Carrion Comfort (86 page)

R
ichard Haines arrived in time to see smoke just beginning to rise from the Israeli safe house. He turned left onto the farm lane and led the caravan of three cars toward the house at high speed. Flames were visible in first-floor windows as Haines skidded the government Pontiac to a stop and ran to the front porch. He shielded his face with his forearm, peered into the living room, tried to go in, but was driven back by the heat. “Shit!” He directed three men around back and four others to search the barn and other outbuildings.

The house was fully engaged as Haines stepped back off the porch and walked thirty paces to the car.

“Shall I call it in?” asked the agent holding the radio. “Yes, you might as well,” said Haines. “But by the time anyone gets here, this place will be gone.” Haines walked to one side and watched the flames appear in the second-floor windows.

An agent in a dark summer suit came running up, pistol in his hand. He was panting slightly. “Nothing in the barn or shed or chicken coop, sir. Just one pig wandering around in the backyard.”

“In the backyard?” said Haines. “You mean in a pen?”

“No, sir. He’s just sort of walking around free. The gate to the pen was wide open.”

Haines nodded and watched as the fire began to work at the roof of the house. The three cars in front had backed up farther from the flames and men milled around with their hands on their hips. Haines went to the first car and spoke to the man sitting by the radio. “Peter, what’s the name of that county mountie who’s heading up the search for the gas station kid?”

“Nesbitt, sir. Sheriff Nesbitt out of El Toro.”

“They’re up east of here, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir. They think the kid and his friend went backpacking up Travuco Canyon. They’ve got the Forest Ser vice people out hunting and . . .”

“Are they still using that he li cop ter?”

“Yes, sir. I heard it check in awhile ago. It’s not just doing the search, though. There’s a fire up in the Cleveland National Forest and . . .”

“Find the right frequency and get Nesbitt for me,” ordered Haines. “Then patch me into wherever the closest CHP headquarters is.”

The first fire engine was arriving when the agent handed Haines the radio microphone. “Sheriff Nesbitt?” said Haines.

“Affirmative. Who’s this?”

“This is Special Agent Richard Haines, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m the one who authorized the search you’re conducting for the Gomez boy. Something more important has come up and we need your help. Over.”

“Go ahead. I’m listening. Over.”

“I’m putting an all points bulletin out on a dark, 1976 to ’78 Ford Econoline van,” said Haines. “Occupant or occupants are wanted for arson and murder. They may have just left this location at . . . ah . . . twelve point two miles up San Juan Canyon. We don’t know if they went east or west, but our guess is east. Can you set up roadblocks on Highway seventy-four east of our location? Over.”

“Who’s picking up the tab on all of this? Over.”

Haines gripped the microphone hard. Behind him, parts of the farmhouse roof fell in and flames licked at the sky. Another fire engine roared to a stop and men began uncoiling heavy hoses. “This is a matter of national security and great urgency,” he shouted. “The Federal Bureau of Investigation formally requests local assistance in this matter. Now can you set up roadblocks? Over.”

There was a long pause as static rasped. Then Nesbitt’s voice came through. “Agent Haines? I’ve got two deputy cars east of you on seventy-four. We were checking out the Blue Jay Campground and some trailheads up there. I’ll have Deputy Byers establish a roadblock on the main road up there right at the county line west of Lake Elsinore. Over.”

“Good,” said Haines. “Are there any other roads branching off before there? Over.”

“Negative,” said Nesbitt. “Just national forest access roads. I’ll have Dusty take the second unit and block those where they intersect. We’ll need a better description of the vehicle’s occupants unless you just want us to arrest the Econoline. Over.”

Haines squinted toward the flames as the front of the farm house fell inward. The thin streams of water from the four hoses were making no difference. Haines thumbed the microphone. “We’re not sure of the number or description of suspects,” said Haines. “Possibly a Caucasian male, seventy years old, German accent, white hair . . . accompanied by a Negro male, thirty-two, six feet one inch tall, two hundred pounds, and/or a white male, twenty-eight, blond hair, five feet eleven inches tall. These men are armed and extremely dangerous. However, the van may be driven by others at this time. Locate and stop the
van.
Take great caution in approaching any of the vehicle’s occupants. Over.”

“You copy that, Byers?”

“Roger.”

“Dusty?”

“Affirmative, Carl.”

“Okay, Special Agent Haines. You got your roadblocks. Anything else? Over.”

“Yes, Sheriff. Is your search helicopter still airborne? Over.”

“Ah . . . yeah, Steve’s just finishing his search up around Santiago Peak. Steve, you hearing this? Over.”

“Yes, Carl, I’ve been listening. Over.”

“Haines, you want our chopper, too? He’s on special contract to the Forest Ser vice and us right now. Over.”

“Steve,” said Haines, “as of this moment you are under contract to the United States government on a matter of national security. Do you copy? Over.”

“Yeah,” came the laconic reply, “thought the Forest Ser vice
was
U.S. government. Where do you want me? I just fueled up, so I have about three hours of flying time at this altitude. Over.”

“What is your present location? Over.”

“Ah . . . moving south between Santiago and Trabuci Peaks. About eight miles from your position. Do you want map coordinates? Over.”

“Negative,” said Haines. “I want you to pick me up here. Farm house on the north side of San Juan Canyon, about five miles above Mission Viejo. Can you find the place? Over.”

“Are you kidding?” said the helicopter pilot. “I can see the smoke from here. Hell of an LZ you feds prepare. Be there in two minutes. NL 167-B. Out.”

Haines unlocked the trunk of the Pontiac. A passing fireman looked at the clutter of M-16s, shotguns, sniper rifles, flack vests, and ammo clips and whistled. “Holy shit,” he said to no one in particular.

Haines extracted an M-16, tapped a magazine against the rim of the trunk to settle the loads, and slapped the clip in. He took off his suit coat, folded it carefully, set it in the trunk, and pulled on a flak vest, loading the oversize pockets with extra clips. He pulled a blue baseball cap from atop the spare tire and tugged it on. The agent at the radio called to him. “I have the CHP commander on line, sir.”

“Give him the same information for the APB,” said Haines. “See if he can extend it from Orange County to all the highway cops.”

“Roadblocks, sir?”

Haines stared at the young agent. “On Interstate five, Tyler? Are you as stupid as that remark suggests, or just prone to lapses? Tell him we want the bulletin put out on that Econoline. Officers should get tag numbers, carry out surveillance, and get in touch with me through the Bureau’s L.A. communications center.”

Agent Barry Metcalfe of the L.A. branch came up to Haines. “Dick, I confess I don’t understand any of this. What’re a bunch of Libyan terrorists doing using an Israeli safe house and why did they torch it?”

“Who said they were Libyan terrorists, Barry?”

“Well . . . you said in the briefing that they were Mideast terrorists . . .”

“Haven’t you ever heard of Israeli terrorists?”

Metcalfe blinked and said nothing. Behind him, the front of the farmhouse collapsed inward, sending sparks flying. The firefighters contented themselves with pouring water onto the nearby outbuildings. A small, Plexiglas-bubbled Bell helicopter throbbed in from the northeast, circled once, and set down in the field south of the house. Metcalfe said, “Want me to come with you?”

Haines gestured at the he li cop ter. “Looks like there’s just room for one passenger in that old thing, Barry.”

“Yeah, it does look like something out of
M*A*S*H
.”

“Hold down the fort here. When they get the fire out, we’re going to have to sift through the ashes with a fine-tooth comb. There may even be bodies in there.”

“Oh, boy,” Metcalfe said without enthusiasm and walked toward his men.

As Haines jogged toward the he li cop ter, the man known as Swanson approached. He was the oldest of the six Kepler’s Plumbers Haines had brought along. He gave the FBI man a quizzical look.

“It’s all a long shot,” Haines shouted over the noise of the rotors, “but I have a hunch that this is Willi’s operation. Probably not the old man himself but maybe Luhar or Reynolds. If I can flush them, kill them.”

“What about the paperwork?” said Swanson, nodding toward Metcalfe and his group.

“I’ll take care of it,” said Haines. “Just do the job.” Swanson’s head went slowly up and down.

Haines was barely airborne, the small chopper spiraling upward through the smoke from the burning house, when the first radio report came in.

“Ah, this is Deputy Byers in Unit Three at the seventy-four east roadblock to Agent Haines. Over.”

“Go ahead, Byers.” The mountainous countryside was rising under the he li cop ter, the canyon road winding through it like a pale gray ribbon. Traffic was light.

“Ah, Mr. Haines, this may not be anything, but I think a few minutes ago I saw a dark van . . . may have been a Ford . . . make a U-turn about two hundred yards from my position. Over.”

“Which way is it headed now? Over.”

“Coming your way, sir, back down seventy-four. Unless it takes one of the forest roads. Over.”

“Could it get around you on those roads? Over.”

“Negative, Mr. Haines. They all either dead end or turn into goat trails except for the Forest Ser vice fire road that Dusty’s on. Over.”

Haines turned to the pilot, a short, heavyset man in an L.A. Dodgers windbreaker and Cleveland Indians baseball cap. “Steve, can you get Dusty on here?”

“He fades in and out,” the pilot said over the intercom. “Depends on which side of the hill he’s on.”

“I want him on the line,” Haines said and watched the countryside flash by three hundred feet below. Scrub brush and piñon pines flickered past in a blur of light and shadow. Larger pines and cottonwood trees lined the dried creek beds and lower areas. Haines estimated that there was an hour and a half of daylight remaining.

They reached the summit of the pass and the helicopter gained altitude and circled. Haines could see the blue haze of the Pacific to the west and the orange-brown haze of the smog above Los Angeles to the northwest. “Roadblock’s just over the hill here,” said the pilot. “I didn’t see any dark van on the highway. Want to go south toward Dusty’s area?”

“Yes,” said Haines. “Have you got him yet?”

“He hasn’t been answering his . . . oops, here he is.” He threw a switch on the console. “On two-five, Mr. Haines.”

“Deputy? This is Special Agent Haines. Do you copy? Over.”

“Ah . . . yes, sir. Read you five-by. Uh . . . I’ve got something you might want to look at here, Mr. Haines. Over.”

“What’s that, Deputy?”

“Ah . . . dark blue 1978 Ford van . . . Uh . . . I was driving up to get closer to the hard road and found it abandoned here. Over.”

Haines touched his headphone mike and grinned. “Anyone in it? Over.”

“Ah . . . negative. Bunch of stuff in the back though. Over.”

“Goddamn it, Deputy, be specific. What kind of stuff?”

“Electronic stuff, sir. Not sure. You better come and take a look yourself. Uh . . . I’m going to check out the woods . . .”

“Negative, Deputy,” snapped Haines. “Secure the van and sit tight. What are your coordinates? Over.”

“Coordinates? Uh . . . tell Steve that I’m half a mile down the main fire road from Coot Lake. Over.”

Haines looked at the pilot. Steve nodded. “Roger,” said Haines. “Just stay there, Deputy. Keep your revolver ready and stay alert. These are international terrorists we’re dealing with.” The helicopter banked steeply to the right and dropped toward wooded hillsides. “Taylor, Metcalfe, you getting this?”

“Roger, Dick,” came Metcalfe’s voice. “We’re ready to roll.”

“Negative that,” said Haines. “Stay at the farm house. Repeat, stay at the farm house. I want Swanson and his men to meet me at the van. Got that?”

“Swanson?” Metcalfe’s voice sounded puzzled. “Dick, this is our jurisdiction . . .”

“I want
Swanson
,” snapped Haines. “Don’t make me repeat myself. Over.”

“Richard, we copy that and we’re on our way,” came Swanson’s voice. Haines leaned out the open door as they flew six hundred feet above Coot Lake and dropped into a small valley. He cradled the M-16 and smiled. He was pleased that he was going to make Mr. Barent happy, and he was looking forward to the next few minutes. He knew now that it almost certainly was not Willi himself . . . the old man would have Used the deputy and gone past the roadblock rather than abandon the van . . . but whoever it was, they had lost the ballgame. There were many hundreds of square miles of national forest up here, but once Willi’s people had to set out on foot, it was all over but the shouting. Haines had almost unlimited resources at his disposal and the “forest” was mostly shrub.

But Haines did not want to use unlimited resources or to wait for morning to conduct a search. He wanted to end this part of the game before it got dark.

It might not be Luhar or Reynolds
, thought Haines. Probably isn’t. It could be the black woman Willi had used in Germantown. She’d dropped from sight completely. It might even be Tony Harod.

Haines remembered the questioning of Maria Chen the previous evening and he smiled. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made that it could be Harod. Well, it was past time that they quit humoring that little Hollywood twerp.

Richard Haines had worked for Charles Colben and C. Arnold Barent for more than a third of his life. As a Neutral he could not be conditioned by Colben, but he had been well rewarded with money and power. Richard Haines found the work itself rewarding. He liked his job.