“And which of them isn’t short of money?” he asked.
No reply.
“And which of them is recent?” he asked. “Which of them could have come close enough to Beau Borken somewhere to get bought off? Sometime in the past? Maybe investigating the robbery thing in California?”
She shuddered in his arms.
“Four questions, Holly,” he said. “Who fits?”
She ran through all the possibilities. Like a process of elimination. An algorithm. She boiled the hundred names down. The first question eliminated most of them. The second question eliminated a few more. The third question eliminated a handful. It was the fourth question which proved decisive. She shuddered again.
“Only two possibilities,” she said.
33
MILOSEVIC AND BROGAN were strapped side by side in the rear of the Air Force chopper. McGrath and Johnson and the General’s aide were crushed into the middle row of seats. The aircrew were shoulder to shoulder in the front. They lifted off from Silver Bow and clattered away northwest over the town of Butte, nose down, low altitude, looking for maximum airspeed. The helicopter was an old Bell, rebuilt with a new engine, and it was pushing a hundred and twenty miles an hour, which made for a lot of noise inside. Consequently McGrath and Johnson were screaming into their radio mikes to make themselves understood.
McGrath was patched through to the Hoover Building. He was trying to talk to Harland Webster. He had one hand cupped over the mike and the other was clamping the earphone to his head. He was talking about the missile unit. He didn’t know if Webster was hearing him. He just repeated his message over and over, as loud as he could. Then he flicked the switch and tore off the headset. Tossed it forward to the copilot.
Johnson was talking to Peterson. Radio contact had not been restored. He limited himself to requesting an update by secure landline direct to the mobile command post in two hours’ time. He failed to decipher the reply. He pulled off his headset and looked a question at McGrath. McGrath shrugged back at him. The helicopter clattered onward.
HARLAND WEBSTER HEARD the shrieking din cut off. He hung up his phone in the sudden silence of his office. Leaned forward and buzzed his secretary.
“Car,” he said.
He walked through to the elevator and rode down to the garage. Walked over to his limousine. His driver was holding the door for him.
“White House,” he said.
This time, the driver said nothing. Just fired it up and eased out of the garage. Bumped up and out into the afternoon rush. Crawled the sixteen hundred yards west in silence. Webster was directed to the same off-white room. He waited there a quarter hour. Dexter came in. Clearly not pleased to see him back so soon.
“They’ve stolen some missiles,” Webster said.
“What missiles?” Dexter asked.
He described everything as well as he could. Dexter listened. Didn’t nod. Didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t react. Just told him to wait in the room.
THE AIR FORCE Bell put down on a gravel turnout two hundred yards south of where the road into Yorke narrowed and straightened into the hills. The pilot kept the engine turning and the five passengers ducked out and ran bent over until they were out of the fierce downdraft. There were vehicles on the road ahead. A random pattern of military vehicles slewed across the blacktop. One of them was turning slowly in the road. It turned in the narrow space between the rocky walls and straightened as it approached. It slowed and halted fifty yards away. General Johnson stepped out into view. The car moved forward and stopped in front of him. It was a new Chevrolet, sprayed a dull olive green. There were white stenciled letters and figures on the hood and along the sides. An officer slid out. He saluted the General and skipped around to open all the doors. The five men squeezed in and the car turned again and rolled the two hundred yards north to the mess of vehicles.
“The command post is on its way, sir,” the officer said. “Should be here inside forty minutes. The satellite trucks are an hour behind it. I suggest you wait in the car. It’s getting cold outside.”
“Word from the missile unit?” Johnson asked.
The officer shook his head in the gloom.
“No word, sir,” he said.
WEBSTER WAITED MOST of an hour. Then the door of the small off-white room cracked open. A Secret Service agent stood there. Blue suit, curly wire running up out of his collar to his earpiece.
“Please come with me, sir,” the agent said.
Webster stood up and the guy raised his hand and spoke into his cuff. Webster followed him along a quiet corridor and into an elevator. The elevator was small and slow. It took them down to the first floor. They walked along another quiet corridor and paused in front of a white door. The agent knocked once and opened it.
The President was sitting in his chair behind his desk. The chair was rotated away and he had his back to the room. He was staring out through the bulletproof windows at the darkness settling over the garden. Dexter was in an armchair. Neither asked him to sit down. The President didn’t turn around. As soon as he heard the door click shut, he started speaking.
“Suppose I was a judge,” he said. “And suppose you were some cop and you came to me for a warrant?”
Webster could see the President’s face reflected in the thick glass. It was just a pink smudge.
“OK, sir, suppose I was?” he said.
“What have you got?” the President asked him. “And what haven’t you got? You don’t even know for sure Holly’s there at all. You’ve got an undercover asset in place and he hasn’t confirmed it to you. You’re guessing, is all. And these missiles? The Army has lost radio contact. Could be temporary. Could be any number of reasons for that. Your undercover guy hasn’t mentioned them.”
“He could be experiencing difficulties, sir,” Webster said. “And he’s been told to be cautious. He doesn’t call in with a running commentary. He’s undercover, right? He can’t just disappear into the forest any old time he wants to.”
The President nodded. The pink smudge in the glass moved up and down. There was a measure of sympathy there.
“We understand that, Harland,” he said. “We really do. But we have to assume that with matters of this magnitude, he’s going to make a big effort, right? But you’ve heard nothing. So you’re giving us nothing but speculation.”
Webster spread his hands. Spoke directly to the back of the guy’s head.
“Sir, this is a big deal,” he said. “They’re arming themselves, they’ve taken a hostage, they’re talking about secession from the Union.”
The President nodded.
“Don’t you understand, that’s the problem?” he said. “If this were about three weirdos in a hut in the woods with a bomb, we’d send you in there right away. But it isn’t. This could lead to the biggest constitutional crisis since 1860.”
“So you agree with me,” Webster said. “You’re taking them seriously.”
The President shook his head. Sadly, like he was upset but not surprised Webster didn’t get the point.
“No,” he said. “We’re not taking them seriously. That’s what makes this whole thing so damn difficult. They’re a bunch of deluded idiots, seeing plots everywhere, conspiracies, muttering about independence for their scrubby little patch of worthless real estate. But the question is: how should a mature democratic nation react to that? Should it massacre them all, Harland? Is that how a mature nation reacts? Should it unleash deadly force against a few deluded idiot citizens? We spent a generation condemning the Soviets for doing that. Are we going to do the same thing?”
