8. Hide and Seek Read online

  Riley perched on the end of the ugly metal table and said, “Let’s look alive here, people. You all know why you’re here so let’s get right to it. The Bureau has become a laughingstock this past month. That means I’m a laughingstock. I will not tolerate that. Each of you,” he said deliberately, looking at each member, “was handpicked by the director for this special task force. For some reason he seems to think you have the chutzpah to bring those female vigilantes to justice. Me, now, I don’t think you can do that, so your job is to prove me wrong. If you can’t do it, your collective ass is out of here.

  “For starters, I don’t want to see any more demonstrations in front of this building. Get rid of those vigilante supporters. Get rid of those international camera crews. Arrest them if you have to. I want to see this crap relegated to page 42, not page 1 of every goddamn paper within a fifty-mile radius. Call in the heads of all those shitty women’s groups and sweat them. I want the television coverage to stop. The media is glorifying those goddamn women. Let them see what a Come to Jesus meeting is all about. In short, do whatever the hell you have to do to put a cork in this mess. If I hear one more late-night talk show host bashing the Bureau for letting them get away, I’ll personally fry all your asses. Last night they called us the Jackass Brigade, saying we couldn’t find our own asses even if we had a searchlight and the best proctologist in the business was holding the flashlight. Do I have to tell any of you what the director thought of that little tidbit?

  “Seven goddamn women took the law into their own hands and wreaked havoc on this fine institution. It has to stop. The only way it can stop is if you find all seven of them and bring them to justice. No one drops off the face of the Earth without leaving a clue. Are you listening to me? They’re women, for Christ’s sake. You’re men! And one woman,” he said as an afterthought. “Whatever you need, whatever you want, it’s yours as long as you bring those women to justice. Warrants are yours for the asking. If you have any questions, ask them now.”

  “It would help if we had a file, a dossier on the women,” one of the agents said. “Do you expect us to go out there blind and hope for the best? You indicated this is not a Mickey Mouse operation. We need to know who we’re hunting, not the crap that’s been published in the newspapers and what we’ve been seeing 24/7 on the tube.”

  Riley looked at his people again. He didn’t like what he was seeing. They might be good agents, but they didn’t have fire in their bellies. He truly believed that all of them, especially the female one, were secretly rooting for the vigilantes. Hell, even Alice, his own wife, was rooting for them, and so was his daughter. He couldn’t believe it when his defiant wife told him she’d contributed a thousand dollars to the defense fund set up by the women’s lawyers. Christ, his wife and daughter even had T-shirts that said GO, SISTERS, GO! Two days ago he’d waited until they were asleep, confiscated the shirts and burned them in the fireplace. The next day both Alice and Sally sported new ones. There was a war going on in the Riley household, but there was no need for anyone but him to know that. One way or another he’d make sure Alice toed the line. A shiver of something akin to fear skittered up his spine. She hated his guts. Maybe it was finally time to do something about that wife of his.

  “In due time,” he answered. “Right now I want you all to meet two people who know more than we do. Did you hear what I just said? There are two people out there in the hall who know more about those goddamn women than we do. We’re the fucking FBI. We’re supposed to know everything and we don’t. I’m going to call them in here and I want you to listen to them. Then I want you to pick their brains.”

  Feet shuffled. Someone coughed. They all squirmed. Riley let them squirm. He managed to weave his way through his people and opened the door. He jerked his thumb in the direction of the small room.

  Maggie Spritzer and Ted Robinson entered the room. Both reporters looked like they had just backpacked in the Appalachians for a month. Actually, what they’d been forced to do was hitchhike from Boise, Idaho, stopping at times to earn enough money washing dishes to pay for food. The Gold Shields—whose only loyalties were to the President of the United States and Charles Martin—had closed down the reporters’ bank accounts, canceled their credit cards, confiscated their cell phones, their money and their identification, then drugged and dumped them after they had interfered in the Sisterhood’s last caper in California where the infamous group of women had been captured.

  Maggie and Ted smelled really bad and they knew it.

  Mitch Riley introduced the two reporters. “Talk,” he said.

  They did, ending with the trek from Idaho to the present moment. It was Maggie who looked around and laughed in the agents’ faces. “It’s a joke, right? You can’t possibly think you’re going to catch those women. I don’t care if you bring in the CIA and the rest of this crazy Alphabet City. They are untouchable, so get used to it. They have the most prestigious address in the world on their side: 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, to be precise. You guys…oops, you guys and one woman, are no match for those special Gold Shields. You know it, and we sure know it. You might think you’re the best of the best but those women are the best of the best. They proved it. They got away right under your noses. The media is on their side. Hey, you might even have to shut down and turn everything over to the CIA.”

  Riley eyeballed the reporter. Her voice was so bitter, so hateful sounding, Riley could hardly believe his ears. No woman, except maybe his wife, had ever stood in front of him and talked the way this reporter was talking to him. His eyes narrowed to mean slits as he let them bore into hers.

  “That will never happen, Miss Spritzer. We’re the FBI and we always get our man. In this case, women.” Riley was proud of how cool and professional his voice sounded. Inside, his guts were churning. J. Edgar’s famous words ricocheted inside his head: Never let them see you sweat. Never! “That’s a goddamn fucking order, gentlemen.” The AD’s slight to the female agent was deliberate.

  “How come you let Jack Emery get away? And that crazy lunatic who kills people with his bare hands? Huh? Huh? Answer me that, Mister FBI,” Maggie said, not caring that she was screeching.

  “We have no reason to arrest or talk to Jack Emery. Or the lunatic you just mentioned. Both of them have impeccable credentials and, yes, the Bureau is aware of Emery’s past engagement to one of the vigilantes. As to the martial arts expert, we have no just cause to haul him in here. They’re probably on vacation. Emery is probably livid that the women got away. He’s undoubtedly off somewhere licking his wounds. For all we know, Wong could be in Japan or some Third World country.”

  Ted Robinson started to laugh and couldn’t stop. “You must be some kind of Neanderthal, Riley. You don’t fucking get it, do you? Emery is one of them. So is that martial arts guy. Those two guys have been helping those women all along. We had the hard proof until that guy Martin took it away from us. Are we the only two people in this town who know what’s been going on? You are never going to catch those women or Emery or Wong. They’ve got it going on. They have money blowing out their asses, they have 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue on their side and they have that guy Charles Martin, whose best friend is the Queen of England, calling the shots. You don’t have clue one, you’re flying blind. Go for it. There’s nothing we can do to help you. Can we leave now?”

  Mitch Riley couldn’t wait to get rid of the two reporters. So much for picking their brains. With attitudes like theirs he didn’t want to do a Q&A. In the space of fifteen minutes, they had managed to make the FBI look like a rinky-dink operation with agents no better than shotgun-toting bubba rejects trying to maintain law and order. His strong jaw clenched as he noted the smug looks and smirks on his agents’ faces. “Stay in touch, and don’t even think about leaving town,” he said, determined to have the last word.

  Ted Robinson was a nanosecond behind Maggie when she offered up the universal single-digit salute on the way out the door. Riley knew he was being petulant when he returned the sa
lute but he didn’t care. He didn’t take kindly to people who thought he and his beloved Bureau were incompetent.

  A light mist was falling when Maggie and Ted exited the Hoover Building. Spring had arrived in Washington. Maggie wondered if the cherry blossoms were blooming along the Tidal Basin. She said so. Ted shrugged and mumbled something Maggie didn’t hear. Like blooming cherry blossoms were important. Right now they had to walk a good thirty blocks to their apartment to get cleaned up. Then they had to go to the Post to get an advance on their pay just so they could eat, thanks again to the Sisterhood and the Gold Shields who had taken matters into their own hands, kidnapped them and dumped them in Idaho.

  Midway down the block, Ted stopped dead in his tracks. “We know something those agents don’t know. They don’t know about Mark Lane. I suggest we keep it that way, too. Of course we have to take into consideration that those cruds back there will have a tail on us. When we get to the paper, let’s give Mark a call and arrange a meeting.”

  “You arrange a meeting. I’m going home and I’m taking a five-hour bubble bath. When you get some money, buy some food and bring it home. I’m not meeting anyone until I get about five days’ sleep. If we’re fired, don’t tell me until I wake up. I mean it, Ted.”

  “Okay,” Ted said, his step lighter, his eyes sparking. “We aren’t out of the running yet.”

  “Ted, you are an asshole. We are out of the running. The FBI is in charge now.”

  “Those guys can’t find their dicks unless they have a diagram showing where they’re positioned. That guy Riley is on a short string. Scuttlebutt in town is and has been for years that if he flops one more time, he’s out. Not demoted. OUT!”

  Maggie thought about Ted’s assessment for a few seconds before she burst out laughing. “For once, I think you’re right, Teddy boy.”

  The two reporters high-fived each other as Maggie went one way and Ted went the other.

  Chapter 3

  At any other time Jack Emery might have enjoyed the Montana sunrise. Not today, though. At this early hour he was trying to come to terms with a drug-induced hangover and the fact that he was now back in the United States in some godforsaken cabin in what looked like the wilds of nowhere. He cracked an eyelid to see Harry Wong sitting next to him, looking as befuddled as he felt.

  “How the fuck did we get here, Jack? Where the hell is this place? The last thing I remember is drinking that beer Charles gave me. It seems to me we both put up a hell of a fight. Do you remember it that way?”

  Jack decided to open both eyes. The early-morning glare of the sun seemed to burn his eyelids. He groaned. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the way I remember it. The Brit drugged our beer. I don’t remember going down the mountain in the cable car or getting on a plane and yet, here we are in Montana. I know this is Montana because Charles said that was our final destination. Somewhere, someplace, there is a deed saying this dandy little piece of real estate belongs to me. How weird is it that I can remember that shit? That son of a bitch doesn’t miss a trick. I’d kill for a cup of coffee.”

  Harry stood up. “So, somebody brought us here and dumped us on these steps and took off. Is that what happened?”

  “How the hell should I know, Harry? What’s in the backpacks?”

  Harry shrugged. “Probably a shaving kit and toothbrush. Who cares? I’m going to see if there’s any food inside. Come on, Jack, this is your abode. Help me out here.”

  Jack struggled to his feet and swayed sickeningly until he got his bearings. He followed Harry into the tidy cabin and was surprised at how comfortable and clean it looked. He headed straight for the compact kitchen. He wasn’t surprised to see the stocked refrigerator or the coffeepot with a can of Maxwell House standing next to it along with a can opener. By the time he had the coffeepot going, Harry was pouring orange juice and had a half dozen eggs boiling.

  The stringy, hundred-pound martial arts expert put his hands on his hips and spat out, “I’m going back to get Yoko.”

  Jack shook his head and was instantly sorry. “Back where? You don’t even know the name of the damn mountain. They’ll kill you, Harry. Don’t you get it, we’re on their radar screen! The only place we’re going is back to Washington. They agreed to Charles doing all this,” he said, waving his hands about. “I don’t like it and you don’t like it but there’s nothing we can do about it. Nik and Yoko didn’t put up a fight to let us stay. Digest that and let’s figure out how the hell we’re going to get back to DC. Where are those backpacks?”

  “I left them on the steps. If you’re lucky there won’t be a bomb inside. I can just see that crazy nutjob blowing us up here in Big Sky Country. Think about it, Jack, who the hell would ever know, since this place is in the middle of nowhere? Toddle along there, Big Guy, and if I hear an explosion, I’ll eat these eggs all by myself.”

  Jack’s middle finger shot in the air as he stomped his way through the living room to the rustic front porch.

  He looked around uneasily as he picked up the two backpacks. They were heavy. Way too heavy for just a change of underwear, shaving gear and a toothbrush. A gust of wind blew across the steps carrying the pungent scent of pine. He inhaled deeply. The clearing in front of the cabin drew him toward it. Still carrying the backpacks, he squatted down to look at the tire tracks. Big tires. Heavy tread. They had been brought here in an SUV or maybe a Hummer. A mess of footprints. Two or three people. No clues there.

  He was disgusted with himself. As a detective he was sorely lacking. He had allowed himself to be drugged and transported to this place, and he didn’t have a clue as to how far he was from civilization. For all he knew he could be days away from a town, which meant he and Harry would have to hoof it to wherever they were going. “Shit!” he said succinctly.

  “Coffee’s ready, Jack!” Harry called from the open door. “Do us both a favor and open one of those bags while you’re down there.”

  “Wuss!” Jack squatted down again to unzip one of the bags. His teeth clenched, he started pulling stuff out of the bag as though there was a priceless prize at the bottom. He looked up to see Harry standing next to him. Harry reached for the other bag and did the same thing Jack had done.

  “There are two letters in mine and a cell phone. What’s in yours, Harry?”

  “One letter. It’s Yoko’s handwriting. Pretty fancy-looking cell phone. Never saw one like this. Five bucks says if we click it on, it will blow us up. Wanna bet?”

  Jack shook his head as he licked at his dry lips. He fingered the letter from Nikki. He thought he could smell her perfume on the paper. He ripped at the envelope with Nikki’s scent on it. He wanted to cry at the short paragraph.

  My darling Jack,

  It is so hard for me to write this because I know you won’t understand, but I love you too much to keep you here on the mountain. You love the law, it’s your life. I don’t want you to be a fugitive. I thought I could live with it but I can’t. I want you to be safe. That’s what will make me happy and in the end it will make you happy, too. I want you to get on with your life. I will always love you.

  —Nikki

  His vision blurry, Jack looked over at Harry, who was looking at him blankly. “Yoko said she loves me and this is for my own good. What kind of love is that? Jack, what kind of fucking love is that?”

  Jack struggled to find the words. His voice was rough and raw when he responded. “The kind of love where the person who wrote the letter puts you first and thinks only of your well-being as opposed to her own.” He cleared his throat and asked, “Are those eggs ready?”

  In a daze, Harry responded, “Yeah, they’re ready. I even peeled them but couldn’t find any salt. I don’t understand. We gave it all up, we walked away knowing what it meant. I thought we were part of them. What the fuck went wrong? I need to know, Jack.”

  “I don’t know any more than you do. I have to assume Charles knows something and sending us out here is for our own protection. Maybe they want us to help them from here
. Christ, I don’t know.”

  The birds overhead started to chitter as two capricious squirrels raced up and down one of the pine trees nearest the clearing.

  “Open the other letter, Jack.”

  Jack was already opening it. It was neatly typed, unlike the handwritten note from Nikki. He read it through twice and then stuffed it in his jacket pocket.

  “Well?” Harry demanded.

  “The cell phones are encrypted. We can call the girls or him anytime we want. The phones have been programmed. Charles said even the CIA doesn’t have phones like these so we are to guard them with our lives. We’re to go back to Washington and someone will eventually—that’s what he said, eventually—get in touch with us. He said all of them are depending on us. Us, Harry. That means we aren’t out of the loop.

  “Now, as to how we get out of here and back to DC. We’re to follow the path to the bottom of this place and there will be a black Chevy Suburban complete with all the paperwork, insurance, title, etcetera, in my name. Guess it’s my vehicle now. We’re to drive back to DC and leave a trail—stay at motels using credit cards, buy gas using credit cards, which, by the way, are right here in the envelope.”

  Jack snapped his fingers under Harry’s nose. “Hey, Harry, look alive here. Let’s eat and hit the road. Go on, call Yoko. I’ll call Nikki in the house.”

  “I’m not sure I want to call her now,” Harry grumbled as he started to stuff his gear back into the backpack. “That little lady broke my heart. You don’t get over a broken heart in two minutes.” As he spoke he was punching in the numbers that he hoped would mend his broken heart.