Текст книги "Fallout (2007)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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According to Grimsdottir, the Gosselin's crew numbered eight: captain, first mate, helmsman, three cargo handlers, and two engineers. It was four twenty. Most of the crew would be asleep, with the first mate and helmsman on the bridge and one engineer on duty in the engine spaces. The big question mark was, who, if anyone, was guarding Calvin Stewart? Had Legard sent a bodyguard or two to mind the prisoner? He would soon find out.

Fisher withdrew the flexicam, then drew his pistol, opened the hatch halfway, stepped through, and pulled it shut behind him. He crouched for a full minute, listening and watching, until he was sure he was alone, then holstered the pistol.

He tapped the OPSAT's touch screen and called up the Gosselin's blueprint. Drawn in green wireframe on the black screen, the schematic was fully three dimensional, and the OPSAT's stylus let him pan, rotate, and zoom the image. He played with it until he found what he wanted: crew's quarters, second level, forward, just below the pilothouse.

He crept to the ladder and peered down, belowdecks, and saw nothing, so he mounted the ladder and climbed upward until his head was even with the deck above. Another passageway. This one, which had no direct access to the weather decks and therefore had no chance of emitting light other ships might mistake for navigation lights, was lit not by red lamps but by wall sconces, which cast pools of dim light on the overhead and deck.

On cat's feet Fisher climbed the remaining few steps, then started down the passage. He counted doors as he went. There were ten, one for each crew member and two spares. The doors were evenly split down the port and starboard bulkheads, five to each side, with an eleventh door–a janitor's closet–in the middle of the port bulkhead. As Fisher had feared, there were no name placards on the bulkhead, so finding which room held Stewart would take more time than he had. It was time to test his ruse.

He walked to the end of the passage and stopped before the last door, where he crouched. From a pouch on his calf he withdrew a thumb-size cylinder of compressed air topped with an articulated and long-stemmed nozzle like those found on cans of WD-40.

Inside, suspended within the compressed air, were thousands of RFID (radio frequency identification) chips, each the size of a grain of sand–essentially RFID powder. Miracles of miniaturization, RFID chips had initially been designed for loss prevention in U.S. retail stores. Each product gets an adhesive tag into which RFID powder has been embedded and each chip, or grain, is equipped with 128-bit ROM, or read-only memory, onto which a unique identification number has been engraved by an electron beam. When a chip, or a sprinkling of chips, comes within range of a detector, the ID number is read and verified as purchased or not yet purchased.

For Fisher's purposes, the good folks at DARPA had taken the RFID powder concept one step further, first by coating each chip's surface with a silicate that acted much like a cocklebur that attached itself to anything and everything, and second by affixing to each grain an external antenna–a tiny ribbon of wire half an inch long and barely the width of a human hair–that extended the chip's transmission range to twenty feet.

As usual, of course, Fisher hadn't liked DARPA's official name for the RFID powder, which contained so many letters and numbers it looked like a calculus equation gone wrong, and had renamed it Voodoo Dust.

He pointed the canister at the deck before the door and pressed the nozzle. He heard a faint pfft. He backed down the passage, pausing at each door to coat the deck with the powder until he reached the janitor's closet, where he turned around, walked to the opposite end of the passage, and then repeated the process, back-stepping until he'd covered each doorway and returned to the closet. He opened the door, slipped inside, and shut it behind him. On the OPSAT, he zoomed and rotated the Gosselin's blueprint until the passageway filled the screen; there, in the black deck space between two notional bulkheads, were several dozen tiny blue dots, each one pulsing ever so slightly. Each dot, he knew, represented roughly one hundred RFID chips. The dots were spread down the passageway, three or four of them per door.

Into the SVT, he said, "Paint job done. Shake the tree."

"Roger," Sandy replied from the Osprey. "On your button four. Ten seconds."

Fisher tapped the OPSAT's screen, calling up the communications panel, then switched his earpiece to the indicated channel. For five seconds there was nothing but static, and then Sandy's voice: "Cargo vessel Gosselin, this is the Canadian Coast Guard patrol ship Louisbourg, over."

Silence.

"I say again, cargo vessel Gosselin, this is the Canadian Coast Guard patrol ship Louisbourg, do you read, over?"

"Yes, Louisbourg, this is Gosselin, we read you."

" Gosselin, I am on your zero-five-one, four nautical miles. Confirm radar contact."

Ten seconds passed and then, "Roger, Louisbourg, we see you. How can we be of service?"

There was in fact a Canadian Coast Guard patrol ship named Louisbourg, and it was in fact stationed in Gaspe, Quebec, but unbeknownst to the Gosselin's captain, Louisbourgwas hundreds of miles south, patrolling the coast of New Brunswick. The ship ten miles off the Gosselin's starboard bow was in truth a Japanese cargo ship carrying DVD players and plasma televisions to Montreal.

" Gosselin, you are in Canadian territorial waters. You are ordered to heave to and stand by for inspection."

"Uh . . . Louisbourg, we are a cargo vessel home ported in Montreal and bound for Halifax. May I ask the reason for the inspection?"

" Gosselin, you are ordered to heave to and stand by for random spot inspection," Sandy repeated, an edge to her voice now. "Confirm compliance, over."

"Understood, Louisbourg. Heaving to. Gosselinout."

Well played, Sandy,Fisher thought. Now, with the tree-shaking done, it was time to see what, if anything, would fall out. If Stewart were aboard and not already tucked away into one of the ship's nooks and crannies, Sandy's threat of a boarding party would likely scare his keepers into moving him.

Fisher snaked the flexicam out the louvered panel at the bottom of the door and switched to a fish-eye view so he could see both ends of the corridor.

Two minutes passed without any activity. Then he heard it: a pair of feet pounding down a ladder somewhere forward of him and above. The pounding got louder until the footsteps entered the passage outside Fisher's door. A man appeared at the forward end of the passage. Fisher tapped RECORD on the OPSAT's screen, then switched the flexicam's lens to regular view and swiveled it to focus on the man, who was now striding down the passage. The man stopped at the fourth door on the starboard side, slipped a key into the lock, then pushed through the door. Fisher heard muffled voices, then a shout, some scuffling. The figure reappeared, now with a gun in his right hand and the bunched collar of Calvin Stewart in the other. Stewart's hands were duct-taped before him. His captor half dragged, half marched Stewart down the passageway, and then they disappeared from view down the ladder.

Fisher withdrew the flexicam and studied the OPSAT's screen. Most of the blue RFID dots remained in the passageway, but four of them–about four hundred chips–had done their job and clung to the shoes of Stewart's captor. The dots were moving aft and down. All hail the Voodoo Dust,Fisher thought.

He rewound the flexicam's video feed to where Stewart's captor entered the passageway, then manipulated the timeline bar, forwarding and rewinding until he had a clear, well-lighted view of the man's face.

"Well, this is unexpected," Fisher whispered.

The face on his screen was Asian–Korean, if he wasn't mistaken.

15

" Iagree," Lambert said in Fisher's ear. "This is unexpected."

Fisher had already compressed the flexicam's video feed and sent it to Third Echelon via encrypted burst transmission. Grimsdottir had quickly isolated the Korean's face, pulled a still frame from the video, and was now running it through the NSA's database–whose reach encompassed the CIA, the FBI, Homeland Security, and Immigration–looking for a match.

"You're tracking them?" Lambert asked.

Fisher checked his OPSAT. "Yeah, hold on . . . They just stopped." As he watched, the cluster of blue dots that represented Stewart and the Korean split in half, one staying in place while the other headed forward, in the direction of the bridge. "Okay, I think they parked him somewhere. Gotta move. Sandy's going to give me twelve minutes before she hails them again. Don't know if they'll move him again, but I'd better assume so."

"Agreed," Lambert said. "Go."

Zooming and panning the Gosselin's blueprint as he went, Fisher followed Stewart's RFID cluster down three decks, deeper into the bowels of the ship, then finally into the aft cargo area. He found himself at the mouth of a long, dark alleyway bordered on both sides by winch-lifted cargo bins, each the size of a mobile home and fronted by a padlocked ten-foot-by-ten-foot door.

He flipped down his goggles and switched to NV, then tracked the signal to the end of the alley and stopped before the last bin on the port side. On his schematic, the blue cluster was pulsing steadily on the other side of the door.

Fisher knelt before the door and went to work. The padlock was tough, resisting his picks for a full two minutes before popping open with a muted snick. He hooked the padlock on his belt, then unholstered his pistol and flattened himself against the bin, opposite the hinges. Using his foot, he swung open the door and peeked around the corner.

There, lying in the fetal position on the floor of the bin, was Stewart. He looked asleep, but as Fisher stepped through the door, Stewart gave a whimper and curled himself into a tighter ball, forehead touching his knees. He started rocking.

"Please, please, please . . ." he muttered. "Leave me alone . . ."

Good Christ,Fisher thought.

He swung shut the door, then knelt down and flipped up his goggles. He touched a button on his web harness, and an LED light came out, casting the still-balled-up Stewart in a pool of light.

"Mr. Stewart."

"Please, please, please . . ."

"Mr. Stewart," Fisher repeated, this time more firmly. "I'm here to help you."

Stewart stopped rocking. He cracked an eyelid and squinted at Fisher. "What?"

"I'm here to help you."

"Who are you? What's going on?"

This was going to be a tough conversation, Fisher knew. He needed Stewart to cooperate, and he couldn't risk taking him off the ship. This man was his only link to Carmen Hayes; she his only link to whatever had gotten Peter killed–and in turn the PuH-19 itself. It was a chain he couldn't afford to break.

He briefly considered using Spigot, but Stewart was clearly frazzled, both physically and mentally. Spigot could turn him into a vegetable. So, how to convince Stewart to remain a prisoner, in what was likely his closest imagining of hell, keep his mouth shut, and play the role of human beacon while Fisher tried to put the puzzle together? There was no easy way to do that. He decided to play it straight.

"Mr. Stewart, I need a favor. Can I call you Calvin?"

"What?" Stewart replied. "What, yes, okay, sure. You're going to get me out of here, right? Let's go . . . now, before they come back."

"Calvin, the favor I need from you is this: I need you to stay here, keep your ears and eyes open, and play dumb."

"Huh?"

"The people that kidnapped you also kidnapped a woman a few months ago. She's a scientist, like you."

"I'm sorry about that, really, but I can't–"

"If I take you off this ship, these people will–"

"I don't care what they will or will not do. Get me out of here."

"Keep your voice down, Calvin. You're a physicist, aren't you?"

"Yeah . . ."

"You know what PuH-19 is?"

Stewart's face changed, his eyes and lips narrowing. "Yeah, I know what it is."

"We believe someone connected to the people who took you and this other scientist have some PuH-19. They've already killed one person with it. We don't know how much they have or what they plan to do with it. You take a coffee can full of that stuff, disperse it in a city . . . Well, you know what happens."

"Yeah." Something interesting happened as Fisher watched Stewart's face. The color returned to his skin, and the muscles on both his jaws bunched. He took a deep breath and said, "PuH-19. You're sure?"

Fisher nodded.

"Oh, God," Stewart rasped. "Good God, I was afraid of that."

"If you can hang on for just a little while longer, we can put the pieces together and track these people down. But it only works if you stay here and ride this out. I know it's a crappy deal, and believe me, if I could do it any other way, I would. Can you do it?"

Stewart swallowed hard, hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah, I can do it. One thing, though."

"What?"

"Don't forget to come get me, huh?"

Fisher smiled. "You have my word."

Fisher checked his watch. Time was up. He held up a finger for Stewart to be quiet, then said into his SVT, "Talk to me, Sandy."

"The Japanese cargo ship is two miles off Gosselin's bow. We better do it now before they're close enough for a visual. If that happens, the jig is up."

"Go ahead."

Fisher switched comm channels, turned back to Stewart, and said, "In a few minutes they may come back and take you back to the cabin. If they do, I'll come find you."

"Okay."

"Be right back."

Fisher slipped out of the bin and crept to the end of the alleyway. He planted a Sticky Ear at the entrance, set the OPSAT to STICKY EAR–ALERT ON CLOSE PASSAGE, then returned to the bin. In his ear he heard Sandy's voice:

"Cargo vessel Gosselin, this is the Canadian Coast Guard patrol ship Louisbourg, over."

" Louisbourg, this is Gosselin, roger, over."

"Be advised, Gosselin, we have been ordered to break off and assist a search and rescue. You're released; continue on course, over."

"Uh . . . roger, Louisbourg, continuing on course. Gosselinout."

Fisher switched back to the primary channel and said, "Nicely done, Sandy."

"At your service. Standing by for extraction."

Fisher sat down beside Stewart. I've got an alarm set; if they come back, I'll know."

Stewart nodded.

"What can you tell me, Calvin? Who's the Korean?"

"I don't know."

"When did you first meet him?"

"Just when I got aboard here. They had me locked up somewhere, I don't know where. It sounded close to the water. They had a hood on me."

"Earlier, when I mentioned PuH-19, you said, 'I was afraid of that.' What did you mean?"

"That guy–the Korean, I guess–he's been asking me about PuH-19 . . . about its properties . . . how much experience I've had working with it–that kind of thing."

"And?"

Stewart hesitated. "I don't know if I can . . . you know. Classified stuff. Sorry."

"Okay. I'll find out." Grimsdottir will find out.Fisher assumed it was weapons research. "But, suffice it to say, you're an expert on PuH-19?"

"Yeah. I wish I wasn't, but yeah."

An odd couple, Fisher thought. A hydrogeologist and a particle physicist who specializes in what was probably PuH-19-related weapons research. What did the two have in common? At first glance, the hydropart of Carmen Hayes's specialty, combined with Stewart's knowledge of PuH-19, suggested someone had plans to introduce PuH-19 into a water supply, but you didn't need a hydrogeologist for that. One of New York City's primary sources of drinking water was the wide-open and largely unguarded Ashokan Reservoir in the Catskills, and the story was the same for most cities in the United States, large and small. The trick was finding a toxin deadly enough to survive dilution; PuH-19 would certainly do that.

So, again, why these two scientists? What was the overlap in their specialties that had made them targets for kidnapping?

Either way, it sounded like Stewart's Korean interrogator was simply probing Stewart's knowledge level. Stewart showed no signs of physical abuse, which told Fisher that whoever had snagged Stewart needed more than just his knowledge; they needed him alive. They needed his hands-on expertise for something tangible.

Fisher didn't want to think about what that might be.

16

THIRD ECHELON SITUATION ROOM

"GOTa match," Grimsdottir announced, pushing through the situation room's door. She strode to the conference table where Fisher, Lambert, and William Redding, Fisher's occasional advance man and field handler, were sitting. As of late, however, Redding's role had become that of free safety: research, weapons and gear, brainstormer at large. His de facto uniform of the day was a sweater vest, pocket protector, and horn-rimmed glasses that looked as old as Fisher. Though Fisher had never seen it personally, Redding's personal library of books–both contemporary and arcane–was rumored to exceed twenty thousand.

It was eight o'clock at night, and the space was lit only by a cluster of blue-shaded pendant lamps hanging over the table; the monitors and status boards were dark.

Grimsdottir sat down opposite Fisher and triumphantly plopped a manila folder on the table before Lambert. Fisher could see the Take that!gleam in her eyes. Nothing pleased Grim more than besting a technical challenge. Evidently, finding a name to match the Korean face Fisher had captured aboard the Gosselinhad given Grim a run for her money.

Lambert opened the folder and scanned its contents. "Chin-Hwa Pak," he announced. "Ostensibly a North Korean salary man, but the CIA had him pegged as an operative for the RDEI."

The Research Department for External Intelligence was North Korea's primary foreign intelligence collection agency. Along with the Liaison Department, which was tasked with conducting intelligence operations against South Korea and Japan, the RDEI was overseen by the Cabinet General Intelligence Bureau of the Korean Workers' Party Central Committee.

Internal security in North Korea was handled by the Ministry of Public Security (MPS) and the State Security Department (SSD). The latter, which was managed directly by Kim Jong-il himself, specialized in political espionage; the surveillance of citizens, government officials, and visitors alike; and the monitoring of communication systems, including television, radio, and newspapers.

Fisher had been in North Korea five times, and five times he counted himself lucky to get back out.

"So, if North Korea's behind the kidnapping of Hayes and Stewart," Redding said, "we have to assume she's already there and that's where Stewart is headed."

"It would be best if that didn't happen," Fisher said. "If you're right and Carmen is there, reaching her–let alone getting her out–is going to be tough. Grim, where's the Gosselinright now?"

Grimsdottir used a remote control to power up one of the forty-two-inch LCD screens, then tapped a key. The screen resolved into a satellite image of Canada's east coast: Quebec, Nova Scotia, and Newfoundland, including the Gulf of St. Lawrence and the Gaspe Passage, where Fisher had boarded the Gosselin. A pulsing red triangle with the annotation GOSSELIN beside it sat in the channel between the Gaspe Peninsula and Anticosti Island.

"Still headed for Halifax, it looks like," Fisher said.

Grimsdottir nodded. "If she stays on course and speed, she should tie up at Legard's warehouse there in twenty-nine hours."

"The beacon Fisher planted on him–still active?" Lambert asked.

Before leaving Stewart, Fisher had planted a long-range beacon on him: a fake, adhesive thumbnail with an embedded chip. The Voodoo Dust had neither the range nor the durability for their purposes.

"Strong and clear. He's still aboard," Grimsdottir answered.

Brave man,Fisher thought, recalling the transformation he'd seen Stewart undergo at the mention of PuH-19. He'd gone from a whimpering mess of a man to a determined mole in the space of ten seconds. Nor had Fisher forgotten his promise to go back for Stewart. What was in doubt was whether he could do that before Chin-Hwa Pak managed to spirit him away to North Korea.

Lambert turned to Fisher. "Sam, go home, get some sleep, then come back for prep and briefing. We'll want you at Legard's warehouse long before Gosselindocks."

Fisher nodded and started to rise. The phone at Lambert's elbow trilled. Lambert picked up, listened for a few moments, then grunted a "Thanks," and hung up. To Grimsdottir, he said, "Give me MSNBC, Grim."

She worked the remote again. The LCD screen beside the satellite image came to life.

". . . now, reports are sketchy," the MSNBC anchor was saying, "but it appears there is military activity taking place in Kyrgyzstan's capital city of Bishkek. According to a BBC correspondent on scene, about an hour ago the city came under what appeared to be mortar bombardment. Do we have video . . . ? Yes, I'm told we have video, courtesy of BBC news . . ."

The screen changed to a daylight scene of what Fisher assumed was Bishkek. The BBC cameraman was on a rooftop, panning across the cityscape, as the correspondent spoke. In dozens of places throughout the city columns of black smoke were visible. Sirens warbled in the distance, and car horns, both from anxious drivers and alarms, blared.

"These are very concentrated strikes," the correspondent was saying. "Not your typical mortar barrage, I would say. I've been in both Afghanistan and Iraq during these types of attacks, so I'm certain what we're seeing is in fact a mortar attack, but the precision is astounding . . ."

The camera continued to pan, then paused and moved back, focusing a half mile down an adjoining street where what looked like an armored personnel carrier sat burning, a geyser of black smoke jetting from its top.

"There . . . there's an APC that's been hit. Johnny, can you zoom in . . ." The camera zoomed in. "See there, no visible crater near the vehicle. That appears to be a direct hit."

On the screen, a cluster of people, mostly women and children, dashed across the street in front of the APC and disappeared down an adjacent alley. Closer in, an open truck full of soldiers wheeled around the corner, swerved around the burning APC, then turned again out of camera range.

"Government troops are clearly scrambling at this point," the correspondent continued, "but so far we've heard no sounds of small-arms fire, nor seen any close-quarters fighting. However . . ."

"Mute it," Lambert said. Grimsdottir did so. "Here we go again."

Since March 2005, when President Askar Akayev had been forced out of office, Kyrgyzstan had been a political powder keg as various factions, extreme and moderate, religious and secular, had fought for control of the country. As one of the Central Asian "stans" that sat atop what was likely one of the world's greatest untapped oil deposits, Kyrgyzstan's strategic importance to the United States was immeasurable, which was why in late 2005, after signs of the Taliban's resurgence in Afghanistan became undeniable, and a moderate government had finally taken control of the Kyrgyz government, the Bush administration had begun pouring money and resources into Bishkek.

All that changed the following spring with a grassroots rebellion fomented by the Hizb ut-Tahrir, in which an extremist Rasputin-like Uygur warlord named Bolot Omurbai seized power and declared Kyrgyzstan an Islamic republic. Omurbai's rule, which almost immediately returned Kyrgyzstan to a Taliban-style country, lasted less than a year before a moderate rebel army, backed by U.S. and British materials, money, and advisers, toppled Omurbai and sent him and his army running for the mountains. Omurbai was captured three months later, tried, and executed; his army scattered.

"If the BBC guy is right," Redding said, "and that was a mortar barrage, someone needs to hit the panic button. There're only a few ways they–whoever theyare–could get that accurate: eyeballs on the ground to measure and map target points and/or satellite-linked, computer-controlled mortars."

"Bad news, either way," Grimsdottir agreed.

If rebels had in fact infiltrated the Kyrgyz government so thoroughly they had perfectly pinpointed targets in the capital, the government's underpinnings were already crumbling. Worse still, if Redding was right and the rebels had gotten their hands on sophisticated weaponry, it was likely they had more at their disposal than precision mortars. It meant they had money, resources, and a sponsor interested in seeing the moderate Kyrgyz government gone. And the United States, still deeply entrenched in Iraq and Afghanistan, was in no position to help. The good news was, most of Central Asia's oil reserves had yet to be exploited, so there was little infrastructure with which the Kyrgyz extremists could meddle and no oil flow they could garrote. However, that wasn't true in all the neighboring stans. One of the West's greatest fears was a country like Kyrgyzstan falling to extremists and then setting off a domino effect in the region.

"Well," Lambert said, "right now, that's someone else's bad news to address. For us, PuH-19 is still missing. Sam, let's have you back in here in fourteen hours. You've got a ship to meet."

17

HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA

WITHtime to spare, Fisher took a commercial shuttle flight, the last one of the night, from Boston to Halifax and touched down shortly after midnight at Stanfield International Airport. As he walked off the Jetway, he powered up his cell phone; there was a text message from Grimsdottir: CALL ME. URGENT.

Fisher dialed, and she picked up on the first ring. "Change of plans," she said without preamble. "The Gosselinmade a sudden stop off Michaud Point–the southern tip of Cape Breton Island."

"And?"

"And they're moving Stewart. Looks like a small boat's taking him ashore."

Damn.As the crow flew, Michaud Point was one hundred sixty miles north of Halifax; by road, probably another fifty on top of that. "We have any assets there?" Fisher asked.

"One, but he's just an information resource. An old friend, in fact."

"Any airports or strips nearby?"

"Strips, but mostly for puddle jumpers and inland charters. If they're going to get Stewart out, they'd have to do it by boat again or get him to an airport proper. I'm putting both Stewart and Pak on the watch list–observe and report, no apprehension unless directed. If they make for an airport, we'll know it."

"Good."

"How soon can you–"

"Bird and Sandy are en route. There's an airstrip at Enfield, a few miles north up the One oh two. I'm on my way."

GRAND RIVER, CAPE BRETON ISLAND, NOVA SCOTIA

BYthe time Stewart's tracking beacon made it ashore and finally came to rest at what looked like the middle of nowhere on Cape Breton's rugged southern coast, dawn was only a few hours away, so at Fisher's suggestion, Lambert scrubbed the mission. Before Fisher could track down Stewart and Pak and find out what they were up to, he needed to get the lay of the land. According to Fisher's map of Cape Breton, there were no towns or villages to speak of between Grand River and Fourchu, some thirty miles to the north.

Grimsdottir's contact, an old college friend turned history author named Robert A. Robinson–RAT–as Grim called him, lived in Soldiers Cove not far from Grand River with his wife of thirty-five years, Emily.

Robinson, a Middle East policy expert kept on a consultant's retainer by the CIA, was also, despite being Canadian neither by birth nor citizenship, the foremost expert on the obscure subject of Cape Breton Island history.

"He can brief the hell out of you, make a laser out of your cell phone, and recite obscure sci-fi trivia until you bleed from the ears," Grimsdottir had said.

"A jack of strange trades," Fisher said.

"And he knows how to keep his mouth shut. You can trust him."

Fisher's first impulse was to simply follow Stewart's beacon and do his own surveillance, but Stewart and Pak seemed to be going nowhere for the time being and, as Fisher had learned the hard way over the years, the six Ps were unbreakable laws of nature one didn't taunt: Prior Planning Prevents Piss-Poor Performance. Better to know where he was going before he dove in headfirst.

Fisher found Robinson's home, a three-story Victorian that backed up to horse pastures on two sides and a creek on the other, on the outskirts of Soldiers Cove, population 101. It was eight in the morning, and mist still clung to the grass and low-lying bushes. He pushed through the gate in the white split-rail fence and followed a crushed shell path to the front door. It opened as he mounted the porch steps.

A man in a wheelchair, his lap covered by a red argyle blanket, wheeled onto the porch. "Don't tell me: You must be Sam of the no last name."

Fisher smiled. "I must be. And you must be Robert the R AT."

"Ha! I see Anna's been telling tales out of school again." Robinson had a genuine smile and booming laugh. "Come in, come in. Coffee's on."

Fisher followed him down a hardwood hallway into a country-style kitchen complete with a wood-burning Napoleon stove. Robinson wheeled through the kitchen and bumped the chair down two short steps into a four-season sunroom. Fisher took the indicated seat.

To the east, the sun was rising, a perfect orange disk suspended over the horse pasture at the rear of Robinson's property. A cluster of horses were standing near the fence, chewing grass, their breath smoking in the air.

"Not a bad way to start the day, is it?"

Fisher took a sip of coffee and shook his head. "Not bad at all."

" SO," Robinson began, "Anna told me you were a grim fellow, that I shouldn't for any reason cross you if I value my life."

Fisher stared at him. "No, she didn't."

"No, she didn't–but she told me to say she did."

"She's a card, that Anna."

"She is indeed. To business: You're looking for a man; he's somewhere around between here and Fourchu. Can you show me where, exactly?"

Fisher pulled a Palm Pilot from his pocket, powered it up, and pulled up the map screen. Stewart's beacon was marked as a tiny red circle. He showed it to Robinson, who frowned. "Latitude and longitude, please?"

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