Wild Fire (3 page)

Carl didn’t respond.

Harry reached into his pocket. “You can use my cell phone.”

Carl snapped, “Keep your hands where I can see them, and shut your fucking mouth.”

A cold chill ran down Harry Muller’s spine.

CHAPTER FOUR

H
arry Muller sat across a desk from a tall, thin, middle-aged man who had introduced himself as Bain Madox, president and owner of the Custer Hill Club. This, explained Mr. Madox, was not his day job, only a hobby. Bain Madox was also president and owner of Global Oil Corporation (GOCO for short), which Harry had heard of, and which also explained two of the photographs on the wall—one of an oil tanker and another of a burning oil field in some desert or another.

Madox noticed Harry’s interest in the photographs and said, “Kuwait. The Gulf War.” He added, “I hate to see good oil burning, especially if no one is paying me for it.”

Harry didn’t reply.

Mr. Madox was wearing a blue blazer and a loud plaid shirt. Harry Muller was wearing his thermal long johns. He’d been subjected to a humiliating strip search by Carl and two other security guards, who had cattle prods and promised to use them if he resisted. Carl and one of those two guys stood behind him now, cattle prods in hand. So far, there was no sign of the sheriff, and Harry didn’t think the sheriff was on the way.

Harry watched Bain Madox sitting quietly behind his big desk in the large pine-paneled office on the second floor of the lodge. Through the window to his right, he could see the rising slope behind the lodge, and at the top of the hill, he noticed the tall antenna he’d seen from the woods.

Mr. Madox asked his guest, “Would you like some coffee? Tea?”

“Fuck you.”

“Is that a no?”

“Fuck you.”

Bain Madox stared at Harry, and Harry stared back. Madox looked about sixty, Harry thought, very fit, unseasonably tanned, swept-back gray hair, a long, thin, hooked nose like an eagle’s with gray eyes to match. Harry also thought this guy looked rich, but not stupid rich. There was something about Madox that signaled strength, power, and intelligence. Command and control. And Madox didn’t seem one bit nervous about having abducted and detained a Federal agent. This was not good, Harry knew.

Madox took a cigarette from a wooden box on his desk and asked, “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“I don’t give a fuck if you burn. Call the sheriff. Now.”

Madox lit the cigarette with a silver desk lighter and puffed thoughtfully, then asked, “What brings you here, Detective Muller?”

“Bird-watching.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but that seems like a sissy hobby for a man involved in anti-terrorism.”

“You’re about one minute away from me placing you under arrest.”

“Well, then, let me use that minute wisely.” Madox examined the items strewn across the desk: Harry’s cell phone and pager, which were now shut off, his key chain, the Handycam, the Nikon digital camera, the binoculars, the Sibley bird guide, a terrain map of the area, the compass, the wire cutters, Harry’s credentials, and his 9mm Glock 26, the so-called Baby Glock that was easier to conceal. He noticed that Madox had removed the magazine, which was smart of him.

Madox asked Harry, “What am I to make of this?”

“Whatever the fuck you want to make of it, pal. Give me my shit, and let me the fuck out of here, or you’ll be looking at twenty years to life for kidnapping a Federal agent.”

Madox made a face, suggesting he was annoyed and impatient. “Come on, Mr. Muller. We’re well beyond that by now. We need to move forward.”

“Fuck you.”

Madox suggested, “Let
me
play detective. I see here a pair of binoculars, a small video camera, a very expensive digital camera with a telescopic lens, and a bird guide. From that, I can conclude that you are an enthusiastic bird-watcher. So enthusiastic, in fact, that you also have these wire cutters in the event a fence comes between you and a bird. Plus, a 9mm handgun in case a bird won’t stay still long enough for you to photograph it.” He asked Harry, “How am I doing?”

“Not too good.”

“Let me keep trying. I also see here a U.S. geological survey map on which is drawn in red the perimeter of my property, plus the gatehouse, and this lodge and other structures. This suggests to me that an aerial photograph was taken of my property, and these man-made features were transferred to your map. Correct?”

Harry didn’t answer.

Mr. Madox continued, “I also see here on my desk this badge and a card that identifies you as a retired New York City police detective. Congratulations.”

“Eat shit and die.”

“But what interests me most is this other badge and ID card that say you are a Federal agent with the Anti-Terrorist Task Force.
Not
retired.” He stared at the photo ID, then at Harry Muller and asked, “Working today?”

Harry decided to try the cover story one more time, just in case this guy wanted a reason to cut him loose. “Okay, let me tell you again what I told your paranoid rent-a-cops. I’m up here for the weekend camping. I watch and photograph birds. I’m also a Federal agent, and by law I have to carry my credentials and my piece. You shouldn’t put two and two together and come up with five. Understand?”

Madox nodded. “I do. But put yourself in my position. And I’ll put myself in yours. I’m Federal Agent Harry Muller, and I’m listening to a man who tells me that all the circumstantial evidence I see in front of me—evidence of surveillance—can be explained as bird-watching. So, do I let you go? Or do I demand a more logical and truthful explanation? What would
you
do in my position?”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over your loud shirt.”

Mr. Madox smiled, then opened the Sibley guide, put on his eyeglasses, and selected a page. He asked Harry, “Where are you most likely to encounter a loon, Mr. Muller?”

“Near a lake.”

“That was too easy.” He flipped a few pages. “What is the color of a cerulean warbler?”

“Brown.”

Mr. Madox shook his head. “No, no, Mr. Muller. Cerulean
means
blue. Sky blue. One more. Two out of three is passing.” He flipped through the book again. “What color is the male—?”

“Hey, take that book, put a coat of K-Y jelly on it, and shove it up your ass.”

Mr. Madox closed the guide and threw it aside. He turned to his computer screen. “Here are your digital photos. I don’t see any birds in them. I see, however, that you seem interested in one of my utility poles . . . and let’s see . . . here’s a telescopic shot of the tower behind my lodge . . . close-ups of my lodge . . . ah, there’s a bird perched on my roof. What is that?”

“A shit-seeking hawk.”

Madox picked up the Handycam, switched it to Replay, and looked through the viewfinder. “Here’s the pole again . . . you noticed the plastic boughs, I assume . . . here’s the lodge again . . . nice views from where you were standing . . . that bird is flying away. What was that? Looks like a great blue heron, but he should have migrated south by now. It’s been unusually warm this fall. Global warming, if you believe that crap.” He put down the camcorder and asked, “Do you know what the solution is to global warming? No? I’ll tell you. Nuclear winter.” He laughed. “Old joke.”

Madox sat back in his chair and lit another cigarette. He blew perfect smoke rings and watched them as they rose and dissolved. “That’s a lost art.”

Harry Muller glanced around the room as Bain Madox practiced his lost art. He could hear the breathing of the two men behind him as he shifted his gaze to a wall that was covered with framed certificates of some sort. Harry thought that if he could get a handle on who this guy was, it might be helpful.

Madox noticed Harry’s gaze and said, “The one on the top left is my certificate for the Silver Star. Next to it is the certificate for the Bronze Star, then the Purple Heart. Then there’s my commission as a second lieutenant in the United States Army. Next row are the usual service medals, including the Vietnam Campaign Medal and a Presidential Unit Citation. I served in the Seventh Cavalry Regiment of the First Air Cavalry Division. The Seventh Cav was General Custer’s old unit. That’s part of the reason for the name of this club. I might tell you the other part later, but if I do, then I’ll have to kill you.” He laughed. “Just joking. Hey,
smile
. Just joking.”

Harry forced a smile.
Asshole.

“The last row is the Combat Infantry Badge, my Expert Rifleman Badge, my Jungle Training School diploma, and, finally, my Army discharge. I left the service after eight years with the rank of lieutenant colonel. We made rank fast in those days. Lots of dead officers opened up the promotion list. Did you serve?”

“No.” Harry decided to play along. “I was too young, then they ended the draft.”

“Right. They should bring it back.”

“Absolutely,” Harry said. “They should draft women, too. They want equal rights, they should have equal responsibilities.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

Harry was on a roll and continued, “My son still had to register for the draft in case they ever bring it back. But my daughter didn’t. What’s that all about?”

“Precisely. You have a son and daughter?”

“Yeah.”

“Married?”

“Divorced,” Harry replied.

“Ah, me, too.”

“Women will drive you crazy,” Harry said.

“Only if you let them.”

“Well, we let them.”

Madox chuckled. “We do. Anyway, you’re here on surveillance for the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force. Why?”

“How long were you in Vietnam?”

Madox looked at Harry Muller for a few seconds, then replied, “Two tours of one year each, then a third tour that was cut short by an AK-47 round that missed my heart by an inch, nicked my right lung, and broke a rib on the way out.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

“I tell myself that every day. Each day is a gift. Have you ever been shot at?”

“Five times. Never got hit.”

“
You’re
lucky to be alive.” Madox stared at Harry. “It changes you. You’re never the same again. But it’s not necessarily for the worse.”

“I know. I’ve got friends who’ve been hit.” He thought of John Corey, but he was fairly sure that Corey was the same wiseass both before and after getting hit. He said, “Sometimes, I think I should have volunteered. Vietnam was over, but I could have still served. Maybe I would have caught the Grenada Invasion or something.”

“Well, don’t be hard on yourself. Most American men have never served. And to tell you the truth, war is a damned scary thing. And now we’re engaged in this war on terrorism, and you, Mr. Muller, are apparently on the front lines. Correct?”

“Uh . . . yeah.”

“And by terrorism, we generally mean Islamic terrorists. Correct?”

“Yeah . . . but—”

“So, are you looking for Islamic terrorists here? Can I help?”

Harry was forming a thought, but Mr. Madox went on, “If there’s anything I can do, Mr. Muller, just let me know. There’s no one who feels more strongly about winning the war on terrorism than I. How can I help?”

“Uh . . . well . . . here’s the thing. About five years ago, I was on this case of Irish Republican Army guys—terrorists—only about fifteen miles from here. They had a training camp.” Harry filled in Madox on the case and concluded, “We sent eight guys to Federal prison for terms ranging from three to twenty years.”

“Ah, yes. I remember that because it was so close to here.”

“Right. So, this is the same thing. We’re checking a lot of private preserves to see if there’s any suspicious activity involving the IRA. We’ve had intelligence reports that—”

“So, this has nothing to do with Islamic terrorists?”

“No. Not today. We’re doing IRA.”

“Seems like a waste of time and resources in light of 9/11.”

“Well, I think so, too. But we need to keep on top of everything and everybody.”

“I suppose.” Madox thought a moment, then asked, “So, you think the Custer Hill Club is . . . what? A training camp for the Irish Republican Army?”

“Well, the bosses had a tip about activity in this area, so I got picked to take a peek. You know, in case people were using your property without you knowing.”

“No one can enter my property without me knowing, as you just found out.”

“Yeah, I see that. I’ll report—”

“Certainly not people engaged in paramilitary training.”

“Yeah, I—”

“And that doesn’t explain why you were taking pictures of my
lodge
. You should be out in the woods looking for these IRA people.”

“Yeah. I got turned around.”

“You certainly did. The point is you
are
on surveillance.”

“Well, yeah. I need to check about a dozen properties in the area.”

“I see. So, I shouldn’t feel singularly honored?”

“Huh?”

“I shouldn’t feel picked on?”

“No. Just routine stuff.”

“That’s a relief. By the way, do you have any sort of government warrant for these activities?”

“I do . . . but not with me.”

“Aren’t you supposed to carry the warrant with you?” He waved his hand over the desk and said, “We didn’t find anything, even when we looked up your rectum.” Mr. Madox smiled.

“Hey, fuck
you
! Fuck
you
!” Harry stood. “You motherfucking scumbag piece of shit!”

“Excuse me?”

“Shove it up
your
ass. I’m walking the fuck out of here—” He reached for his things on Madox’s desk and an explosion of pain ripped through the right side of his body. He heard a crashing sound and a thump, then nothing.

He realized he was lying on the floor, and a cold sweat covered his body. His eyes were blurry, but he could see Carl standing over him, tapping the cattle prod into his palm as if to say, “You want another jolt?”

Harry tried to stand, but his legs were rubbery. The other guard got behind him, lifted him under his arms, and dropped him back into his chair.

Harry tried to steady his breathing and his quivering muscles. His eyes were still unfocused, and everything sounded tinny in his ears.

One of the guards gave him a plastic bottle of water, which he could barely hold.

Mr. Madox said, “It’s amazing what electricity can do to a person. And there’s almost no visible evidence. Where were we?”

Harry tried to say, “Fuck you,” but couldn’t get the words out.