The Vulture (16 page)

Chapter Thirty

Pangborn Enterprises occupied a suite of offices in mid-town Chicago. More prestigious addresses were available, but Pangborn thought a status address rarely justified its cost. Business started early, as much of the company's competition was located on the east coast, and in consideration of the west coast business, it ended late for the same reason. Starting at five in the morning, the hunter/gatherers that made up his staff busied themselves on their telephones and computer screens. There appeared to be no evidence that the news about the men who'd been assigned to track down and dispatch Ruth Harris-Schwartz and had now dropped out of sight had set off alarms.

Pangborn made a point to keep his business separate from his involvement with the Fifty-first Star. Thus, the company's flinty eyed employees, handpicked by Pangborn personally, continued their planned rape and pillage of the economically vulnerable commercial sector.

Three struggling companies were targeted for the next round of acquisitions. Two companies, currently on the books, were methodically dismembered and their viable parts sold off at an enormous profit, the marginal units dumped on the scrap heap of American capitalism. Previous owners took what they were offered, happy to have avoided ruin while their employees, who'd been persuaded to take pay cuts so that the company could keep going, now found themselves on the street without warning and wondering where they would find a job, the cash to make their next mortgage payment, and how to explain to their families what had just happened. Few, if any could have identified the source of their personal disaster. One or two would try.

His flight department was the only exception to the separation of the corporate body and the Fifty-first Star. He kept a Global Explorer hangered at Teeterboro and a small fleet of Bell helicopters in varying configurations at the FBO at Martin State in Maryland. Their fuselages were all marked with a star with the number fifty-one in its center. The Explorer and the helos he leased through a subsidiary, Fifty-One Sky Star. He also kept an executive Bell at Chicago's Midway for his personal use. It was the latter that had carried him to the ranch. He'd left the offices that morning because he did not want to be available when the obvious questions were raised by the recipients of the calls made the night before to people who owed him their allegiance or who, for one reason or another, feared him.

He arrived at the New Star Ranch in the late afternoon and retired to his personal residence. From the outside it looked like the all the other buildings which were arrayed in two rows on the site. Inside there was a remarkable difference. Whereas the others were spartan in their appointments, some even configured like army barracks with rows of cots and lockers, his residence was sumptuous. He and his guest settled in and called for brandy and an update. He would listen to his chiefs for the remainder of the afternoon, have dinner, and then he and Senator Connors would amuse themselves in a more commodious way. It was his word, commodious. Some would say, rhymes with odious. But to do so would be judgmental.

Neither he, nor any of his men or women domiciled on the ranch had spotted Ike's drone, except, of course the two or three who'd believed it was the buzzard they thought had nearly decorated the helicopter. They could not know that it had returned, equipped with infrared sensors, and in its alternate coloration or lack thereof. Matte black, it noiselessly circled the ranch buildings, recording everything that occurred on the ground for the next eight hours.

***

Charlie Garland had had a busy day, considering the fact that ostensibly neither he nor the CIA had anything to do with the investigation into the apparent death of Sheriff Schwartz, late of Picketsville, Virginia. Facial recognition identified the men at the gates of New Star Ranch as former Army or Marine enlisted men. Three of the four had less than honorable discharges. One was a person of interest in an open case in Nevada involving a missing child. The second batch of images verified that Martin Pangborn had taken up residence at the ranch along with Senator Oswald Connors. The men taken into custody in Maine had still not said anything, insisting they had a right to an attorney and they wished to exercise it. The FBI, which would be brought in later would agree and then, as Charlie would report to Ike, “When the lawyers show up and eventually find their clients, the cat will be out of the bag.” As it happened, there would be some annoying delays before the attorneys latched onto their clients. They might get lost in the system and didn't Ike just love that expression?

In the meantime, he suggested Ike should consider dropping deeper into the dark. Ike thought he'd had enough playing at being someone else and if even the slightest hint linking Pangborn to his situation was verified, he would end it. Charlie worried how that might play out. It was one thing to erase a low level spy, a compromised diplomat, even a decorated military figure with alternate views of the Constitution. Taking on someone with Pangborn's connections and backing was another thing entirely.

The analysts finished their examination of the dash cam images and reported that they were able to reconstruct a scrap of a bumper sticker on the car carrying the shooter to positively identify it as a rental. They would have more in a few hours. Charlie sent that off to Frank Sutherlin in Picketsville. Ike's deputies were feeling frustrated at being left out of the hunt. It would give them something to work on. As an afterthought, he also sent the names of the men identified by facial recognition from the various sweeps and scans the Agency had done.

Charlie managed to get Ike on a secure line and they talked for two hours about what they knew. Most of the time was spent discussing the possible connection between Connors and Pangborn, beyond the obvious, political one. Now, little doubt remained in either of their minds that the impetus for the bomb came from Pangborn. It appeared equally clear that the chance of making that case before a Grand Jury were slim to none. What that left them with Charlie couldn't say.

“Ruth says I am not to act alone on this.”

“She's right, Ike. There is no way anyone can protect you from what will happen if you're caught and, given the obvious linkages you and he now have, you will not be able to avoid some smart prosecutor from nailing your hide to the wall if you so much as cause him to break a nail.”

“Yeah, yeah. You need to tell me again what you think the connection is, or what you think Pangborn has on Connors.”

“I will, but first tell me how the drone is working. The VP for sales has been on the phone every couple of hours for an update.”

“It is a thing of beauty, Charlie. You should buy some. At the moment it is circling the ranch in night mode. From vulture to bat, you could say, and recording whatever is going on down there. I will look at the tape tomorrow and give you an update.”

“Good. Please try not to break it. The Agency does not know they are on the hook for it. Okay, repeating, this is what I think might, emphasis on ‘might' be the thing that binds Pangborn to Connors. It could be nothing but coincidence but the FBI file marks it as a possible problem at the National Security level.”

Charlie discussed the allegations Karl had uncovered in the FBI file on Connors, speculated the possible ramifications and how it could impact Ike's situation. Ike listened, asked a few questions and finally wanted to know when the people recruited to staff the fake real-estate agency would arrive.

“You should have them early tomorrow. Are we done here?”

“Are we? I don't know. We have a possible blackmailer and…let me think a minute. No, not quite finished. Charlie, what do you know about health and safety regulations as they apply to privately run retreat centers, specifically in the state of Idaho?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Neither do I. Could you have one of those smart people you're sending to me come prepared to play expert in that area?”

“Health requirements for community housing and/or camps? Sure. What are you thinking?”

“A couple of things. I need eyes on the ground. The Vulture is great, but the perspective is wrong. I want to know how the ground is laid out. I might need…no, I will need to know the points of access into that compound and my guess is that night would be the best time to slip in there, if at all. The other is a hunch. Either way, I will need some fake IDs made on short order.”

“That's it?”

“For now, yes. I have to look at the tape from our drone.”

Chapter Thirty-one

It would be unfair to describe Frank Sutherlin as resentful. He wasn't, but the fact that the Picketsville Sheriff's Department was not actively engaged in the search for the man or woman who had engineered the attempt on Ike's life rankled. “Out of the loop,” Billy had said. So, it was a sense of mild annoyance that Frank studied the scraps Charlie Garland had tossed the sherriff's department. It was to be expected, he knew, but still, you'd think Garland would be more alert to the sheriff's office's need to be active in the search for Ike's presumptive killer, especially since he knew how the attack had affected them. After all, they uncovered both when and where the bomb had been planted in Ike's car.

He called in the new kid and told him to see what he could do with the enhanced dash cam images they'd been sent. The kid nodded and dashed off to the computer room as eager as a new puppy chasing a tennis ball. Frank didn't expect much, but he hoped. Too bad Sam had been called away. If anybody could scrape something off that tape, she could. He spread the lists of names across his desk. Maybe, just maybe one would jump out at him. One did. Now what to do about that?

Billy dropped into a chair and whacked his Stetson against his knee. “I'm getting tired of all this here chasing our tails, Frank. Everybody else seems to be hot on the trail of something and we're just sitting here picking our teeth. We got nothing.”

“You and Essie checked to see if any of Frieze's fellow officers were in that Fifty-first Star thing?”

“We did and came up empty. If there's anybody else in, they ain't admitting it.”

Frank turned the sheet of paper around on his desk the put a finger on a name. “What about this guy?”

“Whoa. He's one of them?”

“That's what they're saying.”

“Well, I think we should just haul his butt in for a chat. Do we have anything heavy enough to go after him?”

“Maybe. The county ME sent me a surveillance tape of a guy posing as an FBI agent. It's pretty grainy, but I'll eat my hat if it's not him. I think we need to do some more digging, but we do have that piece, if we need it. In the meantime, go through this list and see if you or anybody else recognizes a name.”

“Why don't we grab him right now and bounce him around a little?”

“Not yet. We will eventually, but bouncing or not, I don't think he'd say anything right now. He has backup, or thinks he does. Maybe later we will when we have a full deck to play with. Meantime, get me something.”

“On it.” Billy scooped up the sheets and banged his way into the squad room to tackle anyone coming in or heading out.

***

Three agents arrived as promised and took up their positions at the newly constituted Silver Gulch Realty office. Karl had been sent separately to Spokane where he was to hire a car and drive in. Too many people arriving at the same place at the same a time could raise some eyebrows. Besides, Ike thought he might need to keep Karl separate from the others for a while. The Agency people and the Bureau's had a spiky relationship at best and these new arrivals did not know about Karl and his past. They didn't need to.

“So, you decided against Western Sky for our name, I see. Where exactly is the Silver Gulch?” Ruth asked.

“Ask your sister, Trixie.”

“You're bad, Marvin. Speaking of Sam, where is she, by the way?”

“Karl is driving in from Spokane. She's going to meet him. I don't expect to see her the rest of the day. That's too bad because we're going to be busy and I really would like to know what they're talking about over there.”

The four new arrivals cleared the security area. Ike introduced himself and suggested they move to the parking lot before saying anything else. Once there, the woman who seemed to be in charge held out her hand, “Mary Jean,” she said.

“Last name?”

“Spencer. I was a Lynch but that went away. There were a whole bunch of us growing up, cousins, uncles, and aunts. We were known as the Lynch Mob. It was funny then. Not so much now.”

“Political correctness will be the death of civilization as we know it. Which one of you is the public health expert?”

“That would be me,” a pert brunette who looked more like a high school cheerleader than a trained agent said. “Cristy Clemmons. And this is Josh Daniels and Mark Sipowitz.”

Josh could have passed for the fullback on Cristy the cheerleader's team, Mark the right tackle. If Ike needed muscle, he had it.

“Okay, we need to talk, all of us. In the meantime I have some tape to show you and we need to get caught up with what Charlie Garland thinks he knows.”

“Mr. Garland said to ask you the same thing and he wants to know how much longer you intend to keep his drone.”

“One more pass over the ranch at night and after we set something in place and then he can have it back.”

Ike filled them in on the backstory they were to use to cover their presence. He told them that they would be checked out very carefully and would most likely have the office and their motel rooms searched. They were to leave “evidence” of their secret mission conspicuously hidden.”

“Isn't that an oxymoron?”

“Yes it is. What I mean is you should hide it like an amateur, not an agent, so that if they are any good at what they do—and I think they are—they will find it. They must buy into the idea that we are here to destroy the local water table with fracking. They need to be convinced that is why we are so circumspect in what we do. Then when we do what we do, they will leave us alone.”

“And what is it we are doing?”

“For them, real estate speculation. For us, that is where the health inspector IDs come in.”

***

As it happened, the FBI did not have the men Pangborn had assigned to finding Ruth Harris-Schwartz in custody. As Charlie had predicted, they were “lost.”

Jack Brattan called Pangborn to tell him that and to ask for direction. Pangborn slammed his fist on the table.

“What do you mean, they're lost? They were arrested and taken into custody. Either the Maine cops have them or the FBI does.”

“No, sir. Look, our people inside the Bureau are as confused as we are. They checked with the Maine cops, the local LEOs, everyone. The cops in Maine are under the impression the Feds have them, the Feds say no, the Maine police must.”

“Goddamit, Brattan, find them and get the lawyers to them. If they talk, remember it's your ass that's on the line, not mine.”

“Yes, sir.” A chastised and shaken Brattan hung up and, Pangborn guessed, screamed at his underlings. He might have also considered turning on Pangborn, but that wouldn't happen. Brattan knew that one shaky moment on his part and he'd be gone. That was the trouble with bullies. They were useful when it came to shoving weak people around, but useless when it came to planning and execution or someone bigger and meaner shoved back. What Martin Pangborn needed at that moment was the latter. Jack, he decided would be surplus baggage when this was over.

Senator Connors lifted his gaze over the rim of his reading glasses. “Problems?” he asked. The two of them were having a late breakfast. It had been a long night.

“Who do you know that you can squeeze on the National Security Committee?”

“What do you need?”

“Some of my people were picked up by the police and they have disappeared. I need to know where they disappeared to and I need to get my lawyers to them pronto. The FBI claims they don't have them, the local police, ditto. So who has them and why are they where they are?”

“What were they doing that got them arrested?”

Pangborn swung his head around and graced the junior senator from Idaho with a stare that would be described by a witness, had there been one, as ten miles of ice.

“Okay, I don't need to know. I guess I don't want to know. So, in the wind, are they? That smells of CIA. Would the Agency have an interest in what they were up to?”

“I don't see how, but it's a thought. I'll put someone on it.”

He picked up his phone and tapped in a private number, explained his problem, said that there would be the usual compensation for the information and hung up.

“I should know tomorrow. Maybe you could make a call or two for me.”

“I don't know…”

“Just do it.”

Connors reached for the phone, frowned, looked at Pangborn, shook his head and made the calls. As Pangborn reminded him almost daily, he owned him and Connors knew it. Of course, if he thought about it for a minute, he had Pangborn over a barrel as well. But the senator's reputation did not include much in the way of deep thinking. That could change if the situation warranted. Connors might be considered slow, but he wasn't stupid and he had a few friends in high places as well.

Sam transcribed the calls. If there had been any doubt about Pangborn's involvement before, it evaporated at that moment.