The Last Line (50 page)

“So what
are
we going to do about Preston and his cronies?” Procario asked.

“These men have a great deal of money and influence,” Teller pointed out. “If they learn we're onto them, they'll either be gone, fled out of the country, or else they'll be holed up behind a few battalions of lawyers.”

“That much money can buy safety just about anywhere in the world,” MacDonald said.

“This person tried to detonate those weapons this morning,” Procario pointed out. “He tried to commit mass murder as well as high treason. And the people with him are accomplices at the very least. I don't care how rich or powerful they are, they cannot be above the law!”

“It's also logical to assume that they know we're onto them now,” MacDonald added, “since they know we caught the people with the weapons. They won't be within reach for very long.”

“I'm open to suggestions,” Granger said.

“Well, given some of the people we're dealing with,” Teller said, picking up the list Haupt had dropped, “I'd say we need to occupy Bohemian Grove.”

“What, as in that Occupy Wall Street movement a few years ago?”

“Exactly.”

“Bad joke,” Procario said. “I think you're still running way short on sleep.”

“I'll get caught up on the plane.”

“Plane?”

“We're going to Monte Rio. McDee? How about booking us a couple of seats, and maybe talking to the ISA?”

It was symptomatic of just how tired he was. He'd never before called the Colonel “McDee” to her face.

She glared at him but reached for her phone.

 

Chapter Twenty-Six

THE OWL'S NEST

BOHEMIAN GROVE

MONTE RIO, CALIFORNIA

0035 HOURS, PDT

23 APRIL

“Look, people, it's going to be okay!” Preston was exasperated. He'd not expected the group to begin crumbling so swiftly. “This is a minor setback, that's all! We can still win this if we hold it together and don't panic!”

The eleven of them had gathered in the Owl's Nest common room, a fair imitation of an authentic Swiss chalet. The Owl's Nest was one of a number of rustic cabins tucked away among the redwoods of Bohemian Grove—though “cabin” did the building a serious disservice. Presidents had stayed here, and the decor and furnishings were tastefully luxurious. For the past five hours, they'd been here in this room, discussing the situation and trying to hammer out a consensus.

A number of them wanted to leave. Too many.

“And just how the fuck is the Program supposed to work now?” Logan demanded. “The Iranians let us down! The Mexicans aren't going to be any help at all! This damned Aztlán scheme doesn't stand a chance in hell if the government can still put together a coherent response!”

“We have other options,” Preston insisted. “They're still rioting in L.A. and a dozen other cities. Our Mexican … friends are still ready to pour money, weapons, and muscle into every border state from California to Texas. And the president's ready to cave on this, I promise you!”

“Cave
how
?” Walker demanded. “By granting Aztlán independence? Or is he just promising more talk with the UN? Mr. Preston, I …
we
never bargained for this!” Walker looked around the table, as though trying to assess how much support he had from these men. “It's time to cut our losses and get out! We don't know how much they learned about us from the Iranians. They might know everything!”

“They know nothing!” Preston snapped. “I'm the only one who met with any of them, and they never even knew my name!”

“Mr. Preston is right,” Joseph Belsanno said. “Hell, we don't even know if any of those jokers were taken alive.”

“We can't take the risk,” Robert Delaney said. “All of us, we have too much to lose.”

“How many of you agree with Walker and Delaney?” Preston glared at the others around the room, each in turn. Five hands went up—Walker and Delaney, plus Logan, Carter, and Gonzales. That last was a surprise; Gonzales was online to become
el presidente
of the new republic, once it had been recognized by Mexico and other nations, and its security was reasonably guaranteed.

Then again, Preston reasoned, Gonzales was a politician, always sensitive to the winds of change.

Almost half of the group wanted to run, and some of that number would go straight to the authorities. Preston couldn't risk that.

“I gather you others want to stick it out?” Preston asked.

“I don't see that we have a whole lot of choice,” Carl Fuentes said. He was another banking executive, a VP of First Federal of Arizona. He was also the only other Latino in the Program, after Gonzales, and the only one with dirty ties to the Mexican cartels. It wasn't common knowledge, but his uncle was a big shot with the Sinaloa Cartel, and his cousin was Juan Escalante Romero. “If we fold now, there's no hole on earth deep enough to hide us.”

“Five yea, five nay,” Preston said, “and I cast the deciding vote. We stay and stick this out.”

“But what if they come for us?” Walker asked. “Damn it, Preston, I want out!”

Preston looked at the Federal Reserve man with surprise. The small, gray bureaucrat was showing some unexpected backbone.

He would have to do something about that.

“Listen,” Preston said, making a show of checking his watch. “It's late—past midnight. I suggest we get some sleep. In the morning, we'll see if anything further has developed. If any of you want to leave, well, we can make the arrangements then. Okay?”

There was a mutter of agreement, and the others began standing and wandering off toward their rooms. Some were in other cabins nearby, Walker and Delaney among them.

A knock sounded at the door. “What?” Preston called, sharper than he'd intended.

Juan Escalante entered and walked over to Preston. “Sir,” he said, keeping his voice so low the others couldn't hear, “we may have a problem.”

“What is it?”

“Two of my men have not checked in.”

Preston considered this. Escalante had flown up to California two days before, bringing with him a dozen
viajeros
—“travelers,” cartel gunmen with clean visas, able to travel freely in the United States when necessary to address certain problems when they arose. The Program was paying them to provide some additional security, beside the Grove's usual rent-a-cops.

“They're probably stoned behind a bush someplace,” Preston replied.

“I don't think that would be the case, sir.”

“Look, put everyone on full alert and keep your eyes open. I don't think it's anything—but we won't take chances.” He looked at Delaney and Walker, who were putting on their jackets. “There's something else.”

“Sir?”

“Pick a couple of your best boys. I'll have a special job for them in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And don't tell any of the others. They're jittery enough.”

“No, sir.”

Preston watched Escalante leave, stepping back out into the night after Walker and Delaney. The nay-sayers would all have to be eliminated, of course … but carefully, in such a way that the rest of the Program's members thought they'd simply left the Grove. Except for Gonzales. They still needed him as a figurehead for the new country, to give the secession a measure of legitimacy to the rest of the world, if not in Washington.

Was it even possible that the Program had been discovered? Preston didn't see how that could be. They'd been careful. Even the Mexicans, save for a very few like Escalante, had no idea that
norteamericanos
were behind Aztlán—or knew that Aztlán was a scam. The Iranians knew nothing useful, and certainly could not divulge names or identities.

No, the Program was still safe. It
had
to be.

In fact, the worst problem they'd encountered so far—aside from the failure of the nukes in New York City and D.C., of course—was that idiot de la Cruz in Mexico City. Unaware that Escalante was a key member of the Program, he'd actually pointed some CIA operations people at Escalante and his mistress in Iztacalco. He'd not known of Escalante's importance—of how vital it was to the Program that Sinaloa and Los Zetas establish a truce, at least temporarily. When de la Cruz had had the Zeta Killers kidnap a CIA officer and actually hold her there for interrogation, he'd nearly blown the whole operation.

Fortunately, as far as Preston could determine, the CIA hadn't learned anything useful. The only real loose end there was Escalante's mistress—she'd disappeared—but she hadn't turned up in any Agency reports, and in any case it wasn't likely she'd known anything useful. She was probably hiding out somewhere in Mexico City; they'd find her … and then that particular loose end could be eliminated.

Even if the CIA or FBI did have some idea of what was happening, it wasn't like there was anything they could do about it. They could have no idea where the members of the Program were hiding, and certainly no evidence that would stand up in court.

No, the Program was still very much alive. The warheads purchased from the Russian
mafiya
had been captured, true, and that meant that Aztlán would probably collapse sooner rather than later. That was okay; the Program's members would still be able to get what they wanted and vanish into the chaos afterward.

If Walker and the others fell by the wayside before the big payoff, that just meant more for the survivors.

WALKER

BOHEMIAN GROVE

MONTE RIO, CALIFORNIA

0104 HOURS, PDT

“I don't trust Preston,” Delaney said, a low-voiced mutter in the darkness.

“Neither do I,” Walker said. “I'm sorry I ever got mixed up in this.”

The two of them were walking across a broad, open area among the towering trees. It was chilly out, and Walker zipped his jacket. The redwoods around them were invisible in the darkness, but their towering bulks blotted out the stars.

“He's not going to let us just walk out of here.”

“I don't know. Maybe I can convince him.”

Delaney gave a brittle, sarcastic laugh. “Convince? Preston can't be
convinced.
He always has his own agenda.”

Walker's cell phone warbled.

Odd. He'd thought he'd switched it off. Pulling it out of a pocket, he examined the screen. There was no caller ID.

Hesitantly, he put it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Mr. Walker,” a pleasant voice said. “It sounds to us like you're looking for a way out.”

Walker's eyes bugged, and he stopped in midstride. Delaney stopped as well, aware that something was wrong. “James? What is it?”

“Who is this?” Walker demanded.

“That doesn't really matter right now, Mr. Walker. Suffice to say that a number of us have been listening in on your conversations yesterday and today. We know that some of you are, shall we say, somewhat disaffected about Mr. Preston. You don't believe the Program can succeed now—and if it fails, the lot of you are going to be in prison so long you'll forget what daylight looks like. The fact that you all are complicit in an attempt to detonate nuclear weapons in downtown Washington, D.C., means you're all facing some serous time in Supermax … or worse.”

“I didn't know about the nukes!”
Walker almost screamed the words.

“Gently, Mr. Walker, gently. Mr. Preston has already decided to eliminate you and Mr. Delaney. That
is
Robert Delaney standing right beside you, isn't it? Yes, I thought so. As I said, Preston is going to get rid of the Program members who want to back out. Keep your voice down, or he may send his cartel thugs after you now.”

“Please … please … where are you?
Who
are you? FBI?”

“Look down at your jackets, please.”

Walker did so, and his eyes widened again as he saw three red pinpoints of light dancing across his chest … and four more on Delaney's jacket. Delaney saw them as well and jumped as if he'd been burned.

“We are people who could save Preston the trouble and terminate you both immediately,” the voice said. “However, we've been listening in on your conversations, and we know you were trying to stand up to Preston a moment ago. We can offer you a chance to get out.”

Walker locked eyes with Delaney. The banker couldn't hear the full conversation, but he probably had a good idea of what was going on.

“Yes. Yes! I want out! I'll give you a statement, sworn testimony … whatever you want.”

“Very well. Do not return to your cabin. Instead, turn to your right and begin walking. We'll talk again in a few moments.”

“Wait!” Delaney said as Walker turned. “James! Who was that? Where are you going?”

Delaney's cell phone chirped.

“You'd better answer that, Bob,” Walker said. “It's for you…”

TELLER

BOHEMIAN GROVE

MONTE RIO, CALIFORNIA

0215 HOURS, PDT

“What I don't understand, Mr. Walker,” Teller said, “is what the hell you people thought you'd get out of this.”

They were inside a caterer's van parked outside the main lodge. Teller and Procario had entered the Bohemian Grove the day before, getting past the rent-a-cops at the gate with a pass signed by the Grove's owners in San Francisco. The assault team had been able to get through security by posing as caterers for the July VIP event, bringing in their equipment ahead of time.

The Grove owners had been willing enough to cooperate when the FBI flashed their badges. The last thing the prestigious club wanted right now was a scandal, especially one involving club members who'd rented the Grove for an off-season retreat. Once inside, four ISA commandos had taken over the security office, tying and gagging the officers there. Procario, Teller, and Captain Marcetti had turned the caterer's van into their command post. From there, they'd been tracking the members of the Program throughout the camp, watching a flat-screen monitor that showed the ID'd locations of each of the Program's members and listening in on their conversations through their Cellmap-infested phones.