The Vulture (2 page)

Chapter Two

Charlie Garland had a title at the CIA which did not match what he really spent his time doing. In that secretive and institutionally paranoid environment, no one dared notice or even suggest this to be unusual. Few people outside the director's office knew what his job entailed and if asked, they would mumble something that sounded official but which, on reflection, meant nothing. All anybody knew for certain was he occupied an office in the basement of the main building at Langley which contained a battered and very old Government Issue oak desk left over from another era, a wall full of mismatched filing cabinets, and an array of electronic devices including two computers. The title on his door read Public Affairs Annex, but no one had ever heard of such a division or function, nor was a there a line in the budget so named. No one thought it politic to mention that either. A newer computer sat on a makeshift credenza against one wall; the older one sat on his desk. Whereas the one on the desk had all the markings and characteristics of Government Issue, the newer one did not and it was this latter, off-budget, machine which at that moment had begun filling the room with alerts and chatter.

Charlie stood with his hand on the doorknob having every intention of going home. After all, it had already been a long day and it was late, but the incessant pinging from his computer made him hesitate. He dropped his briefcase, returned to his desk, and swiveled to stare at the computer screen.

The mandate given the CIA by Congress limits its purview to foreign affairs, covert and otherwise, international terrorism, spying, and so on. Domestic surveillance remained the clear responsibility of the FBI and Homeland Security. There would be no reason for the CIA to keep tabs on any activity within the borders of the United States or its territories. Any suggestion that it might be doing so would be vigorously denied. There were, however, certain gray areas that the Agency believed needed to be accounted for and which they were not entirely confident other law enforcement agencies would cover to their satisfaction. For instance, international borders, particularly the more porous ones in the Southwest, were a concern. Mixed in with migrant workers, children fleeing gangs in Central America, the gang members themselves, and people seeking a shot at a better life in general, terrorists and double agents found them easy entry points. So, where did the Agency's mandate really end in an era marked by shape-shifting enemies and ambivalent allegiances? A threat on one side of an arbitrary line drawn on a map would be its responsibility, but ten yards farther on, it fell to the forces monitored by Homeland Security? How efficient was that? Then there were acts of terrorism within the borders which, until their sources had been identified, might be linked to cells outside the country.

Thus, to cover its bases, the Agency had undertaken some passive domestic surveillance. Deniably, of course.

Part of Charlie's job was to be the one who “watched the watchers.” Therefore, almost every program run by the Agency could be mirrored in his office. When the electronics geek had arrived to install some new programming and the alternative computer, Charlie made sure that not only would the obvious cities be covered—New York, San Francisco, Detroit, and so on, but that links to less likely places, places like Picketsville, Virginia, for example, could also be monitored if required. He did not explain why and the young woman had not asked. Obviously, the Shenandoah Valley did not rank anywhere near to the top of anyone's list of terrorist hotbeds.

Ike Schwartz was the sheriff of Picketsville and the closest thing to a best friend Charlie had—maybe even his only friend. They maintained that friendship by keeping each other at a distance, which might seem counterintuitive, but in the world of cloaks and daggers, as they used to say, it had been necessary. Charlie wanted to know what Ike was up to, whether Ike liked it or not. That was how he discovered the wedding, for example, but that was then and this was now.

Anyway, Picketsville or Podunk, any explosion bearing the signature of a professional bomb maker would trigger alerts up and down the line in all of the agencies now affiliated, however loosely, with Homeland Security. A car bomb with enough explosive power to crack and scorch asphalt and blow in windows in adjoining buildings fit the criteria and had set computer screens dancing across the country. As unlikely as it seemed, Picketsville had made the list of possible terrorist sites after all.

Alerts streamed across Charlie's alternative screen. He scanned each in turn, barely able to keep up with the volume of messages as they came pouring in. His gut told him, even before the dispatches confirmed it, that whatever had happened down there had to somehow involve Ike. Why he believed it, he could not say. There was something about Ike Schwartz, about his unyielding—some critics would say, insufferable—rectitude that seemed to attract trouble. People who always insisted on doing the right thing seemed to find themselves in the path of more than their fair share of enemies, critics, and untimely violence. When Charlie saw the burned-out shell of the Buick, he slipped off his coat, and sent the night porter for a pot of coffee. Whether Ike was alive or dead, Charlie would dig until he knew if he was, and then who, and what, and why all it had come about. He settled in to his desk chair. The coat slipped to the floor. He didn't notice. No one else would either. Charlie wore clothes that Alice, his administrative assistant, referred to as permanent un-pressed. One more wrinkle or a dozen would not be remarkable.

Once he'd determined the scope and magnitude of the bomb, Charlie put out a BOLO for any suspicious person to every airport within two hundred miles of Picketsville. He particularly wanted the explosive-sniffing dogs deployed. If he knew his bombers, and Charlie believed he did, he knew the person responsible for this last one would either be on the way out of the country or he would go to ground. The latter would take some digging, but the possibility of the former dictated tighter security at the nearer exit ports. He also knew that bomb makers, for all their cleverness at manufacture, rarely appreciated the evidence left on their clothing. If one were headed through an airport any time soon, the dogs would sniff him out. A wipe down would confirm it. The BOLO would also call for the facial recognition programs to be cranked up and not just the “usual suspects,” but tourists, persons flying for business or pleasure, parents visiting their children or vice versa—everyone would be subjected to an increased TSA scrutiny for the next week. They would not be happy about that and mutter darkly about what the country had come to since 9/11, but there it was.

Charlie was still at his desk at noon the next day when the footage from the few, the precious few, surveillance cameras came online. Over the rest of that day and most of the next, and with only an occasional break to eat and nap, he scanned them repeatedly. Back and forth, again and again. A car pulls out of the lot and drives east. Why east? The University is west. Back it up to where the car pulls in. Is that Ike? There is another car. It is almost the same. When did it arrive? Who is that? Fast forward…back…forward to the second camera showing the explosion. Stay with that one a moment longer. You never know.

“Mr. Garland, you should take a break.”

“Thank you, Alice. Can you get me a sandwich?”

“Sure. Would you like me to take a shower for you while I am at it?”

“It's that bad?”

“You see me standing six feet back from your door. Does that tell you anything?”

Charlie rolled back and stood. Alice was right. He needed to stop. He had been going in circles for over forty-eight hours.

“Anything else?”

“They've detained a man at Dulles. The dogs found explosive residue on his clothing. He already lawyered up. The FBI has him.”

“Good. We will want to talk to him, too. Send someone over there.”

He packed up and went home to sleep. He would awaken after six hours and realize what fatigue had made him miss.

Two drivers and two cars. There were two cars, two nearly identical cars and their drivers—not identical.

***

The rain began as a drizzle and then morphed into a hard downpour, the kind that soaks anything and anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in it for more than a few minutes. At least one person fit that description; caught standing in the downpour because he had been ordered to. He had crouched in the brush beside the A-frame since late the previous night. Before he took up his watching post he'd slipped into the house to make sure no one was there. Then he'd crept into the forest's edge and waited. The rain had not been expected. It began to rain and the temperature dropped ten degrees. Only a sodden Hudson's Bay wool shirt over a tee-shirt separated him from the damp. He had no rain gear and he was miserable.

“I tell you, ain't nobody here. No man and no woman,” he muttered into his phone. No response. “Hey, you there or not?”

“I hear you. Give it another hour. Did you find anything before?”

“There's nothing. There's just this old broken-down Jeep and a car under a tarp. It doesn't look like it's been run in a while, either. It is covered with a year's worth of dust and has expired Virginia tags. I called them in to Manny and he says they are for this guy's old man, like he's storing it for him or something. Come on, Jack, the guy's dead. You saw the video. I'm drowning out here.”

“Another hour, then come in.”

“Christ, Jack, it's been like fifteen already.”

“Fourteen and a half. Just do your job.”

Chapter Three

The rain didn't seem so overwhelming under the canopy of hardwoods and pine. Ruth pulled deeper into the driveway. The car's headlights swept across the steps leading up to the glass sliders to the right, then into the shed-like structure that served as an areaway for the vintage Jeep that Ike rarely used but could not bring himself to part with. She braked in front of the A-frame and slid out of the front seat. Dripping branches and wet piles of leaves cluttered the way to the areaway which also held a utility closet and the electrical panel. She cinched her raincoat tighter and walked to the structure. She threw the main as Ike had taught her years ago when they'd spent their first weekend there. The water pump caught and hummed to life. The light next to the door lit. She had power and water. She'd need to adjust the thermostat inside and, if all went well, if the pilot light had not blown out, there'd be heat. It was wet and cold and the idea of building a fire with wood soaked by a driving rain did not appeal to her. She would do it if she had to, but then, telltale smoke would beg the question—a question she did not want to entertain just now.

It had been a terrible three days. Police with endless questions, well-meaning and sympathetic faculty with more, friends and people she hardly knew, all crowded into the house. Flowers, sympathy cards, and casseroles—the latter from the townsfolk who seemed to have a better grasp of what she needed than her academic colleagues. It wasn't that she didn't like flowers and sympathy, but who wants to cook at a time like…? And then more questions. Frank, now acting in Ike's stead as sheriff, solicitous but firm, and maybe feeling embarrassed at the circumstances that had put him in charge, needed to know what Ike had been up too.
You don't know? Then why should I?
Colonel Scarlet from the State Police had a few questions of his own—something about a man named…
what was his name
? The FBI also wanted to know who Ike had met and why. As if she knew. Car bombs were naturally high on their list of things they wanted to track, they said. Of course they did. Terrorism, domestic and foreign, had everyone on edge, and to them, bombs meant terrorists. Fortunately, Karl Hedrick had arrived in time to short-stop some of the more aggressive members of the late J. Edgar's boys intent on lecturing her on anti-terrorism and her responsibilities thereto. Her head swam.

She needed to get away, she'd said. They'd demurred. Why not? she'd asked. There might be an attempt on her life, they said. Why? No answer. Finally she'd persuaded them that she'd be better off in the A-frame than on campus. The Board had reluctantly granted her a leave of absence from her duties as president of the university. What else could they do? She needed space, she'd said. Reluctantly the FBI, the Sheriff's Department, and the rest of the gathered law enforcement community agreed, but only on the condition that she would call in every day at a specific time to tell them she was safe and well. She declined her mother's company. That had hurt, but there was no way around it. She had to come here alone. Finally they'd left her in peace and it began to rain. A hard, driving rain, the sort that washes away all the accumulated detritus that collects in gutters and lives.

The steps bore their share of leaves and branches knocked down by the deluge. The debris was as undisturbed as that littering the driveway, which showed no evidence that anyone had been in the cabin for weeks. Good. She kicked aside a pile in front of the door, unlocked it and let herself in. She had her hand on the light switch, but did not throw it.

“Okay, I'm here. Do I turn on the lights or not?” No answer, only the rustle of blinds in the sitting area and footsteps in the dark. “Okay, now?”

“Now.”

She flicked the switch and the single lamp on the sofa's side table blazed. The room remained more in shadows than lighted.

“Where are you?” she said. Her eyes darted from corner to corner.

“In the hallway to the bedroom. Don't come here just yet. The draperies are closed.”

“I know. I heard you close them.”

“If no one was here, they should have been. I had them open to watch the slope down to the valley. I closed them so that your opening them wouldn't seem unusual.”

“What? Jeez, does everything need to be this complicated? Is there someone in the valley?”

“As far as I can tell not anymore.”

“Not anymore? Was there someone before?”

“Oh yeah. He left late yesterday afternoon. Poor jerk. He stood in the rain out in the bushes for nearly fifteen hours. Probably has a case of double pneumonia by now. Look, this is the obvious place for me to go if I wasn't killed, so I figured if they didn't get an absolute confirmation, they'd check around. They were probably at the farm, too.”

“Your dad's in Richmond.”

“Good thing, too.”

“So, okay, why close the curtains?”

“Because I couldn't be sure someone else didn't follow you here. You open them, have a look around, and close them again. I'll meet you in the bedroom.”

“If you say so. I hope you know what you are doing.”

Ruth went through the motions of settling in. She swept the curtains back, peered out and let them fall. She switched on the lamp over the stove and banged her overnight bag around. She shed her raincoat, gloves, and scarf, called her mother to say she had arrived safely and no, she didn't want company…no, Eden was not to come out in the morning, or anytime. No, that was final. She shut her phone down, slipped into the bedroom, and launched herself at Ike.

“You have some explaining to do, Sheriff, but first, are you okay, are you hurt? God, I was so worried.”

“I'm fine, really. Not a scratch. You?”

“Me? Hell, what's not to like? My husband is reported blown to bits. There are cops and people all over the house and I am doing my best to be a grieving widow all the while knowing you are lurking somewhere in the dark, thank God. Did I say I was worried? I was. No, not worried—sick. All I had was your call and then everybody barging in and questions, my God the questions, but from you, nothing, and…Jesus, I began to wonder, did you really call or was I in denial and just made that up? Ike, what's going on?”

“It's complicated”

“No shit. Complicated! That's your answer? I was nearly thrown into early onset menopause and all you can say is, ‘It's complicated?'Well, as people who live on their iPhones would type, WTF, Ike?”

“I'm sorry to have to put you through all this—”

“Sorry? Sorry doesn't even come close. Not just me. Ike, the whole town is either in shock or mourning, or ready to lynch somebody—anybody they think might have had a hand in this. They want to go to a funeral and I can't tell them a damned thing.”

“I am sorry. It's not what I want but…I wish I knew what happened. All I know is that was a bomb for the ages. Not just a ‘let's kill Ike' bomb, but a ‘let's kill Ike and the rest of you better take notice what happens to people like him or you could be next' kind of bomb. It had to be about something bigger than just me, Ruth. I wish I knew how much and why, but I don't. All I can say is a slightly drunk Mike Holloway jumped in my car by mistake, made it halfway to his motel, and got blown into tiny bits and I am sure it was meant to be me driving that car. I must have really pissed off somebody, big-time.”

“No surprise there. But I still don't get it. How did what's-his-name manage to get in your car and drive away?”

“Holloway? Damned if I know. All I know is that I left right after he did, got into what I thought was my car and then realized it wasn't. It took me a second or two to figure that he must have taken mine by mistake and, in the condition he was in, he probably wouldn't have noticed, so I took off after him.”

“Okay, and your key fit his ignition?”

“Yeah, it did. I had the car started before I realized it wasn't mine. It figures mine must have fit in his. We were parked next to each other, and since he had his usual overdraft, so to speak, he didn't notice he was in the wrong car.”

“You're sure about the keys?”

“How could I possibly know? My key worked in his. It follows his worked in mine. He drove off in it, right. If the key hadn't fit, he'd be alive and I'd be dead. Of course it fit.”

“No need to bite my head off.”

“Sorry. I'm still a little edgy. Look, if my car had been hotwired, Forensics would have been onto that right away and all this would be moving in a different direction by now. His key and my key both had to be the same. I do not know what the odds are of two nearly identical cars being in the same place at the same time with keys that are interchangeable but…Anyway, he took my car, off he goes, and blam! He's blown to bits and I'm alive.”

“There's no chance that he was the intended victim?”

“Slim to none, I should say. Remotely possible, but…he was undercover, a man who moved in and out of the drug smuggling business so there's always a slim possibility he was the target, but remember, it was my car that blew up, not his. Also, it would be an overreach hit for an informer. Holloway was one of Colonel Scarlet's people, by the way.”

“Explains why the Colonel hovered. That's the name Scarlet kept asking about. So, not likely it was Holloway. It had to be you. Okay, I get it. But, won't they be looking for him, for Holloway?”

“Not right away. He has no family and is always on the move. It would not be remarkable if he disappeared for a period of time. I got the impression he hadn't told anyone that I was meeting him, though it seems now that Scarlet must have known or suspected something. I guess that leaves me as the target.”

“Yes, well…Ike…” Ruth's knees buckled and she collapsed on the bed. Seventy-two hours and the enormity of what had happened…what was happening…finally caught up with her. Someone tried to kill Ike—wanted him dead. No, not just kill him—atomize him—erase all trace of him. “Jesus, I was worried before. You know, confused and worried and a little scared. You call, Frank calls.” Ruth's breath had become ragged. “He tells my mother who then tells me that you were killed in an explosion only I know you're not and I can't say…can't say anything And everybody saying how bravely I was taking it, that I should go ahead and have a good cry. I did, you know. I just let go one afternoon. People thought it was grief. It was because I couldn't take any more, you see?”

“Got it.”

Ruth took a breath and let it out. “Okay, that part was scary and confusing then, but just now the enormity of it all hit me and I'm past scared. I'm terrified. Who wants you dead? Why do they want you dead? What happens when they find out you aren't?”

Ike shrugged and squeezed her hand. “I wish I knew, Ruth. They'll try again, I guess.” He put his hand on her knee. “That's why I'm here, not in the office. Whoever is behind this obviously has means and resources not available to your average assassin. Right now, I need time and a safe place to stay. I need to work this through.”

“By yourself? You plan to do this alone? Is that what you have been doing for the last three days?”

“Trying to, you know, making lists of names, dates, places, and crossing them off, listening, and waiting.”

“Waiting? Waiting for what?”

“Two things: first, to make sure the people who did this feel sure they're in the clear that I am certifiably dead, and second, for the other half to arrive.”

“The other…you mean me? I'm the other half?”

“You are a major part of the other half, yes. Right now, we need to take a breath and celebrate the fact that I am not dead and I have you for a little more time.”

“What about your killer?”

“He thinks I'm dead. Until he finds out otherwise, he won't be looking.”

“So, then—”

“Later.”