“Are we sending more assets into the region?” the President asked.
“It's not recommended at this time, sir.”
“What are we waiting for?” Secor asked.
“For someone to start shooting. Nothing else we can do,” Murphy replied. “Which brings me to the third pointâthe civil situation in Tokyo and Yokosuka. The riots are continuing to grow, Mr. President.”
“Who's behind it?”
“An organization calling itself Rising Sun,” Murphy said. “There is an addendum report on the group in your briefing folder. It appears to be an offshoot of the old Red Army faction. I think it would be a good idea to discuss it with Prime Minister Enchi tomorrow.”
“I'm turning it over to the Vice President.”
“Sir?”
“I've decided to send Larry tomorrow. I'll go over Wednesday as previously scheduled.”
“Is there anything I should know about, Mr. President?” Murphy asked.
“No. But keep your eyes open, General. I want briefings from you personally every day until then.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to go over this material with Larry. Can you do that this morning?”
“Will do, Mr. President.”
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On schedule, Mueller called Reid, who was waiting at a public telephone in the Grand Hyatt at Washington Center. He phoned from Lafayette Square across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House. “Everything is ready.”
“You've disposed of the big trouble?” Reid asked.
“Yes, and the three small packages. It happens tomorrow at three. In the meantime I am still waiting for the second deposit to my account.”
“It's on its way. Don't be impatient.”
“Very well.”
“If we push the button now I won't have to invent any excuse for tomorrow ⦔ Reid said.
Mueller hung up without responding.
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Chief Investigating Officer John Whitman had known that finding a man of McGarvey's caliber and experience would be difficult. But apparently he'd been tipped off and had gone to ground. Despite their best efforts the man had not turned up. Guerin was no longer cooperating, although secretly Whitman couldn't blame anyone. The Bureau had turned down its request for help. The police in Portland and in D.C. were coming up empty-handed, and the college where he'd taught until a few weeks ago hadn't heard from him either. His apartment in Milford was staked out, although Whitman personally thought it was a waste of time and manpower. Even if McGarvey did return there he would almost certainly spot the surveillance team, and they'd have trouble on their hands. That was another problem. When they did
finally find him, making an arrest would not be easy. If McGarvey chose not to cooperate or, as Carrara had warned, if he were taken by surprise, there would be casualties. Whitman had read parts of McGarvey's amazing file, made all the more stunning by what had been left out. Every page had major deletionsâ
For considerations of National Security
. Yet what remained was nothing short of deadly. First they had to find him. Special Agents Joyce and McLaren were in Portland and would remain there for the time being. They were banking on the probability that McGarvey would eventually show up at Guerin. Whitman thought it would happen tomorrow. Despite the tight security around the VIP flight on the new airplane, McGarvey would make a try to get aboard. Overall, though, the case made less and less sense each day. They were missing something. But what?
Special Agent in Charge Charles Colberg called from San Francisco. “We might have something for you on the Guerin case. Apparently Bruno Mueller surfaced in Oakland ten days ago, and possibly Chicago just this last week. We're still looking for connections, aren't we, John?”
“At this point we'll take everything. What'd he do?”
“Killed an air traffic control instructor. It's got us running around in circles out here. Something's going on that we can't figure out. But since his name came up in connection with Guerin, who's flying its new bird out to Honolulu tomorrow, we're getting nervous. Anything on McGarvey yet?”
“Nothing, Chuck. But you're not the only one puzzled and nervous.”
“We got a call from Ron Herring who runs the noise-abatement research program for the Oakland Airport Commission. A couple of weeks ago a guy who identified himself as Thomas Reston showed up at the airport and asked a bunch of questions. Took the grand tour of Herring's project and the tower. Said he was a reporter for
High Technology Business and Aviation Week & Space Technology
magazines. Herring said the guy
looked good and sounded good so nobody got suspicious until last week.”
“Does Herring check out?” Whitman asked.
“He's clean. After Reston was finished at Herring's project, he took a tour of the tower with Dick White, the chief ATC instructor. Last week White's body was found outside his motel in Chicago. Whoever did him used a stiletto. Single thrust to the heart.”
“It was either a lucky hit, or the killer was an expert.”
“I checked with the French. The stiletto is one of Mueller's weapons of choice.”
“How'd Herring get on to it?” Whitman asked. To his cop's instincts, the connection had a ring of truth.
“He knew that Reston talked to Dick White in Oakland, and he wanted to make sure the guy knew what had happened. But nobody at either magazine had ever heard of him. So he called us. Soon as I saw the IdentaKit drawing, we showed Herring the Mueller photo and he made a positive ID, although he said Reston had different color eyes and hair. We dusted the business card that Reston gave to Herring. Except for Herring's prints it was clean. The guy is a pro.”
“Did you talk to Paul Granger in Chicago?” Whitman asked. Granger was the S-A-C there.
“Yes. Reston rented a car at the airport the night of Dick White's murder. Question is, why did he follow an air traffic control instructor out to Chicago and then kill him? John, if it's Muellerâand I believe it isâwhat the hell am I missing?”
Whitman tried to work it out. “Is there any connection, no matter how remote, between Dick White and Guerin?”
“None that we can come up with. But Mueller took his time. Herring said he had the technical patter down pat. He knew the system, where it had been, and where it was going.”
“What was White doing in Chicago?”
“A union meeting. Could be that Mueller was there to interview somebody else, and White's bumping into him was just a coincidence.”
“That, or for some reason he was stalking White,” Whitman said, then he stopped. “Anybody except for the car rental people in Chicago see Mueller? At the airport?”
“Paul didn't say.”
“Where and when was the rental car returned?”
“Minneapolis the next morning.”
“All right, assuming there is a connection between Mueller and the Guerin case, what was he doing at those three airports? And which other airports has he visited in the past week or two?”
“Jesus,” Colberg said. “I'll check Oakland and San Francisco International.”
“Right,” Whitman said. “I'll send a bulletin to all our field offices. If you find anything, Chuck, anything at all no matter how seemingly insignificant or disconnected, call me.”
“Will do.”
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“Larry, did Murphy get a chance to go over everything with you?” the President asked.
“I talked to him when he dropped off the briefing book.”
“Are you finished with it?”
“I will be by morning, and there'll be plenty of time on the flight over for a second look.” Vice President Larry Cross was a ruggedly built Oklahoman who preferred cowboy boots and blue jeans to suits and ties. He was a fast but thoughtful study, and a competent VP.
“Well, no decisions will be made.”
“Then what's the purpose of sending me tomorrow, and not waiting until Wednesday?” Cross asked. They were in the President's study on the second floor. The afternoon light coming through the bowed windows was gray.
“They'll probably hit you with the Russian thing.”
“Why not call the Russian and Japanese ambassadors over here this afternoon and hash it out?”
“Wouldn't accomplish a thing,” President Lindsay replied as he filled his cup from the coffee service. “The
trouble is they're not ready to talk yet. Not to us, not to each other. The step from where you are to where I sit is a hell of a lot bigger than you'd think. George Bush found out that eight years of being vice president did nothing to prepare him for his own presidency.”
“I don't have the same ambition, Jim,” Cross said, and he sincerely meant it. He hadn't told Lindsay yet, but he was considering not running for re-election. He wanted to get back to his law practice in Oklahoma City and to his ranch.
“That's not the point. When Enchi talks to you in Tokyo everybody will accept that whatever is said won't be final in the sense that no decisions will be expected. What they'll do is float a few trial balloons past you, see what your reactions are so that when the actual talks begin on Thursday they'll have had time to fine tune their positions. Statecraft.”
“It was Enchi's suggestion that you delay your arrival, wasn't it?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Maybe he's stalling for time.”
“That's exactly what he's doing, Larry. It's the CIA's guess that Enchi is not in complete control of the situation with the street demonstrations, or even his own military. Puts him and his trade agreement in a dangerous position.”
“Puts us all in a dangerous position. Those are our ships shadowing that submarine.”
“That's correct.”
“While most of the Seventh Fleet is at the dock in Yokosuka. Pull them out of there.”
“Not unless we have to,” President Lindsay said. “Any further ship movements by us are going to be looked upon with a lot of suspicion.”
“Some of our ships in port are carrying nuclear weapons. If that were to come out, we'd be in a lot more trouble.”
The President smiled faintly. “You're catching on, Larry.”
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Dominique finally agreed that no matter what happened she would stay put at least until Monday morning. McGarvey was driving down to Richmond, where he would catch a flight to Eugene and rent a car from there to Gales Creek.
The Bureau had a warrant for his arrest, but it simply did not have the manpower to check every single passenger on every single flight from every single airport in the country. With care he didn't think he would encounter trouble until he got out to Portland, where the Bureau's efforts would be focused.
Once he was out of Washington, heading south on I-95, and certain he wasn't being followed, he pulled in at a truck stop and telephoned Phil Carrara's wife at her sister's in Montpelier.
“He told me to stay up here until Monday,” she said.
“Have you heard from him since Thursday, JoAnn?”
“No. Is something wrong, Mac?”
“Not that I know of, honestly. But when he calls tell him I've headed west. He'll understand.”
“This is between you and him.”
“Something like that. We'll all have dinner next week, and I'll tell you about it.”
“Yeah, right,” she said.
He telephoned Carrara's house, but there was still no answer, so he phoned Dick Adkins at home. Carrara and Adkins were friends. He hoped it would count for something.
“Dick, this is Kirk McGarvey. I'm glad I caught you at home.”
“Jesus H. Christ. The Bureau is turning the country upside down looking for you. Where the hell are you?”
“I'm trying to find Phil Carrara. I need your help.”
“You're the black plague. There's not a thing I can or will do for you.”
“He's on administrative leave. He sent his wife to Montpelier, and he was trying to do something for me. Now he's disappeared. Do you know where he is?”
The line was silent for a few seconds. It was possible
that Adkins was tracing the call, but McGarvey wasn't going to stick around much longer.
“Are you turning yourself in?”
“No.”
“Okay,” Adkins said, and he sounded very nervous. “I'm going way the hell out on a limb, but Phil trusted you, so I guess I'll have to go along. Nobody knows where he is. But one of our Technical Services guys and a surveillance van are missing too.”
“Does it have to do with Ed Reid?” McGarvey asked.