24 Declassified: Head Shot (2009) (12 page)

Marion Clary shook her head. “It’s not as if I live here all alone. There’s a permanent party of over a dozen staffers who live here full-time, too. That’s not including the tour guides, guards, chambermaids, handymen, gardeners, and all the others who are here during working hours. It takes a small army to keep Sky Mount functioning properly.

“I’ve lived here for over ten years, and even when I think I know every nook and cranny of it, I’m always discovering new and wonderful things about it. To me it’s an old friend. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. There’s so much history here, so many art treasures at every turn . . . There’s a greatness of spirit here that seems to have gone out of today’s modern world. Of course, I’m an antiquarian or I couldn’t do my job properly. An antiquarian and something of an antique.”

Jack said, “Hardly that, Ms. Clary.”

“You’re gallant, Mr. Bauer.” She smiled piquantly, a bit wryly, as if shaking off her visionary mood and returning to the business at hand. “During the run-up to the Round Tables and the conclaves themselves, my role becomes more that of a personal assistant to Mr. Wright. It’s the one time of the year that I do see him. His responsibilities as chairman of the board of trustees take him all over the country—the world, really—and he spends very little time at Sky Mount except during the Round Tables.”

A stirring of muffled motion sounded from behind the tall set of double doors accessing Wright’s inner sanctum. The doors opened outward, allowing the exit of a handful of staffers, young men and women. Some carried portfolios, others briefcases and oversized loose-leaf binders. They looked sleek, well-groomed, fit, competent, energetic, and enthusiastic. They weren’t more than a few years Jack’s junior, but they made him feel old by comparison.

They crossed the anteroom and exited. A man, thirty, dark-haired, with tortoiseshell glasses, stood in the doorway. He said to Jack and Anne Arm-strong, “Mr. Wright will see you now.”

The two CTU agents crossed to the portal and entered the space beyond. The man with the glasses closed the double doors behind them, following. The office space was immense, the walls lofty, the windows tall and arched, the ceiling vaulted. The decor was suggestive of the period of Louis XIV, the Sun King, a mélange of neo-classical formalism and rococo ornamentation.
The walls were white with golden trim, the deep-pile wall-to- wall carpeting was royal- blue decorated with white fleur-de-lis, emblem of the Bourbon dynasty.
There were paintings by Watteau, Fragonard, even a Poussin.

Alcoves held marble statuary and portrait busts with neo-classical themes, Greek gods and goddesses, nymphs and warriors.

Richly ornamented drapes screened the windows, filtering out the morning sunlight. A crystal chandelier hung down from the ceiling, its radiance augmented by strategically placed floor lamps and indirect wall-mounted pinlights and spotlights.

Glass-fronted cabinets contained shelves lined with rows of volumes handsomely bound in gold-embossed leather bindings. There was an antique desk the size of a pool table. Standing in front of it with his hands held behind his back was Cabot Huntington Wright.

Wright’s age was somewhere in his fifties. A leonine head was mounted on a pair of broad shoulders. His square-shaped torso hung straight down from those shoulders, presenting a solid, wall-like front. A superbly tailored summer-weight dark blue suit could not disguise the fact of his spindly legs, giving him a top-heavy appearance. His feet were small and narrow.

Lead-gray hair was brushed straight back from the forehead, giving his sleek hair the aspect of a metallic cap. His face was spade-shaped, with the hint of double chin. His upper lip sported a neatly clipped silver-gray mustache of the type that Jack associated with old- time bank presidents and district attorneys.

Wright was the director of the Masterman Trust, a philanthropic foundation with a billion in assets that were disbursed to a variety of do-good organizations, from cultural centers to soup kitchens. He was president of the executive committee in charge of holding the trust- funded Round Tables, and a multimillionaire in his own right.

He crossed to meet Jack and Armstrong as they entered. He said, “I am Cabot Wright.” His voice was deep, resonant—rich. Like him.

Jack said, “I know, I’ve seen your picture in the papers.” He said, “You must be Agent Bauer. Don Bass told me to expect you.” Anne Armstrong said, “Agent Bauer is on loan to us from the Los Angeles branch.” Wright said, “Glad to have you aboard. We can use all the help we can get.”

He and Jack shook hands. Wright’s palm was smooth, uncallused, but there was strength in his grip. Wright said, “Good to see you again, Ms. Armstrong.” He indicated the man in the tortoiseshell glasses, said, “This is Brad Oliver, my executive assistant.”

Brad Oliver had a thicket of oily, wavy black hair parted on the side, pale waxy skin, and a cleft chin. He made no move to shake hands. He said, “Hello.”

Wright said, “Please accept my apologies for keeping you waiting. Sky Mount is an absolute madhouse today, buzzing with activity. Everyone on my staff seems unable to do without an urgent last-minute consultation with me and they all want to see me at the same time.”

Anne Armstrong said, “That’s quite all right, Mr. Wright. We appreciate that you’re a busy man.”

Wright said, “I’m sure you’re busy too, with far greater responsibilities.” He gestured toward a group of club chairs facing his desk. “Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable.”

Jack and Armstrong seated themselves. Jack’s chair was straight- backed and thickly cushioned, so comfortable that he wouldn’t have minded having one in his living room at home.

Wright said, “May I offer you some refreshments?”

Jack said, “Thanks, but Ms. Clary has already seen to that.”

“Ah, one can always trust Marion to observe the amenities. She’s a pearl.”

“She certainly seems to know her Sky Mount.”

“She’s our ultimate authority. I go to her when I need to know any esoterica about the layout.” Wright went behind his desk and stood in front of his chair without sitting down. “Well. I understand you’ve got some updates for me this morning.”

Jack said, “Shouldn’t we wait for Don Bass?
That’ll save us from having to do a double briefing.”

Wright said, “Quite so. Oliver, go see what’s keeping Bass.”

“Yes, sir.” Oliver turned, exited via the double doors, closing them behind him.

Wright sat down. He picked up what looked like an antique letter opener from the desktop and toyed with it, weighing it in his hand. “Are you a history buff, Agent Bauer?”

“Some.”

“Then perhaps this should interest you. This letter opener was once the property of Marshal Fouché. Do you know of him?”

Jack nodded. “He was Napoleon’s spymaster.”

Wright smiled, pleased. “And before that the spy-master of the French Revolution. One of the greatest intelligence officers of all time. He survived both the Terror and the Empire, living to see Robespierre go to the guillotine and Bonaparte go into exile at St. Helena.”

He handed the letter opener to Jack. It was sharp-pointed and slim- bladed, as much dagger as letter opener. Wright said, “Imagine, if you will, the secret correspondences numbering in the hundreds, the thousands, all laid bare to Fouché’s inquisitive eye by that instrument; the missives of kings and queens, popes and generals, royalists and revolutionaries.”

“It’s a real collector’s item.” Jack handed it back to Wright. Wright said, “Perhaps you recall Fouché’s famous maxim: ‘The art of the police is in knowing what not to see.’ ”

“That might have served him well in the Napoleonic Empire, but it’s not so apt for today.
”

“
I’m keenly interested to know what you have seen.”

Oliver returned with Don Bass in tow. Bass headed the Brand Agency security presence at Sky Mount. He was middle- aged, beefy, with short, curly brown hair topping a head shaped like a cured ham. He had baggy spaniel eyes and a meatball nose; his face was jowly and his wide mouth turned down at the corners. He wore the standard outfit sported by plainclothes Brand operatives, a blue blazer with the company emblem blazoned on the left breast and khaki pants. Big feet were encased in extra-wide, thick- soled shoes. His blazer was rumpled and his pants needed creasing. He carried a dog-eared brown leather briefcase.

He knew Anne Armstrong; he and Jack were introduced. He pulled a club chair up to Wright’s desk and plopped himself down in it.

Brad Oliver hovered around the edges of the scene, notepad and pen in hand. Wright said, “That will be all for now, Oliver; you may go.”

“Yes, sir.” Oliver went out.

Wright said, “So. What are the latest developments in the Prewitt affair?”

Wright already knew about the abandonment of the Red Notch compound and the disappearance of the Zealots. Jack told of his and Neal’s night trip to the site; of the discovery of Lobo; of the shooting deaths of Lobo, Neal, and the rifleman; and of the rifleman’s partner’s getaway. Those were facts. He said nothing about Lobo’s tale of hog-faced demons and the green cloud. That was hearsay, and he didn’t want to whip up a storm of excitement and possible hysteria on an as yet unverified account, especially his suspicions that some kind of chemical weapons might have been used on the night of the vanishment. Time enough to open that can of worms if and when CTU forensics turned up actual evidence of such substances. He was keeping quiet until then to avoid stirring up a panic.

That went double for Chappelle’s SIU detecting the sinister short-selling pattern. That would stay secret until events necessitated otherwise, and he saw no sign of that need yet. The intelligence was an ace in the hole, a trump card that might precipitate the final denouement, and he would keep it well hidden up his sleeve in readiness for the showdown.

Jack finished his self-redacted account of the proceedings. That was the time for Anne Armstrong to speak up if she wanted to surface the possible CW involvement but she remained mum on the subject. If she was in on the secret intel about the recent shorting on the market, she kept it to herself.

Don Bass said, “How do you read it, Jack?”

“I think that the Zealots’ disappearing act was accompanied by violence. Maybe there was a schism in the sect, some doctrinal or procedural disagreement that led to a falling out between two or more factions.”

“Two or more?
How do you figure?”

“Notice the timing. It’s surely no coincidence that the disappearing act came on the eve of the Round Table. It’s possible that one faction of the Zealots was in favor of a violent action against the conference, another was against it, and a third was neutral, just sitting on the fence not wanting to take sides. Things came to a head and the disputants settled it with a Night of the Long Knives. It doesn’t necessarily follow that the pro-violence group took the initiative against the dissidents, but that’s the way to bet it. It’s not likely that the anti-violence bunch took action against the pro-violence crowd to forestall them. It’s possible, but not probable.”

Jack went on, “The violent ones did in some of the opposition, maybe all. That would have cowed the faint hearts and the fence-sitters. They all loaded up in the blue bus and whatever other vehicles they had, abandoned Red Notch, and went underground.”

Bass said, “What about the ATF agents, Dean and O’Hara?”

Jack said, “They were outside the compound keeping it under surveillance. They had to go to keep from spoiling the Zealots’ getaway. It’s possible that Zealot assassins took them by surprise and did them in. Dean and O’Hara were monitoring the cult, but nothing on the record shows they were expecting any rough stuff. Up to now, the only thing the Zealots have shot off are their mouths. The killers drove away with the ATF agents’ dead bodies in their own car and hid it wherever they hid the rest of the cadre, living or dead, and their blue bus.”

Don Bass nodded. “Makes sense.”

Cabot Wright said, “Where does this Lobo character fit in?”

Jack said, “Near as I can figure it, he was a homeless guy, a derelict who was living in the sandstone hills above the compound. He saw something on the night of the disappearance. What’s more, somebody saw him and sent a kill team to silence him. They didn’t know what if anything he told Neal and me so they decided to make a clean sweep.”

“They being from the violent faction of the Zealots.”

“Possibly.” Jack wasn’t so sure that that was the case, he had his doubts that the killers were Zealots at all. He even had an alternate theory of the case but for now he was keeping it to himself.

Anne Armstrong said, “We’re running a trace on Lobo to determine his true identity.
When we know that some more pieces of the puzzle might fit.”

Cabot Wright said, “But this is astounding! Where could the Zealots be hiding?”

Jack said, “This isn’t my home turf but from what little I’ve seen of the terrain around here, there’s a lot of places where two dozen people and a couple of vehicles could find a hole to hide in. Canyons, gorges, abandoned railway tunnels, ski lodges that’ve closed for the summer or gone out of business. The cult might not all be hiding in the same spot, either. They could have split up into cells and be hiding in a half-dozen spots, waiting for the go signal to greenlight whatever action they’re planning.”