Watchers in the Woods Page 2
“Are any of my old classmates physically or mentally able to take a hike in this wilderness area? How did the Agency learn of their planned trip? And are any of them involved with this nutty organization that is training in there?”
“I would think they are all physically capable of a hike. When we learned they were going in, we checked them out for any among them who might have some background in intelligence, but we struck out there. We learned of this trip quite by accident. Tom Dalton is an attorney just wrapping up a long and expensive federal suit—for the defense. He got rich, believe me. He won. Damn good lawyer. A dickhead, but a good lawyer . . .”
“There’s no such thing as a good lawyer.”
Richard laughed softly. “As good as a lawyer can be, how about that?”
“Better.”
“Dalton has been bitching for a month about having to go on a ‘goddamned camping trip,’ quote, end quote. One of his pals has a friend in the Bureau. He mentioned the final destination to the guy and the Bureau man got interested.”
“Why?”
“Why what, Matt?”
“Why did the Bureau man get interested in a bunch of middle-aged men and women going on a camping trip?”
“Because Dennis Feldman and his wife Milli are Jews. Norman and Polly Hunt are blacks. And Cathy Nichols used to be Cathy Marquez.”
“The Bureau man didn’t know that.”
“God damn it, Matt, you just have to press, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. Now level with me.”
“The Bureau has reason to believe that someone in the group going in has been secretly supporting the CWA with large sums of money.”
“Which one?”
“They don’t know.”
“Crap!”
“I really don’t think they do. For obvious reasons, we can let out Dennis Feldman and Norman Hunt. Did you know Cathy Marquez?”
“No. I think Frank met her in college. Is she suspect?”
“Possibly. She’s Hispanic in maiden name only. Fifth-or sixth-generation American. Very well educated, old money, does not speak a word of Spanish, and shows no interest in Hispanic causes. None whatsoever. She does not look as if she has a drop of Spanish blood in her.”
“Does the Bureau think this Tom Dalton is kicking up a fuss about going on the camping trip just to cover up that he’s the money man?”
“Maybe. He’s no supporter of minority causes.”
“Neither am I, Richard. A person should be hired on the basis of experience and ability to do the job, not because he or she is black or white or pink.”
“You’re not blind prejudiced either, Matt. One of your buddies in high school was a black.”
Matt shrugged. “Norm was and probably still is a nice guy. I never gave a damn about his color. We came from the same section of town. Both of us worked in the same greasy spoon.” His grin took years off his face. “We stole hot dogs and hamburgers and Cokes together.”
Richard looked pained. A product of the ‘right school’ before joining the Agency, he came from money. Hunger, poverty, despair were only words to him. “I don’t want to hear about your sordid youth, thank you. Are you interested in going on this camping trip?”
“Not.”
“I think you should reconsider.”
“Why?”
“Susan Benning is married to Tom Dalton.”
Matt stared at Number Two. Good old Agency snooping and leverage. Matt had lost touch with the old gang, had never returned to his old neighborhood after leaving. There was never any reason to go back. He did not know Susan had married Tom Dalton, or anyone else, for that matter. But as beautiful as she had been, and probably still was, some lucky guy had been sure to grab her.
“I’ll think about it,” Matt said.
2
Matt Jordan in no way looked like Hollywood’s version of a secret agent. Secret agents, in truth, come in all sizes and shapes, both male and female. They do not leap tall buildings in a single bound. They do not, with rare exception, confront a dozen adversaries and defeat them all without sustaining a single wound—or dying. Most do not possess extraordinary strength. They are men and women, usually of very high intelligence, who speak a foreign language or two—along with several dialects picked up along the way—and who can call upon great patience. For spying is a tedious business. They almost always have a sideline career as a cover. Engineer, writer, architect, radio or television announcer, mechanic, pilot—take your pick.
On average, they do not like stupid, shortsighted people. They are voracious readers, constantly on a quest for new knowledge. Paper tigers and pseudoheroes do not impress them, for while spying is oft times a very boring business, the men and women in special operations live constantly on the thin line of danger, knowing they are on the kill lists of many subversive groups around the world. Career field personnel almost never work under their real names—they usually have half a dozen documented and provable names—and upon leaving the Agency they change them. In appearance, there is no such thing as the typical spy. Much has been written about the spy being the type of person who can blend in with his or her surroundings. Anybody can blend in if he or she is trained to do so.
Matt Jordan requested and received everything the Agency had on the CWA. He read the reports, retained the names and other important data, and sent the files back to Records.
He buzzed Richard’s office. “I want pictures and current background checks on everybody in this little group of overaged Boy and Girl Scouts.”
“They’ll be in your office in ten minutes.”
“Had them ready for me, huh?”
Richard hung up.
Matt deliberately put Susan’s file on the bottom of the stack, saving the best for last . . . or avoiding confronting old memories, he corrected himself. Back in high school, he remembered with a pang of emotion, he’d had quite a crush on Susan Benning, one that had never quite gone away.
He recalled that it was the girls who’d held their little group together. The boys had just sort of hung around. Milli had been the class character. He recalled her with a smile. There wasn’t an evil bone in her body. Milli liked everyone and was hurt when people did not like her because of her religion. Matt had never really warmed to Frank Nichols. Frank had had a mean streak in him even back then. He was a rich kid whose parents owned a large chunk of Denver. Matt recalled that Frank could be cruel in his remarks.
Wade had been an all-right sort of guy, Matt remembered. Easy to be with. Could have been a superjock but could never take games seriously enough. Matt recalled the final blowup between the coach and Wade. Wade had asked, “How the hell can you take a game seriously?”
Wade was the son of a prominent Denver attorney with lots of old money behind him. The file stated that Wade was now a very wealthy stockbroker living in San Jose. It had been assumed by everyone who knew them that he and Nancy would be married.
Matt did not know the others; but their files indicated nothing out of the ordinary.
When he opened the file on Susan Benning Dalton, her face jumped out at him. The picture was a blowup from a passport print, black and white and stark. It could not hide her beauty.
Matt touched the print with a fingertip. “So how you doin’, kid?” he whispered.
* * *
“Not good at all,” Susan said to Nancy, when asked that same question via long distance.
“Tom still acting the ass?”
“Yes. No. In a way,” she settled on one. “Nance, I was hoping this outing would bring us closer. But I have this uneasy feeling that it’s going to be the old straw that broke the camel’s back.”
“That bad, girl?”
“We’re not sleeping together. That is Tom’s way of punishing me.”
“You’ve got to be kidding! I thought it was the other way around. Not that I ever pulled anything that dumb, if you know what I mean.”
“I know. If they don’t get it at home, they’ll find it somewhere e
lse. And there is plenty to be had out there. No, Nance, I’m going to do my best to make this marriage work. But if it’s time to finally bail out, so be it. I have money of my own, and it wouldn’t put me in a financial crunch to leave him.”
“Hey! How about something on a lighter note?”
“Please.”
“Milli says Dennis is convinced we’re all going to be eaten by bears or attacked by wild Indians. So he went out and bought a gun. He’s taking lessons.”
“Are you serious?”
“Scout’s honor. Milli says the thing is about a foot long—I’m talking about the pistol he just bought—one of those wild west gunslinger guns. It’s a .48-caliber manhunter, or something like that.”
“A .44 Magnum, maybe?”
“Yeah, that’s it! Hey, I didn’t know you were into guns, Susan.”
“Well, I’m not. But I have watched all the Dirty Harry movies.”
“My other line is going crazy, kid. It’s probably one of my heathens. I’ll call you back.”
“I’ve got to go shopping, Nance. Let me call you tomorrow.”
Susan walked out to the mailbox and found a note from the post office advising her that she had several packages to pick up. She drove into town and filled up the backseat and the trunk of her car with them, all packages from sporting goods stores. When she returned home, Tommy and Traci were back from their wanderings, and the three of them had a good time opening all the packages and spreading everything around on the floor of the den. They did not attempt to set up the tents; both looked far too complicated. They would leave them for Tom to figure out.
“Right, Mom,” Traci said, dryly and dubiously. “Sure. Dan’el Boone Dalton. That’s Dad for sure.”
Then they all recalled a recent movie about a bunch of city slickers who went camping and got all tangled up in the ropes while attempting to put up a tent. The three of them were rolling around on the carpet, nearly in hysterics, when Tom came home. He looked at the mess on the floor, looked at the three of them—without a trace of humor in his eyes or on his face—and walked into his office, located off the den. He shut the door behind him.
“Craphead!” Susan said to the closed door, forgetting her kids were listening.
“You got that right, Mom,” Traci said.
“Ditto,” Tommy agreed.
* * *
Matt shook his head when he finished making his notes on the CWA. He lifted his eyes as Richard entered the office and took a seat.
Matt tapped the legal pad. “This is a dangerous group of wackos, Rich.”
“Very. And a large group.”
“Why did the Bureau hand this to us? I’m curious.”
“Why don’t we just say there is a new feeling of cooperation between us?”
“Why don’t we say that is a bunch of crap and then you tell me the truth.”
Richard spread his hands in a gesture of “What? Me hold back from you?”
“Give, Richard. Now.”
With a sigh indicative of his long mental anguish at the hands of field agents, Number Two said, “I was going to brief you on this just before you went in. Knowing you, once you hear it, you’ll want to leave immediately.” He punched a button on the phone. “You know where I am. Bring me the file on the Unseen, please.”
Matt stared at him. “The file on the what?”
“That is not our choice of coding, Matt, believe me. Somebody with a strange sense of humor in the Idaho State Police named it that. But it is fitting . . . in a macabre sort of way.”
Matt leaned back in his chair and sipped at his coffee. He longed for a cigarette, but he’d given them up six months back. Most of his friends had quit. As a matter of fact, he didn’t know very many people who smoked cigarettes or watched TV. One rotted the lungs and the other rotted the brain.
“Something very strange is going on in here, Matt.” Richard tapped the map of Idaho, in a large section of wilderness not far from the famous River of No Return. “A few people have gone in and never come out. Some who do come out are basket cases.” He tapped the side of his head. “Babbling. Deranged.”
“This is connected with the CWA?”
“No. We don’t think so.”
“We?”
“You remember Jimmy Deweese?”
“Sure. We went through the Farm together.”
“He’s one who didn’t come out.”
Matt thought about that. “How long ago?”
“Three months.”
“How come we sent people in?”
“I told you: mutual cooperation with the Bureau.”
Matt suppressed a sigh. Richard was lying, and he knew Matt knew he was lying. Maybe Number Two would get to the truth and maybe he wouldn’t. It was all part of the strange games played in intelligence work. “Rescue attempts?”
“One. They couldn’t find a trace of Jimmy. The Bureau lost an informant in there about a month before our man disappeared. Working together, we hauled in a dozen of the CWA’s top people who had just come out of the wilderness area, and they volunteered to take PSE and polygraph tests. They all passed without a hitch. Even they admitted that they felt, at times, something really strange was going on in the deep timber. Not all the time, but, ah . . .” He cleared his throat and sighed deeply. “It all depends on phases of the moon.”
Matt grinned, then burst out laughing. He laughed until his face was red and tears had formed in his eyes. Still chuckling, he wiped his eyes with a tissue and shook his head. “I should have guessed this was a joke being played on me for my retirement. It’s good, Rich. Who dreamed this up, Jimmy?”
The assistant DCI had not changed expression. “Jimmy is presumed dead, Matt. No. It’s no joke. I wish it were. It’s all true.”
Matt sobered and looked hard at the man. “Rich, are you talking werewolves, for God’s sake? Or Bigfoot?”
Richard shook his head vigorously. “No, no. Of course not . . . nothing like that. I don’t really believe there is anything supernatural about this. Hell, Matt, we don’t know what’s going on in there.”
“OK. All right. The people who have encountered this, these . . . whatever the hell it is, what do they have to say about it?”
“They all report that at first their camps were wrecked, ransacked. After a lot of strange noises in the night. And they all reported the feeling of being watched all the time. When the attack comes, it is very fast, very vicious. They never see their attackers.”
Matt’s look was filled with silent sarcasm. “What are they, Rich—invisible?”
Number Two drummed his fingertips on the desk. “Yes, Matt. Apparently so.”
* * *
“You look ridiculous,” Tom told his wife.
She turned to face him and the light in her eyes was anything but friendly. “Yes, Tom, I suppose I do, standing here in our—my—bedroom dressed in . . .” She picked up a shirt and checked the label. “Battle dress utility—BDUs. But they’re much more comfortable than jeans, and all the others will be wearing them. Tom,” she pleaded with him. “It’s a joke. Can’t you see that? We’re all going to dress up in outdoorsy clothes and go have fun for a couple of weeks. There will be no one around to see us, if that’s what you’re worried about. And even if someone does see us, who cares, Tom?”
He pointed to the mound of clothing and equipment on the bed. “I hope you didn’t order any of that crap for me.”
“As a matter of fact, I did. But you don’t have to wear the clothes. I’ll pack several of your suits, your button-down shirts, and two pairs of wingtips. You can get all dressed up everyday, stand around in the woods, and look like a goddamned idiot!”
He flushed, but recovered and said, “I’ll wear jeans, thank you.” He walked to the bed and picked up a slender box, opening it, then grimaced. “What is this, Susan?”
“It’s a knife, Tom,” she said, a dead flatness to her voice.
“I can see that! Good God. It looks like something Rambo would carry.”
“Not particularly. We’re really going primitive on this outing, aren’t we?”
“We’re going to have to build fires, yes. Although a lot of the cooking will be done on camp stoves, using liquid fuel. But it gets cold in that area even in early summer.”
“I’ve heard those pump-up stoves are dangerous.”
“This is a new kind of camp stove, Tom. The man at the hardware store spent an hour with me, showing me all the new safety features.”
Tom grunted. “Well, let’s see what else we have here. Oh, here’s a fancy compass. Do you know how to read this contraption?”
“As a matter of fact I do. Do you?”
He did not respond to that. “Here’s some heavy-duty flashlights and lots of batteries.” He opened another box. “Well, walkie-talkies.”
“For us and the kids, Tom. They’re very good ones, with a range of about eight miles, probably less in mountainous terrain. But light enough to carry. I’m from Colorado, Tom. I used to spend part of each summer in the high country. You’re a New York City boy. You don’t know what it’s like in the deep timber. And believe me, I don’t mean that as a criticism.”
He ignored that. “Very well-stocked first-aid kit. Bug lotion. Signal flares. A nice book on outdoor survival for the whole family. My, my, a dozen plastic whistles. You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you? What else do we have here? British lifeboat matches. Goodness! They are completely windproof and waterproof. A wilderness signal kit in case we get attacked by hostiles, I suppose.” He picked up another box, opened it, and stared for a moment, a frown on his face. “What are these strange looking things?”
“Cyalume lightsticks, Tom. They’ll burn for hours without producing heat, spark, or flame.”
“Very good, dear. You’ve prepared us for any eventuality. Let’s see . . . magnesium firestarter. Excellent. All sorts of shiny cookware and little funny-looking emergency stoves that I don’t have the foggiest idea how to operate, so therefore I won’t even try. We have water purification tablets, tarpaulins, tent stakes, and ropes of varying sizes. Waterproof collapsible buckets . . . canvas, I’m sure. Sleeping pads and sleeping bags and some of the clunkiest-looking boots I have ever seen. I’ll wear tennis shoes, thank you.” He picked up an object and held it at arm’s length. “What is this stupid-looking thing?”