a sense of justice and an attention to detail that would put most others in the field to shame.

The Puller men, prodigies in their respective fields, but whose skills all shared that core attribute of—

Observing.

He turned to page sixty-six of the printed-out papers, because something had just occurred to him. He studied what was written there and compared it to information contained on page twenty-four. Interestingly enough, they did not tally. They did not tally at all. But they had to if the offered and official result was to make any sense.

This was not a smoking gun. But it was something. And something, as his brother often said, usually led to something else.

Brilliant in its elegant simplicity, and he knew exactly what his brother meant. He carried it out to its logical conclusion.

In fact, something always leads to something else.

He drew out a blank piece of paper and conjured the image of the man in his head. It was not easy, because it had been dark. But there had been a light source. The man’s own flashlight.

Puller put his pen to the paper and refocused, transferring the image in his head to the cotton fibers, letting the ink bleed into them, fill out what he was trying to achieve. This was not simply important; it was paramount. Because it was something.

And something always leads to something else
.

He was an accomplished artist, a fact not many knew about him. He had taken it up years ago to relax from a job whose stakes and pressures were so enormous.

Hence the sketches, lines connecting and intersecting and bisecting other lines to form something that had not previously existed. It was math yet again, geometry transformed into art, a confluence that had made painters like Picasso icons forever enshrined in history. It was cubism building to masterpieces born of another realm of thought and experience.

He had fits and starts and crumpled-up paper, and endured starting over multiple times. Finally the image gained traction, the root system set in, and the features began to grow, like a plant rising, seeking the light. Plants could not survive without sunlight; indeed, photosynthesis was the key to their survival.

Well, Puller would not be living much longer without this image coming to full fruition.

He worked away for another half hour and then reached the point where the heavy lifting was finished. Now he was simply filling in the edges.

He sat back, put down his pen, and held the paper up to eye level.

Staring back at him was a man. A man Puller had not seen until very recently. A man he still did not know.

That man now lay, he was fairly certain, in a morgue at Fort Leavenworth, as investigators attempted to figure out who he was. And what he was doing at the DB the night Robert Puller escaped. And why he was now dead. These were good, pertinent queries.

Puller was fairly certain that he knew what the man was doing there. He clearly knew
exactly
how the man had died.

Yet he didn’t know anything beyond that. And he
had
to know. He had to know all of it. This puzzle could not remain unfinished. Not if he wanted to survive.

And because something always leads to something else
.