Orchid Blues (30 page)

The explosion of a hundred and twenty gallons of aviation fuel knocked down a dozen FBI agents and Holly, too. She had struggled from the police car and, when she saw the agents running, she ran, but the blast lifted her off her feet and dumped her onto the grass. She rolled on her side and looked back at the fireball.

“Get out of that one, John,” she said, then she put her head on the grass and rested.

Daisy trotted over, careful to avoid the flames, and gave her a big kiss.

Sixty-two

HOLLY FOUND HAM SITTING UP IN BED, WATCHING the news on CNN. She couldn’t believe it.

“Why aren’t you in intensive care?” she demanded.

“Well, hi to you, too,” Ham said, switching off the TV.

“You’ve just had surgery.”

“Nope. The bullet missed pretty much everything important, and it removed itself through my shoulder. All they did was clean the wound and stitch it up and give me antibiotics and a tetanus shot. I wouldn’t let them put me to sleep, and I’ll be sore as hell when the local anesthetic wears off. They want me to spend the night in the hospital. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, will you tell me what the hell has happened in the past few hours?”

“As much as I know,” Holly replied, perching on the edge of his bed. “I chased John out to Opa-Locka and prevented his taking off in his airplane by the simple device of driving a police car into it.”

Ham laughed, then winced. “Don’t, don’t make me laugh.”

“Sorry. Then the airplane exploded, and John is toast.”

“Was it really the president in that car?”

“It was. Harry was too dumb to make an official request to find out, because he wanted the operation all for himself. He had me throw myself at a Secret Service guy to find out if the president was in town, and he told me no. He didn’t lie, because the president flew in this morning to make an officially unscheduled appearance at a Republican congressional gathering in the hotel across the street from where you were waiting. It was supposed to be a surprise, since Democratic presidents don’t usually show up at Republican gatherings. God only knows what the ramifications will be on relations between the FBI and the Secret Service. My guess is, everybody’s ass is covered, since Harry never made an official request and the Secret Service never told him anything. They’d better hope there’s never a congressional inquiry into all this. Tell me what happened in your hotel room.”

“I was set up, that’s what. I looked over at the hotel across the street and I saw another Barrett’s rifle pointed right at me. I guess they planned to burn some bridges and I was one of them. Anyway, I blew the shit out of the other hotel room, and when the Secret Service saw the explosion, they got the president the hell out of there in a hurry. Then you arrived, and your buddy shot me.”

“He wasn’t
my
buddy,” Holly said. “He just chased me down the boulevard and then into the hotel. I identified myself, but there wasn’t time to explain the whole situation to him, and when we broke into the room, he saw you holding the gun and fired. He was young and inexperienced, but I don’t think we can blame him, unless you’re hell-bent on suing the Miami Police Department.”

“Nah, I’ve already spent a couple of hours talking to them. What is Harry going to do about Lake Winachobee?”

“They’re raiding it as we speak, choppering FBI men in from all over the state. We should hear from Harry soon.”

“John told me there are three affiliated groups in Florida, and hundreds around the country. I hope they’ll find some records there that will lead them to the others.”

“I’d better call Harry about that right now,” Holly said, producing the scrambled cell phone. She tapped in the number and waited.

“Crisp,” Harry said. “Who’s bothering me?”

“It’s Holly.”

“What’s wrong?”

Silence.

“Where are you, Harry?”

“At the Lake Winachobee compound.”

“And?”

“And there’s nobody here.”

“They’re all gone?”

“All of them.”

“Ham has just told me that John says there are two other compounds in Florida and more around the country.”

“About three thousand members,” Ham said.

“Three thousand members nationally. Did you find any records there?”

“No, nothing, only a few empty ammunition boxes in what was, apparently, an armory. The place has been stripped, our smoke detector bug is in tiny pieces and I can’t figure out how they did it all so fast.”

“They’re all gone?” Ham asked.

“Yes.”

He held out a hand. “Let me speak to Harry.”

“Ham wants to speak to you.” She handed him the phone.

“Harry?”

“Ham, are you okay? Is it bad?”

“Like a hangnail, nothing more. Listen, John told me there were groups in Tampa and Fort Lauderdale, as well as Winachobee, and others in something like twenty states. Is there nothing there that would tell you where they are?”

“Not so far,” Harry said. “Of course, we’ve got to work this place like a crime scene, so we might come up with something. Telephone records ought to help. What I can’t figure is, how did they get out so fast? We were here in no time.”

“I think I know,” Ham said.

“Tell me.”

“After we took off from Winachobee for Opa-Locka, John made a phone call from the airplane, and he was on the phone for several minutes. I think he arranged our transfer to another van in Miami, and he must have given some orders about Winachobee, too.”

“I can check that phone record, too. What kind of phone was it?”

“Looked like an ordinary cell phone, mounted on the pilot’s yoke, but he kept his headset on when he was using it, and he flipped a switch that cut me out, so I couldn’t hear what he said. If he gave orders about Winachobee, then they would have had, what, fifteen, eighteen hours to get out?”

“You could be right. When are they letting you out of the hospital?”

“Tomorrow. I plan to jog all the way home. And there’s something else.”

“What?”

“I believe John used that phone call to arrange more than the switch of vans. He used it to set up Peck Rawlings, too. Apparently, John thought Peck was working for you. You can find what’s left of him in a ditch near a swamp, somewhere west of Miami, with two bullets in him.”

“That’s interesting,” Harry said. “When you get back, I want you to come out here and walk us through Winachobee, show us what you know about it.”

“Sure, glad to.”

“Let me speak to Holly.”

Ham handed her the phone.

“Hi.”

“When you talked to Chip Beckham, did you tell him anything at all about our operation?”

“Nothing. I asked him straight out if the president was in town, and he said no. I guess he wasn’t at the time.”

“Yeah. Listen, a lot of shit is going to fall from the sky the next few days, and I need you to not talk to anybody about it until you and I have a chance to sit down and talk.”

“Harry, it’s like this,” Holly said. “You may have screwed up big-time by not calling in the Secret Service on this, but I’m not looking to tell anybody that. I’ll refer all questions to you.”

“That’s all I ask.”

“But Harry, if some of your shit starts to fall on me, and I get braced for a lot of questions by some authority or other, I’m not going to stonewall them, and I’m not going to take the fifth. You’d better understand that.”

“I understand, Holly, and I appreciate your help.”

“Let’s get this straight, Harry. I’m not helping, I’m just not hurting you if I can help it. Frankly, I don’t know why the Secret Service isn’t already here, talking to Ham. What I’m going to tell them when they come, and they will, is that I asked Chip if the president was in town, and he said no. I hope that will cover both your ass and Chip’s, but if it doesn’t, there’s nothing I can do to save it. Are we perfectly clear on that?”

“Perfectly. I couldn’t ask for more.”

“One final thing, Harry: You and I are pretty good friends, so I’m sorry to have to say this, but I’d better get it up front. If I begin to get the feeling from the questions I’m asked by whoever that blame is starting to fall on either Ham or me, then I’m going to protect us.”

“I understand, Holly, and you didn’t have to say that.”

“Good. We’ll be home tomorrow. Call me if there’s something I ought to know.” She closed the telephone.

“If you hadn’t told him that, I was going to,” Ham said.

“You get some rest, old man.”

“One more thing,” Ham said.

“What?”

“John owned up to the robbery and Jackson’s death. Peck planned it, and one of his people panicked and shot Jackson.”

“Oh,” Holly said. She suddenly had a hollow feeling in her chest. “I hope Jackson knows we got these people.”

“If it helps, they offed the guy who shot him. Oh, and the two people in the submerged van? The guy, Frank, was put in the bank by John, and they put the couple in the river when they tried to run with some money.”

“Well,” Holly said, “that ties up a few loose ends.”

“So what do we do now? Wait for the Secret Service to show and ask us questions for twelve hours?”

“I guess.”

“I’ve got a better idea. I think my pants are in that closet over there.”

“Ham, you can’t do it. You’ve got to spend the night here.”

“I told you, girl, I’ve been shot before. I know when it’s bad, and this isn’t bad.”

Holly went to the closet to get Ham’s clothes. His bag was there, too.

“Oh,” Ham said, “how are we getting home?”

Holly went to the phone. “I’ll rent a limo, and we’ll charge Harry for it.” She gave Daisy a pat. “Daisy’s never ridden in a limo.”

“That’s my girl,” Ham said, putting on his pants. “And don’t call me old man.”

Acknowledgments

I WANT TO EXPRESS MY GRATITUDE TO MY EDITOR, David Highfill, and my publisher, Phyllis Grann, for their continuing care and contributions to my work.

My agents, Morton Janklow and Anne Sibbald, and all the people at Janklow & Nesbit, continue to manage my career, always with excellent results, and they, as ever, have my gratitude.

My wife, Chris, is my first and most critical reader, and I thank her for her strong opinions and her love.

Author’s Note

I AM HAPPY TO HEAR FROM READERS, BUT YOU should know that if you write to me in care of my publisher, three to six months will pass before I receive your letter, and when it finally arrives it will be one among many, and I will not be able to reply.

However, if you have access to the Internet, you may visit my Web site at
www.stuartwoods.com
, where there is a button for sending me e-mail. So far, I have been able to reply to all of my e-mail, and I will continue to try to do so.

If you send me an e-mail and do not receive a reply, it is because you are one among an alarming number of people who have entered their e-mail return address incorrectly in their mail software. I have many of my replies returned as undeliverable.

Remember: e-mail, reply; snail mail, no reply.

When you e-mail me, please do not send attachments, as I
never
open these. They can take twenty minutes to download, and they often contain viruses.

Please do not place me on your mailing list for funny stories, prayers, political causes, charitable fund-raising, petitions, or sentimental claptrap. I get enough of that from people I already know. Generally speaking, when I get e-mail addressed to a large number of people, I immediately delete it without reading it.

Please do not send me your ideas for a book, as I have a policy of writing only what I myself invent. If you send me story ideas, I will immediately delete them without reading them. If you have a good idea for a book, write it yourself, but I will not be able to advise you on how to get it published. Buy a copy of
Writer’s Market
at any bookstore; that will tell you how.

Anyone with a request concerning events or appearances may e-mail it to me or send it to: Publicity Department, G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

Those ambitious folk who wish to buy film, dramatic, or television rights to my books should contact Matthew Snyder, Creative Artists Agency, 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills, CA 90212-1825.

Those who wish to conduct business of a more literary nature should contact Anne Sibbald, Janklow & Nesbit, 445 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10022.

If you want to know if I will be signing books in your city, please visit my Web site,
www.stuart-woods.com
, where the tour schedule will be published a month or so in advance. If you wish me to do a book signing in your locality, ask your favorite bookseller to contact his Putnam representative or the G. P. Putnam’s Sons Publicity Department with the request.

If you find typographical or editorial errors in my book and feel an irresistible urge to tell someone, please wire to David Highfill at Putnam, address above. Do not e-mail your discoveries to me, as I will already have learned about them from others.

A list of all my published works appears in the front of this book. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the online bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.

Please turn the page for a preview
of Stuart Woods’s

BLOOD ORCHID

Available from Signet

SARA TENNANT ARRIVED AT HER OFFICE BUILDING in downtown Miami promptly at seven forty-five a.m. as was her habit. She needed only to park her car and use the private elevator to the penthouse suite of Jimenez Properties; she would be at her desk in the little office next to that of her boss, Manuel Jimenez, when he arrived, promptly at eight o’clock, as was his habit.

As she parked her new Toyota Avalon in the reserved space, next to that of her boss, she was surprised and not a little annoyed to see that his Mercedes was already in its spot. She was going to have to start coming in earlier, she thought; she couldn’t have Manny getting there before she did.