C. Box - Cold Wind

No one cared who he was or what he looked like, and the elite crowds that washed through the airport daily had no desire to build lasting relationships with the low-level employees within. It was, he thought, the perfect airport in the area to arrive at or depart from without raising an eyebrow.

Plus, it would get him quickly to Chicago.

Phillip was for Phillip Glasier, the author of Falconry and Hawking , one of the ten books he’d once listed to take with him on a desert island. Abbey was for Edward Abbey, author of The Monkey Wrench Gang -another book he’d once have chosen but now that he’d seen more of the world would substitute with something else. Maybe the Art of War by Sun Tzu, although it wouldn’t be the smartest name to put on a phony passport.

He reminded himself of two of Sun Tzu’s rules:

Attack him where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected.

And.

Bring war material with you from home, but forage on the enemy.

The West Sunnyside Avenue address belonged to the ex-governor of Illinois, Rod Blagojevich. That one made him smile.

Nate had not flown commercial since he’d been placed on the FBI watch list, and he’d vowed he never would again. He’d heard about the vaunted and annoying U.S. airport security measures, and made it a point not to pack metal objects or any liquid containers larger than three ounces. He breezed through security after they checked his ticket against his passport, a remnant of the old days that would expire soon. He’d been issued ten of them in different names and he still had two in reserve. He was curious if the agents would question him because he’d bought his ticket with cash, and was surprised they didn’t. Fortunately, they were preoccupied with a woman in her mideighties traveling to visit her grandchildren who had tried to smuggle a large bottle of shampoo aboard in her makeup case.

He sat alone in the departure lounge with his carry-on across his knees and a Bluetooth earpiece in his ear because it seemed like the Phillip Abbey thing to do. He watched the sun highlight different aspects of the Teton Range. When the plane he was to take landed, he watched the incoming passengers as they filed through the doorway. They were wealthy, white, and woodsy folks chattering happily, pointing out to their seatmates through the massive windows where they lived in the valley, discussing the moose on the highway they’d seen in the distance as they landed. Several were already talking on their cell phones or into their Bluetooth devices.

He sighed, and continued to look like Phillip Abbey on this way to Chicago.

“I can promise you nothing,” Joe said to Orin Smith, who sat across from him at a small table in a basement interrogation room in the Federal Building.

“Then why am I here?” Smith asked softly. “Agent Coon wasn’t clear with me other than to say you thought I might know something about your case-whatever it is.”

The room was small, close, institutional light green, and too brightly lit. Joe and Orin Smith were alone in it, although both were well aware of Coon’s invisible presence on the other side of the one-way glass on the south wall, as well as two closed-circuit cameras with glowing red lights mounted in opposite corners of the ceiling.

Smith looked Joe over skeptically. “I’ve never hunted or fished in my life,” he said. “I don’t even like the outdoors. I don’t see the point of going without a hot shower, a cold cocktail, and a flush toilet. As far as I’m concerned,” Smith said, “camping is just nature’s way of feeding mosquitoes.”

“I’m glad we got that cleared up,” Joe said. “But this has nothing to do with hunting or fishing.”

“But you’re what-a game warden?” Smith asked, after reading the patch on Joe’s uniform sleeve.

“Yup.”

“I think you may be in the wrong building,” Smith said.

“Nope.”

Orin Smith was in his mid-sixties and didn’t have an aura that hinted at charisma or confidence, Joe thought. Smith was short and soft with a blade-like nose and wounded eyes that never remained in one place very long. His skin was thin and pale as if made of parchment. Ancient acne scars dimpled his cheeks and fleshy neck. He wore an orange one-piece jail jumpsuit, and boat shoes with the laces removed. Only two things set Smith apart from any other inmate, Joe observed. Smith’s hair was long and swept back and expensively cut into layers designed to hide abnormally large ears, and his teeth were capped and perfect and reminded Joe of two strings of pearls.

“My questions have nothing to do with the charges you’re in here for,” Joe said. “I’m a lot more interested in your former life. Back when you owned a company called Rope the Wind.”

The mention of the name created a reaction in Orin Smith that resembled a mild electric shock, although he quickly recovered.

“I owned a lot of companies,” Smith said, finally.

“Let’s start with that,” Joe said, drawing his small spiral notebook out of his breast pocket. “What I can do, if you cooperate with me and answer my questions, is to put in a good word to the federal district judge. And, frankly, I can ask the governor to do the same. I’m not trying to incriminate you in any way.”

“The governor?” Smith asked. “You know him?” There was doubt showing by the way he cocked his head slightly to the side, canine-style.

“I work for him from time to time,” Joe said. “If you know him, you know there isn’t a person in this state who can guarantee what he’ll do or say, including me. But if you tell me the truth and help me out, I’ll tell him just that.”

“Interesting,” Smith said. “Will you put that in writing and send it to my lawyer?”

“No,” Joe said. “My word is my word. Take it or leave it.”

“I should call my lawyer,” Smith said. “I shouldn’t be talking to you without him in the room.”

“Suit yourself,” Joe said, sitting back. “I’ll wait until he gets here. But keep in mind I’ve got time constraints and I don’t live here in Cheyenne. I can’t guarantee the offer will still stand if you and your lawyer take your time making a decision to talk to me or not. I may not be able to come back here when you decide, and I may not want to come.” Thinking: Please don’t call your lawyer and delay this.

“I drove all night to get here,” Joe said.

“That’s your problem, not mine.”

Smith assessed Joe in silence, looking at him in a detached and quiet way that reminded Joe of a poker player trying to guess if his opponent was bluffing.

“I’ll have to get back to you on this,” Smith said as he stood up. The man walked across the room and rapped on the one-way mirror.

“We’re done here for now,” he said.

Joe cursed to himself as a U.S. Marshall opened the door to let Smith out.

“He’s wily,” Coon said, as they walked down the hallway toward the elevator. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he strung you along for a while and ended up saying nothing.”

“I wasn’t kidding about the time constraints,” Joe said. “I can maybe stay tonight, but not longer than that.”

“What’re you going to do while you cool your heels?”

Joe shrugged.

“If he hasn’t gotten back to you by tonight, you want to come over for dinner? I’ll grill you a steak or a burger or something. You bring beer.”

“Make it a steak,” Joe said. “I know how much more money you Feds make than lowly state employees.”

Coon snorted at that. At the door of the security entrance, Coon keyed the pad and the door whooshed open. “I’ll give you a call if he decides to talk to you,” he said. “Keep your cell phone on.”