with catapults. Who cares? The only things that matter, as far as I’m concerned, are that she makes the kill without using a modern firearm; and that she brings home my mammoth, so I can put it on my wall.”
Fogarty then looked up at Bulatt as he listened to Hateley’s response.
“No, I can’t come with her; I’ve got surgery scheduled for tomorrow, and I have no intention of being crippled for life because I put it off,” Fogarty said. “But I will see to it that she arrives at the airport tomorrow, well before ten, with her fiance — ”
Fogarty hesitated. “His name is Gediminas Bulattus, a Lithuanian-American, nice fellow; and yes, of course he’s going with her! What did you think — that I was going to send my only daughter out in the wilderness on her own, knowing that Stuart would be there? Be serious! Ged will see to it that she’s safe, and that she brings my trophy back to where it belongs. And then, at our next get-together, we will see who takes possession of the boar’s head!”
With that, Fogarty disconnected the call.
“It’s done,” he said, still staring at Bulatt.
“Did he agree?”
“He was reluctant, as you heard; but the four of us have already made substantial — and non-refundable — down payments for this hunt, and he agrees that I have a right to protect my investment.”
“Substantial meaning?”
“A half-million dollars apiece, with another one-point-five million payable when our trophies are delivered to our doors.”
Bulatt blinked. “Two million dollars each, for what amounts to a baby elephant hunt? Are you people out of your collective minds?”
“At some point in the accumulation of wealth, Agent Bulatt, dollars become little more than illusionary numbers in a ledger; things that you use but don’t really much care about,” Fogarty explained. “Those young mammoths, however, are very real and very rare — to put it mildly — and I want one. It’s all a matter of what you value most in life.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that,” Bulatt said. “What about Emerson? How is he likely to take this switch at the last minute?”
“Marcus strikes all of us as being a simple mercenary. I’m sure he won’t care who actually takes part in the hunt, just as long as he gets paid,” Fogarty said. “But what about Carolyn and I? How will you see to it that we have protection — from prosecution, and from Marcus and his men?”
“Larry’s going to take you to the U.S. Attorney’s office tomorrow morning. I’ve already called ahead and let them know that we’re amiable to a deal on your endangered species trophy collection, depending on how things go with this hunt,” Bulatt said.
“But you can’t blame me if things don’t work out.”
“It’s up to us to conduct the covert investigation properly,” Bulatt agreed. “But I wouldn’t want to get out there and discover, in some unfortunate manner, that Emerson and his men — not to mention your CEO buddies — had been warned off. That would turn out to be a much more serious issue.”
“Yes, I understand,” Fogarty acknowledged.
“Carolyn was booked into the hospital as a Jane Doe,” Bulatt went on. “As soon as the both of you have received proper medical treatment, and talked with the local U.S. Attorney, you’ll both be moved to a secure location by the U.S. Marshall’s Service.”
“You mean witness protection?”
“The arrangement I set up isn’t as formal as witness protection,” Bulatt said, “but that program is available to you if you need it or want it. Personally, I don’t think you will. By the time you’re ready to make that decision, we’ll have dealt with Emerson and his men; and both you and Carolyn will be able to go back to living your normal lives, such as they are.”
“And what if you don’t manage to deal with them,” Fogarty demanded. “What if they do manage to escape and ‘go to ground,’ as you put it?”
“In that unlikely event,” Mr. Fogarty, “Bulatt said calmly, “you can take some comfort in the fact that they’re going to be a lot more upset at us than they will be at you.”
CHAPTER 36
McAllister Field, Yakima, Washington
Gedimin Bulatt and Achara Kulawnit were parked on a side road in a rented pickup truck, wearing white cammo suits with drawn-back hoods over the cold weather gear they’d borrowed from the nearby U.S. Military Training Facility earlier that morning. Now they were sitting silently and staring out across an open field at the tarmac where older men were standing next to a blue-and-white-painted helicopter; while two much younger men were helping unload equipment bags out of the rear cargo compartment of a Gulfstream-Four jet.
A light flurry of snow was falling around the truck, forcing Bulatt to use the wipers every minute or so to keep the windshield clear.
About ten minutes later, after the crew of the G-Five secured the cargo hatch, got back in the plane, and began taxiing out to the runway, Bulatt turned to Achara.
“Are you ready?” he asked, and then realized she was staring at him with a bemused expression on her face. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Achara shook her head. “It’s just… this is the first time I’ve seen you without the beard and long hair, that’s all; it takes some getting used to.”
“An improvement?” Bulatt grinned.
“Definitely different,” Achara said noncommittally.
“Right now, I’ll settle for different,” Bulatt said, turning his attention back to the six figures now gathered around the helicopter that — from his vague knowledge of military helicopters — looked like a Blackhawk transport aircraft modified for civilian use. “There’s a good chance that Emerson or one of his men saw me from a distance out at the electronics shop. I doubt that they got a close or clear look; but there’s no sense in making our lives difficult from the onset. And besides, I’m supposed to be a jarhead, remember?”
“You definitely… look the part,” Achara said.
He set the truck into gear and then reached down and released the emergency brake.
“Okay,” he said with a smile of anticipatory satisfaction, “one last time: everything that happened from the moment we stepped off the U.S. Marshall’s transport G-Four yesterday is a relevant part of our cover. We flew into Yakima last night to pick up our field gear at the training center, stayed on base in separate NCO billets — because the U.S. Military’s got a thing about cohabitation — and had breakfast at the mess hall very early this morning, which gave me just enough time to get a ‘trim’ before driving out here. You’re Carolyn Fogarty, the ornery bow- hunting daughter of Sam Fogarty; and I’m Marine Master Gunnery Sergeant Gediminas Bulattus, your indifferent- to-hunting-critters fiance. We first met when you were bow-hunting in southwestern Idaho — where you always hunt, and I was out hiking — and you damn near put an arrow through my head, which made it love at first sight, as far as I was concerned. Anything that’s happened between then and now is none of their business. Got it?”
“Apart from the fact that I don’t think I believe you about the cohabitation rules,” Achara said with a half- smile and a dangerous glint in her eyes, “yes, I’ve got it.”
“And you are going to be able to maintain your character, and a reasonably calm demeanor, even when we meet Marcus Emerson and his men, correct? You do understand that we don’t have any direct evidence that puts any of them at the scenes with your brother or your father; and that we’re going to need Michael Hateley’s cooperation and testimony to take them down?”
“Yes, I understand that we need Mr. Hateley, and that I have to stay in character with Emerson and his men no matter what they say or do,” Achara acknowledged. “But what if things get out of control, and they start shooting at us.”
“If that happens,” Bulatt said, “you’ll have a simple choice: either duck and run, or join me in fighting back.”
Achara smiled. “Excellent,” she said, the dangerous glint still visible in her eyes, “because fighting back that
