To Free a Spy (41 page)

On the radio, the announcer said the New Jersey governor ordered the national guard to duty earlier in the day because of the threat from Veronica. The hurricane center broke in and said it now looked like the eye of the storm would hit a few miles down the coast from Atlantic City. Landfall should be around ten p.m. with winds near a hundred and thirty-five miles per hour. The accompanying storm surge could be as high as eighteen feet and would precede the eye of the storm by around five hours. Residents in Atlantic City and New Jersey coastal areas were ordered by the governor to evacuate.

That meant Warfield had two hours to get to the Golden Touch before the storm surge—evacuation or not. He was an hour from there in normal conditions but at the present rate he needed some luck. There were no cars going in his direction but he couldn’t make out the roadway if he drove faster than forty.

The maximum storm surge occurs to the right of the center of the storm as it goes onto land, and it is that dome of water, pushed up at sea by the winds and low atmospheric pressure, that causes the most deaths and property destruction. Far out at sea, the water dome dissipates and causes no harm, but as the ocean floor rises to shore the water is forced up with it and rushes inland. Category four hurricanes, with winds up to one-fifty-five, hammer anything near the shore with giant waves and wreckage from other structures. The water action can undermine foundations and even topple buildings. Roofs, windows and doors become airborne. Low-lying areas are flooded. Deaths are common among people who can’t get out of the way soon enough, or who say no to leaving their homes. Electric power is lost, which means stores and gasoline stations are down. The result is many deaths, billions of dollars in property destruction and total paralysis in the affected areas. Warfield flashed the thought of the Katrina victims and all the chaos in New Orleans afterward, and the more recent Sandy that devastated New Jersey and New York just months earlier.

Ten miles out of Philadelphia, flashing lights filled the roadway a hundred yards ahead of Warfield. He stopped on the shoulder and watched for a minute. State police were turning all Atlantic City-bound traffic back! Cars in the southbound expressway lanes sat in line on the exit ramp to cross the bridge over the highway and merge into northbound lanes that were already jammed with drivers escaping the coast. Military vehicles idled under the bridge and in the road beyond the police cars. National guardsmen in rain gear milled around, some directing traffic. Warfield knew other troops had the harder job of locating and convincing people to leave their homes.

Warfield surveyed the scene, pulled the Redskins cap down over his eyes, left Paula’s car beside the road and jogged up the ramp to the crossover. A Humvee sat there with lights on, engine running and no driver. There were no soldiers nearby, as they were down at the expressway directing traffic. Warfield climbed in. Hummers were not new to him.

As he entered the ramp to the southbound lane toward Atlantic City, a soldier sitting beside the road in another Hummer threw up a hand in a casual gesture. Warfield waved back knowing recognition was not possible in this weather and moved onto the empty roadway south of the roadblock.

State troopers monitored the flow of traffic, moving at around thirty. Military vehicles roamed the side of the expressway and no one seemed to pay special notice to Warfield, just another guardsman on duty. He continued on the shoulder until he came to other idling military vehicles blocking the roadway and was forced to the ditch. Water rose to hood-level on the Hummer, but the Humvee was equipped with large-diameter wheels and a snorkel system that extended the air intake and exhaust above roof level enabling it to take the virtual river in stride until he could get back on the pavement.

Thirty-five was all Warfield could manage. Even if the wipers could handle the rain, he couldn’t see beyond the front end of the Humvee. He was hoping almost against hope now that he could beat the storm surge. And what if Quinn and Ana weren’t there? But he couldn’t worry about that. There was no other place to look. Phones were out. Same for transportation. But Quinn
would
be there. It was human nature to go to a familiar place in times of crisis.

As Warfield approached the crest of a rise, a sea of car lights greeted him. Police vehicles, blue roof-mounted lights flashing, lined up across both sides of the expressway from fence-to-fence, and dead-still traffic lined up behind them as far as Warfield could see. There was no way around the roadblock. Warfield realized they were waiting for him, the idiot who had stolen the Humvee. He locked the doors, pulled to a stop near one of the state troopers who was flashing a light at him and lowered the window slightly.

At least fifty New Jersey state troopers and national guardsmen surrounded Warfield’s Humvee. Some of the soldiers were talking among themselves and laughing at the absurdity of anyone stealing a Hummer, especially in this weather. Drivers who were lined up behind the row of police cars sat on their horns. A heavy state trooper captain with the name
Haygood
on his slicker focused a spotlight in Warfield’s eyes. His right hand was concealed somewhere inside his raincoat. “Step down out of the vehicle, sir!” he shouted.

* * *

Ana was in the kitchen trying to pull together a meal from a few things she found in Quinn’s personal suite at the Golden Touch. He hadn’t anticipated that Atlantic City—and all food service at the Golden Touch—would be shut down before they arrived.

Quinn found himself with time on his hands. He’d put the five ten-milligram Valium tablets from his medicine cabinet into his shirt pocket and slipped the little .38 Smith & Wesson revolver from his bed table into the pocket of his slacks. He went over to the window to check on the storm again but the glass breathed in and out so much now that he feared it would break. He closed the heavy drapes so they might slow down any flying glass and poured himself another Glenfiddich. The main building power had gone off an hour earlier but his suite was connected to the auxiliary generators that came on in a power failure and ran the elevators and other critical areas of the Golden Touch.

He returned to the den where the TV was on. A crew filming from the eighth floor of another building along the coastline showed waves lapping over the Boardwalk, crashing into the casinos and ripping out sections of the famous walkway that Sandy hadn’t already destroyed. His brow furrowed. Driving was no longer possible, but he hadn’t lost hope.

He turned off the television and went to the kitchen. While Ana was looking for something in the fridge, he dropped the five blue Valium pills into her glass of Pinot Noir that sat on the bar.

* * *

“Who’s the national guard officer in charge,” Warfield said through the crack above the Hummer’s window. He had to literally shout down to state patrol officer Captain Haygood to be heard over the weather and car horns.

“Military’s not running this show, buddy. Get out of the truck!” Haygood shouted.

“Soon as I see the ranking military officer standing there.” A couple of the soldiers started to take closer notice.

Haygood’s hand began to move about inside the slicker. “You’ll get out now, or we’ll
take
you out.”

Warfield closed the window. He didn’t think the enraged trooper would go so far as to shoot him. Haygood consulted with his men and spoke into a radio. Minutes later additional troopers began arriving on the shoulder. The symphony of horns rivaled the noise of the storm. One of the soldiers grabbed his radio and started talking. Warfield looked at his watch. His chances of getting to the Golden Touch ahead of the storm surge diminished by the second. Even the Humvee had its limits.

The standoff went on for fifteen minutes, by which time at least a hundred troopers and national guardsmen had congregated, all standing around Warfield’s Humvee in the rain and struggling at times to balance themselves against the gale. Another Humvee arrived on the shoulder and a general riding in the right seat got out and strode through the mass of troopers and guardsmen, who cleared a wide berth for him and threw their hands up in salute.

“What’s the problem here?” The general stood at least six-four and had some meat on his bones. His voice had no trouble overcoming the sound of the weather and the cars.

Warfield saw the star on his collar and started to emerge, but Haygood began to vent to the general about the disruption Warfield had caused, the number of troopers he’d tied up for too many precious minutes, and only God could know how many lives he’d cost by shutting down the evacuation. This thief had refused his order to get out of the vehicle and was under arrest.

The general looked around at one of his own men. “Know anything about this, Sergeant O’Hare?”

“Yes, sir, sounds ’bout right. The dude apparently stole the Hummer up the road. When the troopers stopped him here, he refused to get out ’til he could talk to you.”

The general looked up at Warfield and started to speak but Haygood started again. The general turned to him, saying, “Is this the biggest problem you got today, Haywood?”

“It’s Hay
good
. You see all these cars sitting here? Hear those horns blowin’?”

The general looked at the cars. “Who stopped ’em?”

“I did,” Haygood said. “Only way we could stop this thief.”

“That’d be a little hard for me to understand, but I’ll handle this man and you can take care of the traffic—unless you want us to take that over too.”

The general looked up at Warfield. It was dark except for some light from the cars. “Well, I’m here, podnuh,” the general boomed. “So let’s see if you can get down and tell me why you borrowed this car of mine.”

Warfield jumped down to the ground and pushed the Redskins cap back.

The general put a light on Warfield.
“Warfield!…My God! That you? What the hell?”
The general began laughing. “Casinos are all closed in Atlantic City, man!”

Warfield caught his face.
“Damn Right Donaldson?”

“Damn right!” The two men fell into a bear hug with almost child-like glee, Warfield abandoning for the moment the gravity of his situation. Captain Haygood looked around at the other troopers in disbelief. Some looked away to conceal their amusement.

Haygood nodded to two of his men and took a step toward Warfield. “I’m taking this man in, General Donaldson. My jurisdiction.”

Damn Right’s huge black hand blocked the trooper. “Harwood, you’d prob’ly be speakin’ Russian right now, wasn’t for Warfield here. I loaned him this car, so there is no crime. Now you reckon you could just go back to helpin’ those folks get away from the hurricane? Sounds like some of ’em are getting a little irate. I’ll take care of Warfield, here.”

Warfield and Daniel R. Donaldson paralleled each other through the military ranks and co-operated on missions more than once over the years. Donaldson had earned the nickname that matched his initials through his positive attitude and self-confidence: Anytime he was asked if he was certain about some plan he’d laid out, his answer was always
damn right.
Warfield had thrown a party for him when he retired from active duty three years ago and joined the guard.

But right now Warfield had no time for fraternization. “Danny, I can’t tell you anything right now except that it’s life-and-death important for me to get to Atlantic City. This storm’s not helping. Can you get me there?”

Donaldson nodded. “Take Sergeant O’Hare with you. Go as far as you can in the Humvee. Can’t put a chopper up in this, but we got a couple Triple-AV’s there in Atlantic City. O’Hare can radio ahead and get one to meet y’all where the water gets too high for the Hummer. That oughta do it, Warfield. Now get the hell outta here.”

Ought to do it
was the understatement of the day, Warfield thought. The Advanced Amphibious Assault Vehicle had a forty-five-mile offshore range. It could span an eight-foot trench, walk over a three-foot vertical wall and handle eight-foot waves. The Marines used it transport troops ship-to-shore and to move them around on land.

* * *

As soon as they were on the road, Warfield used O’Hare’s radio to check his voicemail. The sound quality was poor but he heard Holden’s voice say it was urgent. Warfield called the number Holden left.

“It’s Warfield, Holden.”

“Don’t know what it’s about, but my brother Tom—FBI, you’ll recall—I was on the phone with him after I spoke with you. He said he’s got to talk to you before you see Mr. Quinn. I, I’m embarrassed, sir. Guess I said something to Tom about your call this morning. Know I should keep my mouth shut.”

“Don’t worry about it, Holden. Can you track him down while I hang on?”

Holden put Warfield on hold and came back on the line a minute later. “Tom’s phone’s out. I’ll send a deputy over to his house and bring him here. Thirty minutes!”

Warfield said he’d call back to the jail in half an hour.

All expressway lanes were northbound now but Damn Right Donaldson had ordered his guard troops to create a rolling roadblock on the outside lane of the expressway ahead of Warfield and O’Hare. That allowed the Humvee to make a speed of about thirty until they reached the western edge of Atlantic City, where the AAAV met them. O’Hare left the Humvee and rode with the Triple-AV crew and Warfield to the Golden Touch. The city was vacated. Boats and debris floated in the streets. Dark traffic signals flapped from their cable supports like kite tails. Trees were uprooted or broken, lying in streets that were under four feet of water. Warfield had never seen it rain so hard.

The triple-AV driver Juan Gonzales stopped in front of the Golden Touch, the only structure between them and the edge of the churning ocean. A submerged landscape area preceded a set of steps that led above water level to a plaza bordered by a concrete balustrade. There was just enough space between the four foot diameter building support columns for the vehicle to get through. Gonzales said he could deliver Warfield to the escalator steps that ran from the plaza up to the lobby area, well above the swirling water. “You say the word, Colonel Warfield.”