“We’re all CEO’s of defense-supply-related corporations. We met at a conference on Government Subcontracting put on by the Defense Department, got into a discussion about our mutual interest in hunting, had dinner together that evening, decided to set up a private hunting club.”
“When was that?”
“I don’t recall exactly; approximately eight years ago.”
“And how often does your club meet?”
“We get together for dinner once a year; usually in winter, at one of our houses.”
“When and where did you last meet?”
“A few days ago, at Michael’s house.”
“Is there any specific purpose to these annual meetings?”
“We… vote on who made the most impressive kill that year, and award the boar’s head to the winner.”
“The boar’s head?”
“It’s a trophy mount,” Fogarty explained. “We went hunting together for boar, on the Kingman Ranch, right after we established our club. Stuart killed the biggest one, and almost got gored doing it; so we had it mounted and presented to him at our next dinner, calling it the Merchant of Death Trophy.”
“Since then, have you all hunted together?”
“No, tomorrow will be the first time all three of us have gotten together in the field since that boar hunt.”
“Why now?”
“We… one of our members went to Thailand a week or two ago, and apparently got into some kind of trouble that resulted in all three of us being banned from hunting in Thailand for a while. As an apology, he arranged for our hunt tomorrow.”
“Who was that member — the one who got in trouble in Thailand?”
Fogarty hesitated. “If I — ?”
“We can stop this conversation any time you wish, Mr. Fogarty,” Bulatt said. “It’s your decision entirely.”
“It was Michael Hateley.”
“Do you know what kind of trouble Mr. Hateley got into?”
“No, he didn’t say. But there was some indication — ” Fogarty paused.
“Some indication of what?” Bulatt pressed.
“Caldreaux told me he’d heard something about some Thai Rangers being killed, and that was why we were being banned from Thailand. Hateley claimed not to know anything about that; but he seemed… I don’t know, uneasy about that part of the conversation.”
“Do you know where Hateley was hunting on that trip?”
“He told us he was in the Khlong Saeng Wildlife Preserve of southern Thailand. That made sense because we’ve all hunted there before; several times, in fact.”
“By yourselves?”
“No, with our hired guides; they arrange the hunts.”
“Do you know what kind of animal Hateley was hunting?”
“He claimed he was going to bring back a trophy Clouded Leopard, bigger than anyone had ever shot before,” Fogarty said. “I don’t think any of us really believed him; but that was, supposedly, his intent.”
“Did he?”
“No, something happened with the shipment; something about it getting lost.”
“Hateley lost his trophy?”
“No, I gather the guides lost it. They’re the ones who always arrange for the transport of our trophies back to the States, and the mounting also. We never travel with — ”
“The evidence of your illegal hunts?” Bulatt suggested.
“Yes, that’s right,” Fogarty said uneasily.
“Who are these guides?”
“They’re — ” Fogarty paused and took in a deep breath.
“What are their names?” Bulatt pressed again.
“Marcus, Quince and Jake.”
“Tell me about them.”
“They’re seriously tough guys, let me tell you,” Fogarty said nervously, looking much paler now. “Probably Australian or British, I can’t tell from their accents. Marcus — Marcus Emerson — he’s the head honcho who makes the arrangements and takes us out on the hunts.”
“Emerson? You mean E-M-E-R-S-O-N?”
“I guess so,” Fogarty said with a wincing shrug, “although that’s probably not his real name; and probably not theirs, either, I suppose,” he added thoughtfully.
“How do we find this Mr. Emerson?” Bulatt asked.
“You don’t, or at least none of us ever has; and we have tried,” Fogarty said. “Marcus finds us, lets us know when the next hunt is ready, tells us where to go; and then shows up in the middle of the night like a goddamned vampire bat.”
“And he’s the one who arranged this alleged mammoth hunt?”
“It’s not alleged,” Fogarty insisted. “I saw them on video with my own eyes. They are real, believe me. Some Russian scientists apparently made four of them for Marcus out of elephant eggs or fetuses or babies, I’m not sure which. And we were going to hunt them — one for each of us. But then we discovered they’re still babies, and that’s when Marcus — ”
“Suggested an old-fashioned hunt, with spears?”
“Yes, exactly,” Fogarty nodded feverishly, and then winced again from the pain he seemed to be causing his shoulder. “But it’s still a perfectly legal hunt, right? I mean it’s not illegal to kill a mammoth, is it?”
“Beats the shit out of me,” Bulatt admitted. “But you’re sure this Marcus character will be there during the hunt?”
“Oh yes, no doubt about that,” Fogarty said.
“But you don’t know where it’s going to be held?”
“All we know is that we’re all supposed to fly to Cle Elum Municipal Airport tomorrow morning with all of our gear — nine o’clock arrival time — and they were going to meet us there and take us out to the hunt location in a helicopter.
“Cle Elum? You mean that little town northeast of Mount Rainier?”
“Yes, that’s it. But I gather the on-going snowstorm up there that has made the airport inaccessible for our planes, so we’re supposed to fly to McAllister Field in Yakima, Washington, instead. After we land, we’ll be taken to the hunt site by helicopter; apparently making it a ninety-mile trip instead of fifty.”
Bulatt looked up and saw Mike Takahara standing in the doorway. “You hear that?” he asked.
Takahara nodded. “Sounds like they’re going to be somewhere due north of Cle Elum; probably up in the middle of the Wenatchee National Forest. Some seriously rough country up in that area; high mountains, dense forest areas, and very few access roads. Bad place to get caught in a snow storm, especially if the temperature starts dropping like it is right now.”
“In other words, a perfect place to hold an old-fashioned mammoth hunt?”
“Especially if you want to shift the odds in favor of the mammoths,” Takahara said, nodding.
“According to Hateley, who was relaying instructions from Marcus, we’re supposed to dress for very cold conditions, and expect an added wind-chill factor; but not to worry about food and shelter because that will be provided,” Fogarty said. “Apparently, the snow is still coming down intermittently; but it shouldn’t impact our planes landing at Yakima, or our helicopter ride to the site. If anything, Marcus expects the storm to conceal our hunt from hikers or low-flying planes, and to force the animals into protected areas where they’ll be easier to hunt.”
“Have any of your CEO friends ever met Carolyn, face to face?”
“No.” Fogarty shook his head. “They’ve see pictures of her when she was… younger, but nothing recent.”
“Who’s going to meet you at Yakima?”
“I don’t know; probably Quince or Jake, one of the two.”
