Nelson Demille: Wild fire

So all I managed to do was alert the security goons that I’d been inquiring about a restricted file that had nothing to do with what I was working on, which was Iraqis at the moment. But just to mess with their heads, I typed in, “Iraqi Camel Club Weapons of Mass Destruction.”

No hits.

I shut down my computer, secured my desk, grabbed my coat, and walked over to Kate’s desk.

Kate Mayfield and I met on the job when we both worked the case of the aforementioned Asad Khalil, a nasty little shit who came to America to kill a lot of people. He did that, then tried to kill me and Kate, then escaped. Not one of my better cases, but it brought Kate and me together, so the next time I see him, I’ll thank him for that before I gut-shoot him and watch him die slowly.

I asked Kate, “Can I buy you a drink?”

She looked up at me and smiled-“That would be nice”-then went back to her computer.

Ms. Mayfield is a Midwestern girl, posted to New York from Washington, and originally unhappy about the assignment, but now deliriously happy to live in the greatest city on Earth with the greatest man in the universe. I asked her, “Why are we going away for the weekend?”

“Because this place drives me crazy.”

Great cities can do that. I asked her, “What are you working on?”

“I’m trying to find a B and B on the North Fork.”

“They’re probably all booked up for the holiday weekend, and don’t forget I have to work Monday.”

“How could I forget? You’ve been complaining about it all week.”

“I never complain.”

She thought that was funny for some reason.

I studied Kate’s face in the glow of the computer screen. She was as beautiful as the day I met her nearly three years ago. Usually, women I’m with age fast. My first wife, Robin, said our one-year starter marriage seemed like ten years. I said to Kate, “I’ll meet you at Ecco’s.”

“Don’t get picked up.”

I walked through the cube farm, which was nearly empty now, and entered the elevator lobby, where colleagues were piling up.

I made small talk with a few people, then noticed Harry and went over to him. He was carrying a big metal suitcase, which I assumed contained cameras and lenses. I said to him, “Let me buy you a drink.”

“Sorry, I need to get on the road ASAP.”

“You driving up tonight?”

“I am. I need to be at this place at first light. Some kind of meeting going down, and I need to photograph car plates and people as they arrive.”

“Sounds like the mob surveillance we used to do at weddings and funerals.”

“Yeah. Same shit.”

We crowded into an elevator and rode down to the lobby.

Harry asked, “Where’s Kate?”

“On her way.” Harry was divorced, but he was seeing a woman, so I asked, “How’s Lori?”

“She’s great.”

“She looked good in her photo on Match.com.”

He laughed. “You’re an asshole.”

“What’s your point? Hey, where is this place?”

“What place? Oh… it’s up near Saranac Lake.”

We walked out onto Broadway. It was a cool autumn day, and the streets and sidewalks had that Thank-God-It’s-Friday feeling.

Harry and I bid each other farewell, and I walked south on Broadway.

Lower Manhattan is a tight cluster of skyscrapers and narrow streets, which insures minimum sunlight and maximum stress.

The area includes the Lower East Side, where I was born and raised, plus Chinatown, Little Italy, Tribeca, and Soho. The major industries down here are diametrically opposed: business and finance, represented by Wall Street, and government, represented by Federal, state, and municipal courthouses; City Hall; prisons; Federal Plaza; Police Plaza; and so forth. A necessary adjunct to all of the above are law firms, one of which employs my ex-wife, a defense attorney who represents only the best class of criminal scum. This was one of the reasons we got divorced. The other was that she thought cooking and fucking were two cities in China.

Up ahead was a big patch of empty sky where the Twin Towers once stood. To most Americans, and even to most New Yorkers, the absence of the towers is noted only as a gap in the distant skyline. But if you live or work downtown, and were used to seeing those behemoths every day, then their absence still comes as a surprise when you walk down the street and they’re not there.

As I walked, I thought about my conversation with Harry Muller.

On the one hand, there was absolutely nothing unusual or remarkable about his weekend assignment. On the other hand, it didn’t compute. I mean, here we are on the brink of war with Iraq, waging war in Afghanistan, paranoid about another Islamic terrorist attack, and Harry gets sent upstate to snoop on some gathering of rich right-wingers whose threat level to national security is probably somewhere between low and non-existent at the moment.

And then there was Tom Walsh’s nonsense to Harry about file building in case anyone in Congress or the media wanted to know if the ATTF was on top of the homegrown terrorists. This may have made sense a few years ago, but since 9/11, the neo-Nazis, militias, and that bunch have been quiet and actually thrilled that we got attacked and that the country was shaping up pretty good, killing bad guys and arresting people and so forth. Then there was the holiday Monday debriefing.

Anyway, I shouldn’t make too much of this, though it was a little odd. Basically, it is none of my business, and every time I ask too many questions about things that seem odd at 26 Federal Plaza, I get into trouble. Or, as my mother used to say, “John, Trouble is your middle name.” And I believed her until I saw my birth certificate, which said Aloysius. I’ll take Trouble over Aloysius any day.

I turned onto Chambers Street and entered Ecco’s, an Italian restaurant with a saloon atmosphere-the best of both worlds.

The bar was crowded with suited gentlemen and ladies in business attire. I recognized a lot of faces and said a few hellos.

Even if I didn’t know anybody there, being a good detective and an observer of New York life, I could pick out the high-paid attorneys, the civil servants, the law enforcement people, and the financial guys. I bump into my ex here sometimes, so one of us has to stop coming here.

I ordered a Dewar’s and soda and made small talk with a few people around me.

Kate arrived, and I ordered her a white wine, which reminded me of my weekend problem. I asked, “Did you hear about the grape blight?”

“What grape blight?”

“The one on the North Fork. All the grapes are infected with this weird fungus that can be transmitted to human beings.”

She apparently didn’t hear me and said, “I found us a nice B and B in Mattituck.” She described the place based on some tourist website and informed me, “It sounds really charming.”

So does Dracula’s Castle on the Transylvanian website. I asked her, “Did you ever hear of the Custer Hill Club?”

“No… I didn’t see it on the North Fork website. What town is it in?”

“It’s actually upstate New York.”

“Oh… is it nice?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to go there next weekend?”

“I’ll check it out first.”

Apparently, this name didn’t ring any bells with Ms. Mayfield, who sometimes knows things she doesn’t share with me. I mean, we’re married, but she’s FBI, and I have a limited need-to-know, lower security clearance than she does. On that note, I wondered why Ms. Mayfield thought that the words “Custer Hill Club” referred to a place to stay, and not, for instance, a historical society, or a country club, or whatever. Maybe it was the context. Or maybe she knew exactly what I was talking about.