Текст книги "Gideon's War / Hard Target"

Автор книги: Howard Gordon

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Gideon's War and Hard Target

“Did you, in fact, requisition FBI property from...

“Yes,” she admitted.

“And did you not, further, transfer possession of said equipment without departmental authorization to Gideon Davis, a civilian with no formal relationship to the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

She thought she’d covered her tracks well. Apparently, not well enough. There was only one thing left to do.

“No,” she lied. “I requisitioned that material for a training op.”

Dahlgren sighed loudly. “I don’t believe you. And when I find out you’re lying to me, I will most certainly hit the send button on your OPR file.”

“But—”

“I can see this is going to require my personal intervention. That makes me extremely unhappy. I have not yet decided precisely what I will need to do to stop your friend Gideon from provoking some kind of public relations disaster. But it will most certainly involve me going down there to speak directly to Mr. Verhoven and appealing to his better nature, so that if he should happen across Mr. Davis blundering around on his property, he will not shoot him.”

“But sir, what if—”

Dahlgren’s glare silenced her.

Nancy Clement returned to her office, closed the door, sat down, and put her head in her hands. What was she going to do? She had to reach Gideon and warn him. Dahlgren would be there by tomorrow and would certainly find him and shut him down. Then it would be her job, and Gideon’s neck. And what if he and his brother had found something? She made her decision, got up, and left the office.

15

ANDERSON, WEST VIRGINIA

It did not escape Tillman’s notice that Jim Verhoven’s compound shared many of the same characteristics commonly found in fortresses. Situated on the top of a tall hill, it was accessible only by a serpentine dirt road hemmed in so closely by pine trees that only one car at a time could pass along it. And then the house itself lay in the middle of a sizable pasture, which would have to be crossed before reaching the house. A well-armed defender in the house could make a lot of trouble for anybody who wanted to cross that pasture. Behind the house were a number of functional-looking metal buildings. In the distance, were two U-shaped berms that had obviously been ploughed up to function as shooting ranges.

When Tillman’s pickup rattled up to the house, Verhoven was in the yard, marching up and down on a parade ground with about twenty young men wearing camouflage uniforms. As Tillman parked, Verhoven barked, “Dismissed!” and the young men drifted off toward a collection of rattletrap cars over near a barnlike structure behind the house.

They shook hands, and Verhoven said, “On paper my unit is company strength, but those fine young men are the core of my militia.”

This was Verhoven’s way of saying that—despite its grandiose name—the Seventh West Virginia (True) Militia Regiment amounted to roughly one understrength infantry squad. Tillman, however, simply nodded a heeeee

“The purpose of the regiment is to protect the constitutional and God-given freedoms of the people in this region,” Verhoven continued. “As I’m sure you’d agree, our freedoms are under unprecedented attack. If the international capitalists and Jews have their way, pretty soon we’ll all just be a pathetic mob of slaves, reduced to penury and servitude while the fat cats in New York City and Washington, DC, drive around in limousines drinking champagne.”

Tillman smiled mildly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with the increasingly passionate Verhoven.

“If the storm troopers ever come here trying to take our guns, though, they’ll very quickly find out that West Virginians don’t cotton to having their rights trampled on.” It sounded like Verhoven was quoting something he’d written in a pamphlet—the kind of thing that he and his crew probably dropped off in truck stop bathrooms throughout the state.

Several cars full of young men rolled by. A couple of them bore bumper stickers on the rear that read DON’T TREAD ON ME. Verhoven tossed a crisp salute to each car as it passed.

“Did you serve in the military, Colonel?” Tillman said.

“I did not have that privilege,” Verhoven said. “I did, however, serve in the sheriff’s office for ten years. Ultimately I became deputy commander of the Hertford County Sheriff’s Tactical Unit. I was offered command of the STU, but by that time I was so sickened by government service I was forced to decline and return to private life.”

Tillman had heard around town that Verhoven’s departure from law enforcement was connected to busting other meth dealers and stealing their clients and product. But he figured that splitting hairs on that point was not going to help his cause.

“My wife, Lorene,” Verhoven said, indicating an unusually tall woman with straight, unnaturally blond hair.

Something about Lorene made Tillman nervous the moment he saw her. She dressed with the sort of ostentatious plainness that Tillman associated with Nazi propaganda posters from the 1930s: sheath skirt, starched white cotton blouse, no jewelry other than her wedding ring. Everything about her seemed demure except for her eyes—one brown, one blue—which had an intent staring quality that he’d seen occasionally in a certain variety of battlefield maniac, the kind of guy who liked charging into machine-gun nests.

“I’m so pleased to finally meet you, Mr. Davis,” she said, fixing him with her freakish eyes. “We’ve heard a great deal about your tribulations.”

Tillman nodded soberly. She had the same excessively formal manner of speaking as her husband.

“I hope I’ve cooked the boar to your liking,” she said.

“I can’t begin to tell you how fine that sounds,” Tillman said.

Fifteen minutes later they were seated at a heavy wood table in a room decorated with paintings of eagles, racks of vintage firearms, and a faded reproduction of the US Constitution.

Tillman noticed that Lorene Verhoven was observing him whenever she thought he wasn’t lookinal A;t looking. He’d turn to try to catch her eye, but at that moment she would look away and busy herself with the dinner. It added to Tillman’s feeling of unsettledness.

Verhoven, meanwhile, had begun a monologue—the conversational form to which he seemed best suited. He talked about the dietary shortcomings of vegetarianism, the history of Persia, the calls of various upland game birds, certain subtle issues in the translation of the New Testament from Greek, the hidden reasons for the formation of the European Union, and the reasons why Jews could not enter the Kingdom of Heaven.

“I am tired of going to bank machines where I’m asked if I want to do business in a foreign language,” Verhoven said between forkfuls of mashed potatoes and roasted boar. “I am tired of seeing hardworking Americans put out of their jobs by illegal foreigners. I am sick of seeing rich men profit from these people. And while I bear no personal grudge against Mexicans, I don’t like seeing my friends living on welfare because nobody hires white roofers or carpenters anymore. I am tired of paying exorbitant taxes. I’m tired of liberals talking about how I’m some kind of bloodthirsty menace to society because I believe in the Second Amendment to the United States Constitution. I’m tired of being unable to turn on a television without exposing my children to a parade of filth and violence and depravity and profanity and vulgarity.”

He paused, his hands shaking slightly with emotion.

This was Lorene’s cue to excuse herself. “I know you have business to discuss,” she said. “I’ve got some cleaning to do in the kitchen. I’ll leave you to it.”

Verhoven watched her go, his gaze both feral and adoring. Then he turned to Tillman. “Feel like stretching your legs?” He did not wait for an answer but stood and led Tillman out the back door of his house onto a small patio.

Gideon's War and Hard Target

The sun had already gone down, but the clear sky still...

Verhoven sounded saddened, maybe a little chastened, as he continued. “I did not come to this conclusion without a certain amount of struggle. You accomplish something in life, you start to get invested in it. Comfortable. Complacent. But there are other minds engaged in the struggle, some of whom are bolder and more ambitious than mine . . .” His voice drifted off.

The night was coming on rapidly. The air was cold and crisp. After a moment’s silence Verhoven said, “That list I showed you in the shop earlier. Maybe we could talk about it in greater specificity in the morning?”

Perfect, Tillman thought. That would give him the opportunity to do a midnight reconnoiter. “Sureth= A8220;Sure. I’ve already made my phone calls.”

“Excellent.” Verhoven scanned the horizon. “We’ve got maneuvers at oh dark thirty,” he said. “Input from a man of your experience could be enormously valuable to my unit. Join us?”

“I’d be proud to help, sir,” Tillman said.

16

ANDERSON, WEST VIRGINIA

Gideon had laid out all of the equipment Nancy gave him on a table in Tillman’s house. He had given Tillman a radio. But it was going to be tricky to use. It went without saying that Verhoven would be more than a little suspicious if he saw Tillman chatting away into a radio transmitter. So Tillman would have to get clear of the house in order to reach Gideon.

The plan was for the brothers to join up at the Verhoven property after Tillman’s dinner and try to find evidence of Mixon’s presence there. The Verhoven property was situated about five miles away as the crow flies, but about fifteen by the circuitous mountain roads he’d have to drive. Although it was cold outside and growing colder by the minute, Gideon was looking forward to the challenge of spending the night in the woods.

After he had checked and rechecked the equipment, Gideon had nothing to do. Tillman didn’t have a stereo or a TV. A cheap banjo hung in one corner on a peg. But Gideon had never been the slightest bit musical. A small shelf of books stood in the corner. There were a few thrillers, but most of the books were military history—everything from the Punic Wars through Afghanistan.

There was no dresser. Tillman’s entire wardrobe filled two cardboard boxes. The only discordant item in the cabin was a tuxedo hanging on the wall covered in plastic wrap from the rental store. Tillman was going to be Gideon’s best man in just a matter of weeks when Gideon and Kate tied the knot.

The threadbare quality of his brother’s life saddened him. Tillman seemed to have so little: neither material possessions nor someone to share his life. And yet, if Gideon were honest, there was a part of his brother’s life he envied. The ruggedness; the immediacy; the visceral thrill of the hunt. Waiting for Tillman to radio him, Gideon felt the excitement he recognized from his time on the Obelisk, and from when he first met with Mixon. He had spent his entire adult life avoiding conflict, and now it seemed that part of him craved it.

As he was musing, his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognize the number.

He answered the phone and a female voice returned: “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a pay phone in America today?”

“Nancy?” he said.

Gideon's War and Hard Target

“Just listen,” she said. “Ray Dahlgren knows everything....

“What about Tillman? Does he know about Tillman?”

“No.”

“When’s he coming?”

“Don’t know. It’s a two-hour drive up to Verhoven’s place. My guess is that he’ll wait until the morning. But whatever you’re going to do, you’ve got tonight to do it. Tomorrow will be too late.”

“I’m waiting for Tillman to contact me.”

“I think he should just clear out, Gideon. Both of you should.”

Gideon thought about it. “I can’t reach him right now.”

“Then get him out as soon as you can. It’s not worth it.”

“Are you serious about Dahlgren bugging your phone?”

“He’s threatening to open an OPR file on me. He wouldn’t even need a warrant, not for an internal investigation. FBI agents give up their rights on that score when they sign on to the job.”

“Then how can I reach you?”

“I’ll contact you.” Nancy’s voice sounded shaky.

“But—”

The phone went dead.

Dammit, Gideon thought, gathering up the FBI surveillance package. I better get over there.

17

ANDERSON, WEST VIRGINIA

Lorene was a night owl. Tillman could hear her moving about the house after he went to bed. He could tell it was Lorene because Verhoven called out for her a couple of times. Finally, she stopped prowling and returned to the bedroom, for which Tillman was grateful. But then the bedroom gymnastics began. Lorene was a howler, and just when Tillman thought she had finished, she started up again. It seemed like several hours before all was quiet and Tillman could finally begin looking for Mixon.

He got up and slipped out of his room, then eased down the front hallway to the door.

Gideon had given him an aerial photo of the property. Verhoven owned several hundred acres, most of it in hardwood timber. But in the center was a clearing of fifteen or twenty acres surrounding Verhoven’s house. Behind the house was a horse barn, a toolshed, and some other outbuildings. Another 150 yards away—toward the front of the property—lay a long shedlike barracks where the “soldiers” bivouacked. As far as Tillman could tell, there were a good twenty young men in the building, staying there in preparation for the maneuvers in the morning.

The air was cold and clear, and a thin sliver of moon gave Tillman just enough light to move around the property without using a flashlight.

He crossed the grass to the horse barn. Once he was out of earshot of the house, he screwed the radio Gideon had given him into his ear. It looked like a Blue tiiiii T‡tooth for a cell phone but it wasn’t. According to Gideon, it ran an encrypted signal on a law enforcement frequency, with an operational range of around a mile.

“I thought you’d fallen asleep.” Gideon’s voice came out of the earpiece. “I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

“I got detained,” Tillman said. “Give me a sit-rep.”

“Change of plans,” said Gideon. “We have until dawn to find Mixon.”

“That’s not a lot of time.”

“Long story, but Nancy’s boss is coming down here looking for me.”

“So where do we start?”

“There’s a guard stationed at the gate on the gravel road coming up from the highway,” Gideon said. “He’s armed with an AK. The lights went off in the barracks shed about three hours ago.”

“Dogs?”

“Nope. I guess Verhoven’s a cat person.”

“That explains a lot,” Tillman said.

Gideon chuckled. “Stay on the radio.”

Tillman headed into the horse barn. Three horses slept in their stalls. They didn’t even stir at his entrance. He began checking the floor for trapdoors. With all the straw on the floor, it was a painstaking business. The cold was already seeping into his bones.

The brothers had agreed that Tillman would take the area closest to the house and the interior buildings while Gideon scouted the perimeter and the roads. The Verhoven property was vast. Tillman wasn’t sure quite where the edges of the property were, but it was clearly well over a hundred acres. Maybe several hundred. After the stables, he searched the barn, and the hayloft. Soon, it was 3:15 A.M. The barracks shed was situated near the gate at the front of the property where upward of a dozen of Verhoven’s “soldiers” were spending the night. And after his eyes had adjusted to the light, he had seen that one of the young men was actually standing post at the gate, guarding against interlopers. Which meant he not only had to be quiet, but he also had to move slowly and carefully so as not to attract attention.

Next came a low crawl to the last of the outbuildings clustered near Verhoven’s house. Despite the cold, a thin sheen of perspiration covered his brow by the time he’d reached the shed. It contained a tractor, a hay baler, an aging International Harvester stake-bed truck, and a white van with ladders on the top. There was no evidence of any sort of basement, no blood, no handcuffs, no evidence anybody had been tied to a wall or chained to a floor.

He peeked out the various windows, surveying as much of the property as he could, and saw nobody. A sudden idea came to him, and he raised his radio, his voice low. “What’s your twenty?”

Gideon’s voice answered, “I’m up in the woods about a quarter mile west of you.”

“Is there a guard at the gate?”

“Yeah, but he looks like he’s sleeping. You find anything?”

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“Zilch. No blood, no hidden rooms, no nothing.”

“Maybe they’ve got him in that barracks shed with his militia guys.”

“Doesn’t make sense,” Tillman said. “He’s creating twenty potential witnesses to a federal crime if he sticks him down there. You think he trusts all twenty of his guys that much?”

“Not likely. What about the house? Maybe there’s a basement.”

“No, it’s just a typical old farmhouse with a crawl space underneath. There’s no basement. But I have an idea where Mixon might be.”

“I’m listening,” Gideon said.

“Verhoven cooks crystal meth, right? So where does he make it? I didn’t see any evidence of chemical manufacturing, no test tubes, no beakers, no pressure vessels. Didn’t even smell anything. I mean supposedly meth cooking is the most horrible-smelling thing in the world.”

Gideon didn’t respond for a moment. “Maybe there’s another property somewhere. He might have a cabin up in some holler or something.”

“What if it’s underground? There’s some kind of entrance up near the shooting range.”

“Worth a try,” Gideon said. “But I still have to scout twenty percent of my grid.”

“I’ll check it out.” During their conversation, Tillman had been making his way toward the front gate where he saw the guard Gideon had spotted. Gideon was right: The kid was totally motionless, slumped over in his seat. Probably dead asleep.

Still, he couldn’t take any chances. He dropped to his knees and high-crawled toward a pair of berms four or five hundred yards away. After he’d crawled ten feet, he flattened out, surveyed his surroundings for about a minute, then crawled another slow ten feet. Hunting boar was one thing, but this excruciatingly slow process made him realize how old he’d gotten since he’d last done this as a sniper. Five hundred yards was a hell of a long way at this pace. But it was the only way. He sighed and began to crawl again.

Gideon walked slowly through the woods, surveying the rest of the grid he was responsible for searching. He didn’t like letting Tillman out of his sight, but he had no choice. Mixon could be anywhere, and time was running out. The woods were filled with trails leading from Verhoven’s house. Where did they go? he wondered. If there was a meth factory here somewhere, one of the trails might lead to it. It was a lot of ground to cover in the few hours before dawn.

He began walking slowly up the path, one step, then another, wait, watch, then another step. Gideon’s father had taught the boys to move through the forest like that when still-hunting. It was slow, but it was the only way to be relatively sure of not blundering into anybody before you saw them.

The woods were dark and frightening. Now that he was moving, he had warmed up a little. But still he was freezing. It occurred to him that he could hike right out of these woods, climb in his car, and head home. If he left right this second, he could be lying next to Kate before the sun even cracked the horizon.

But of course he wasn’t going to do that. Not to Tillman. Not after dragging him here against his will.

He sighed. He couldn’t tamp down the creeping feeling, though, that this might be a total waste of time. And a dangerous one at that.

Tillman reached the shooting range around 5:30 A.M. On one side was a two-hundred-yard rifle range, while the other was a smaller pistol range surrounded by a U-shaped berm. Between them was a small metal shed, chained shut and padlocked. He tried briefly to jimmy the lock. He’d taken a lock-picking course once when he was in the Special Forces. But apparently lock picking was a perishable skill, and he hadn’t practiced five times since the class was over.

He finally gave up and worked his way around the building. The shed was built on a concrete pad, with a tiny gap underneath. If he shined his flashlight under the gap, he’d be able to look around inside the shed. He also might wake the sleeping guard.

It was taking a chance, but he was close to half a mile from the house by now. He lay down, probed the interior of the shed with the light. There were some steel shooting plates, some target racks, a couple of five-gallon buckets—probably filled with range brass. But no Mixon. And no sign he might have been here.

There was only one more structure in the area, a tiny concrete shed about four feet high. He was puzzled until he reached it. The far side of the minuscule structure was open. It was a trap house: inside was a small machine for throwing shotgun clays into the air. Only then did he see that the field behind it was littered with smashed bits of orange: thousands and thousands of shattered clay pigeons, barely visible in the moonlight.

He looked at his watch. He realized he needed to be getting back. He would have to get back inside Verhoven’s house, and then make some excuse to leave early—before Nancy’s boss showed up.

It was two hundred yards back to the shooting range, and another four hundred to the house. No way he’d have time to crawl it. He circled behind the berm at the back of the rifle range, putting himself out of view of the house, then jogged quietly to the rear of the shooting range. When he reached the far side of the berm, he spotted something that made his heart shift into high gear.

Lorene was walking swiftly up the trail toward him. And she was carrying a rifle.

He barely had enough time to remove his radio earpiece before Lorene raised the gun and pointed it at him. “Lorene?” Tillman said.

“Why are you sneaking around the property?” The carbine in her hands was still pointed at him.

“Thought I’d get up and take a look at the terrain before maneuvers started,” he said.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” she said.

“I told you—”

“What are you really doing?” Lorene’s crazy two-tone eyes narrowed as she stepped toward him. “And don’t feed me some bullshit. My husband’s a good man, but he can sometimes be a bit naïve.”