Prey (8 page)

Henry Lightstone smiled.

"So what do you think?" he asked, making an effort to sound disappointed. "Call Alex and try to reschedule?"

"No, don't do that yet," McNulty said. "I think you're right. If you back away now, you'd probably lose him. Give me a few minutes. I'll call you back shortly."

McNulty would arrange it, no problem, Lightstone knew. It was McNulty who had registered Lightstone into the federal government's Criminal Investigator's School and Special Agent Basic as a U.S. Custom's agent trainee. Sixteen long weeks in Glynco, Georgia, had taught Lightstone how federal officers enforced federal laws, handcuffed suspects and read them their rights (as he expected, pretty much the same as every other state and local cop).

Along about week fifteen, it occurred to Lightstone that he had learned almost nothing about fish or wildlife.

"Look at it this way," McNulty had suggested. "You'd know a duck if you saw one, wouldn't you? Let's say it's four o'clock in the morning and you're in a swamp, maybe waist- deep in water, and you're sneaking up on a couple of guys sitting in a duck blind."

"Yeah, what are they doing, selling coke?"

"No, just sitting there in the blind, wrapped up in blankets, drinking coffee, and waiting for daylight so they can start killing ducks."

"And I'm standing in waist-deep water, freezing my nuts off and watching these assholes drink
coffee
? Am I out of my mind?" Lightstone had asked, incredulous.

"No, you're a federal agent of the United States Fish and Wildlife Service, and you're looking to nail these guys for multiple violations of the Migratory Bird Treaty Act."

"So what is it, a capital offense to shoot a duck at sunrise?"

McNulty shook his head. "Actually, a misdemeanor, but only if they go over the limit. Which you won't be able to prove unless you count the number of ducks they shoot. So what you're going to have to do is stay out there in the swamp until, oh, I'd say until about eight or nine in the morning, ideally behind some cover, and count drops."

"Drops, as in dropping ducks?"

McNulty nodded. "And while you're doing that, you're going to be keeping detailed notes on the approximate location where each duck falls, the time, the sex, the species involved . . . and on the apparent hunter."

"With my waterproof pen and paper," Lightstone had smiled agreeably.

"Which reminds me," McNulty had added as Lightstone's amused smile turned to laughter. "Assuming that you've searched all around the swamp in about a fifty-yard radius, and all through the blind, and you haven't been bitten by a snake or an alligator, and you haven't found anything that looks like a duck, what else are you going to be looking for in the way of evidence?"

At that point, Henry Lightstone had stopped laughing because it suddenly occurred to him that his supervisor might be dead serious.

"I don't know," he'd shrugged. "Feathers? Duck shit?"

"Okay. And what are you going to do if you can't find any feathers or duck shit anywhere around the area?" McNulty pressed.

"Then I'm probably going to figure that the stupid sons of bitches haven't the slightest idea of what a duck looks like either," Lightstone had replied with unrestrained sarcasm.

"There you go." McNulty had shrugged in apparent satisfaction. "Sounds to me like you've got the basics down just fine. I'll have Mike send down a couple of ID books with pictures, get you a little better oriented to the critters. In the meantime, you just make sure you pass those final exams and get that badge. It's about time you started earning your keep around here."

Those last words spoken by McNulty three months ago still echoed in Henry Lightstone's mind.

It was those words, and pride, and a strong personal conviction that he really
did
need to earn his keep—by taking on homicidal idiots like Alex Chareaux and his brothers, even if it meant getting into a goddamned flimsy airplane—that kept Henry Lightstone waiting on the phone.

Ten minutes later, McNulty was back.

"I've got the man you need, close by with a plane all fueled up and ready to go. Name is Len Ruebottom. Nice fellow, family man, hell of a pilot."

"Ruebottom? Is he one of us?" Lightstone asked. "Name's not familiar."
 

But that didn't necessarily mean anything, Lightstone knew, because during the entire six months that he'd been employed by the federal government, the only Fish and Wildlife Service agents that he had ever met face-to-face were the members of McNulty's Special Operations team.

Paul McNulty seemed to want it that way.

"No, he's actually one of the new agent-pilots," McNulty said. "I made arrangements to borrow him from the Portland regional office for a while. Plane and pilot are ours for as long as we want them, long as I pay all the expenses."

"You're sure the guy's to be trusted?"

"Halahan will make sure Ruebottom keeps a lid on. Unfortunately, he's still green when it comes to investigative work. Tends to want to do everything by the book, which is probably why he's so good at keeping airplanes up in the air."

"Have I ever mentioned to you that I hate to fly?" Lightstone asked.

"You'll get over it. Have to if you're going to stay in this outfit. Think you can handle Ruebottom?"

"Do I have any choice?"

"I could always send you to flight school," McNulty shrugged.

"Ruebottom sounds like one hell of a guy," Lightstone said quietly. "We'll get along just fine."

Chapter Seven

As intended, the conference table was the immediate focus of attention for anyone who stepped into the huge, log-walled meeting room of Whitehorse Cabin.

The slabs for the large, six-sided table had been cut from a two-hundred-year-old sequoia redwood. The rough-cut boards had been trucked to a pair of master carpenters in Bend, Oregon, who had spent six months carefully measuring, planing, joining, and then finally hand-finishing the six individual pieces so that they formed a virtually seamless hexagonal surface precisely thirteen meters between any two opposite corners.

To Dr. Reston Wolfe, executive director of ICER, the table represented image
and
substance. It had cost the financial backers of ICER a bundle, but as far as Wolfe was concerned, it was worth every penny.

Sitting alert at the designated head of the table, Wolfe scanned the huge conference room, savoring the massive rock fireplace, the six-by-eighteen-inch support beams, the overstuffed chairs, and the original artwork on the log walls. Thoroughly satisfied, he waited while two members of his carefully screened staff finished clearing away the plates and silverware.

A thick stack of sealed folders and envelopes was set before each of the guests. It was only after the doors were quietly pulled closed behind the two staffers that Wolfe's gaze shifted to the thirteen men and women seated around the huge table.

"I hope the breakfast was to your satisfaction."

There were polite murmurs of approval. Wolfe had expected no less, since the iced king crab and fresh shrimp for the omelets had been flown in fresh from Anchorage and New Orleans that morning.

"In that case," he said with quiet firmness, "we will return to business." He noted that the three groups continued to sit apart. In the middle, the Germans—Maas, Günter Aben, Felix Steinhauser, and Carine Mueller; to the left, the Japanese—Asai, Kiro Nakamura, Shoshin Watanabe, and Kimiko Osan; and to the right, the Americans—Paul Saltmann, Arturo Bolin, Roy Parker, and Corrie James.

They didn't trust each other yet, Wolfe realized, knowing that
that
would have to change before he and Abercombie sent them out on a mission, where there could be no room for failure. It would be up to Maas, the assault-group leader, and his two primary assistants Asai and Saltmann, to forge the necessary links. And they would have to hurry, he reminded himself, because there wasn't much time.

"We spent the better part of yesterday providing you with some of the tools necessary for you to carry out your mission," Wolfe began, comfortable in his role as project director. "Clothing, cash, credit cards, as well as the means to access houses, land vehicles, air transportation, and virtually any other resource you might need."

Wolfe paused for effect.

"Later on this evening, we will distribute a wide range of firearms and other weapons for your use."

As Wolfe fully expected, the topic of weaponry drew the complete attention of everyone in the room.

"I realize that given a choice, you would prefer weapons with which you are intimately familiar. I certainly understand your reasoning. But here I must emphasize a crucial element of our operational planning.

"As far as we are concerned," Wolfe said as he looked around the room, "all weapons used in Operation Counter Wrench are disposable. In the event that it ever becomes necessary for one of you to use
any
weapon against
any
opponent in the field-—and by this I mean not only firearms, but also knives, arrows, clubs, darts, et cetera—that weapon is to be wiped down for fingerprints and then destroyed or discarded at the first opportunity. The same goes for any related ammunition, magazines, and expended casings to the extent possible and practical. This is the only way we can be sure that a projectile, an explosive, or an injury cannot be traced back to our operation.

"For reasons that I hope are obvious," Wolfe placed the palms of his hands on the table for emphasis
, "that must not happen with Operation Counter Wrench."

Knowing the background of some of the group members, Wolfe had expected some sort of negative reaction to this announcement, but all he received were a few silent nods of approval.

"Because of this policy, we have not only stockpiled several dozen replacement weapons for each of you, but we have also made certain that the make, model, and manufacture of these weapons vary considerably. Here again, we are making a determined effort to avoid patterns that law-enforcement investigators traditionally use to link suspects to victims or crime scenes.

"To aid you in familiarizing yourself with these weapons," he went on, "you will be given full and unrestricted access to the state-of-the-art training facilities we have constructed on the Whitehorse Cabin grounds. These facilities include underground firing ranges, combat simulators, advanced robotics. The staff we have hired to design, equip, and run this facility is the absolute best."

That
comment caused considerable murmuring among the ICER assault group members.

"You will be given access to your weapons and some of the automated firing ranges beginning this evening," Wolfe said. "Meanwhile, it is now time to explain to you exactly what the mission of Operation Counter Wrench is, and what we expect from each of you."

In spite of Lisa Abercombie's political connections and the extensive technical and military skills possessed by the other individuals sitting around the table, at this moment Dr. Reston Wolfe truly felt that
he
was the one in charge, and he liked that feeling.

He could also feel Lisa Abercombie's eyes on him from the far back of the room, and he liked that, too.

"Your specific assignments," he said, his confidence growing with every passing moment, "are described in detail in the sealed folders before you. I want you to read them carefully. But not now."

Wolfe was pleased to note that not one of the twelve assault group members had reached for his stack of folders and envelopes. Instead, each watched him with a quiet and easy patience that suggested a strong sense of discipline and training. He liked to think of himself as a leader of such men.

"There will be time to read this material this afternoon and this evening," he went on, "and we will discuss it at great length tomorrow afternoon. I have a few other matters to address at this time.

"First, as you know, you are all posing as highly specialized biologists. You have been given the necessary background materials, passports and visas, and should have no trouble in maintaining your specific identity. If you are
ever
queried about your work, please remember that you need only respond in meaningless generalities. You are working on a government project that has certain biological sensitivities, none of which you are free to discuss. I might add that a little bit of bureaucratic arrogance—but not too much—is always a nice touch.

"Which brings us to your real work." Wolfe paused to look at each of the twelve faces.

"To begin, I would simply remind you that you were selected for Operation Counter Wrench on the basis of your technical expertise and previous experience, with specific emphasis on your military skills. We have considered these skills very carefully in making the team assignments, which, as I said, are in the folders before you.

"The basic plan is for ICER to operate as an assault group made up of three teams, each team being comprised of one German, one Japanese, and one American. While we may need to vary the team composition from time to time, the German member of each team will always function as the team leader. Accordingly, they will report to Mr. Maas, the assault-group leader, who in turn will report to me."