BREWER SAID, “This exchange took place two weeks prior to John Garrett’s death near Lander. Obviously, Klamath came to his senses at the end there and tried to cover his enthusiasm for the concept. And by the next day, the entire thread had been pulled from the Forum page. Luckily, my tech guys had somehow automatically archived it during the night so we have it. Did you note the reference to gambling? Gamblers use poker chips.”
Joe was suddenly wide awake, his mind spinning.
“Obviously,” Brewer said, “we don’t have enough to make any charges or even a serious accusation at this point. But when we saw this we wanted to trace the IP address of Wolverine and see if we could find him. That was beyond our expertise, so we turned to our brothers in law enforcement who are proficient in this kind of thing,” he said, gesturing to Portenson, who was now smoldering.
“I’ll take it from here,” Rulon said, “since it is now three-twenty-five and my friends in the press are clamoring to take a chunk out of me just outside the door.”
The governor pushed his face across the desk as if it were a balled fist, aiming it at Portenson. As he spoke, his voice didn’t rise so much as get harder-edged, until he was biting off his words and spitting them out, flecking the top of his desk and Brewer’s file with moisture.
“So my DCI takes the information to the FBI just down the street, where we get absolutely stonewalled. In the meantime, another innocent man, Frank Urman, gets butchered, which leads to three more deaths last night in a clusterfuck and a severed head mounted on a wall. Finally, we get our entire congressional delegation on the same line this morning and pressure is applied by them on Homeland Security to such a degree that Mr. Portenson and his pals
“We can say to the press out there,” Rulon continued, “without equivocation, that if the FBI had cooperated with us when we first asked for cooperation we might not be here today.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Portenson seethed. “We had no idea this Wolverine person was going to start killing people—and we still don’t know it was him. We have no idea who Wolverine is. We don’t even know if he’s in this country. The IP address he used was from one of those Internet kiosks in the Atlanta airport, so we can’t trace him. You’re speculating and trying to point the finger at us.”
Rulon nodded his agreement.
“Who do you have on the inside?” Joe asked Portenson.
“Oh,” the agent replied, deflated, “some guy. I can’t give you his name. But we asked him a couple of weeks ago to see if he could figure out who Wolverine is. He’s working on it, but he doesn’t know yet.”
“We need his name,” Joe said. “I need to talk with him.”
“Not a chance,” Portenson said. “We’re in the middle of breaking this thing. This is what we do now—domestic counterterrorism. We can’t blow his cover and put him in danger.”
“A name,” Joe said, thinking of the promise he’d made to Nancy Hersig.
“Stella,” Rulon said calmly, “please go tell the press I’ll be out in a moment with a very big announcement.”
Stella nodded dutifully and stood up.
Rulon said, “Let them know we’ve learned that Special Agent Tony Portenson of the FBI withheld information that resulted in the deaths of six people and the shutdown of state and federal lands across Wyoming.”
“You can’t do that!” Portenson shouted. “You’re out of your mind!”
Rulon arched his eyebrows. “This isn’t the first time someone has said that.”
“I’m this far,” Portenson said, pinching his index finger and thumb together, “from breaking this Klamath Moore thing and getting my transfer out of this hellhole. I should have been moved up a year ago, but it didn’t happen. This will absolutely kill me! This might get me sent to Butte, Montana!”
“What’s wrong with Butte?” Joe said. “I
“It’s where bad FBI agents are sent to die,” Portenson whined.
“That’s your choice,” Rulon said, nodding to Stella to go.
“No!” Portenson said.
She hesitated at the door.
“What do you want?” Portenson pleaded with Rulon.
“Access to all your files on the Wolverine investigation and the name of your snitch so Joe can question him,” Rulon said.
“Okay,” Portenson said as if in physical pain. “You’ve got it.”
“What’s my role?” asked Randy Pope, the forgotten man.
“You stay here,” Rulon said. “I want you in your office leading your agency and deflecting the outrage we’re already getting from constituents about the state lands closure. Plus, I don’t want you in a dicey situation where you might run like a rabbit again. That kind of behavior makes me want to puke.”
“You don’t understand,” Pope said, pleading. “The head was in my room . . . this is personal. I
“No,” Rulon said bluntly.
