Nelson Demille: Wild fire

“How did you get through the fence, sir?”

“Fence? What fence?”

“The fence that surrounds the property, sir, and is posted with ‘no trespassing’ signs.”

“I didn’t see any-. Oh, that fence. Sorry, Carl, I was following a woodpecker, and he flew over, so I found a hole in the fence and-”

“Why are you here?”

Harry noticed that Carl’s tone had become a little less polite, and he’d forgotten the “sir” word. Harry replied, “I’m a bird-watcher.” He displayed his guidebook. “I watch birds.” He tapped his binoculars.

“Why do you have those cameras?”

“I take pictures of the birds.” Asshole. “So, if you’ll point me to where I can exit the property-or, better yet, drive me out-I’ll be leaving.”

Carl didn’t reply, and Harry sensed the first sign of possible trouble.

Then Carl said, “There are millions of acres of public land around here. Why did you cut a hole in the fence?”

“I didn’t cut any fucking hole, pal. I found a fucking hole. And by the way, Carl, fuck you.”

Harry, and everyone around him, realized that he was not sounding like a bird-watcher any longer.

He was about to flash his Fed creds, stand these bastards at attention, and tell them to give him a ride back to his camper. His second thought, however, was not to make a Federal case of this. Why let them know he was a Federal agent sent here to snoop? Walsh would have a total shit fit. Harry said, “I’m outta here.” He took a step toward the forest.

All of a sudden, rifles were raised and pistols came out of their holsters. The three dogs growled and pulled at their leashes.

“Stop, or I’ll let the dogs loose.”

Harry took a deep breath and stopped.

Carl said, “There are two ways to do this. Easy or hard.”

“Let’s do hard.”

Carl glanced around at the other nine security guards, then at the dogs, then at Harry. He spoke in a conciliatory tone. “Sir, we are under strict instructions to bring any trespassers to the lodge, call the sheriff, and have the individual transported by a law enforcement person off the property. We will not press charges, but you will be advised by the sheriff that if you trespass again, you are subject to arrest. You may not, under the law or under our insurance policy, exit the land by yourself on foot, and we will not drive you off the land. Only the sheriff may do that. It’s for your own safety.”

Harry thought about that. Though the assignment was belly-up, he could pull out a little win by seeing the inside of the lodge, and maybe getting a little info there, and a little 411 from the local sheriff. He said to Carl, “Okay, sport, let’s go.”

Carl motioned for Harry to turn and walk toward the Jeeps. Harry assumed they’d put him in one of the vehicles, but they didn’t, so maybe their insurance policy was real strict.

The Jeeps did stay with him, however, as he was directed to the road and up the hill toward the lodge, accompanied by the whole contingent.

As he walked, he considered these ten armed security guards with the dogs, the gatehouse, the chain-link fence, the razor wire, the floodlights and call boxes, and what were most likely motion and sound detectors. This was not your everyday hunting and fishing club. He was suddenly pissed off at Walsh, who’d barely briefed him, and more pissed at himself for not smelling trouble.

He knew he shouldn’t be frightened, but some instinct, sharpened by twenty years of police work and five years of anti-terrorist work, told him that there was an element of danger here.

To confirm this, he said to Carl, who was walking behind him, “Hey, why don’t you use your cell phone to call the sheriff now? Save some time.”

Carl didn’t respond.

Harry reached into his pocket. “You can use my cell phone.”

Carl snapped, “Keep your hands where I can see them, and shut your fucking mouth.”

A cold chill ran down Harry Muller’s spine.

Harry Muller sat across a desk from a tall, thin, middle-aged man who had introduced himself as Bain Madox, president and owner of the Custer Hill Club. This, explained Mr. Madox, was not his day job, only a hobby. Bain Madox was also president and owner of Global Oil Corporation (GOCO for short), which Harry had heard of, and which also explained two of the photographs on the wall-one of an oil tanker and another of a burning oil field in some desert or another.

Madox noticed Harry’s interest in the photographs and said, “Kuwait. The Gulf War.” He added, “I hate to see good oil burning, especially if no one is paying me for it.”

Harry didn’t reply.

Mr. Madox was wearing a blue blazer and a loud plaid shirt. Harry Muller was wearing his thermal long johns. He’d been subjected to a humiliating strip search by Carl and two other security guards, who had cattle prods and promised to use them if he resisted. Carl and one of those two guys stood behind him now, cattle prods in hand. So far, there was no sign of the sheriff, and Harry didn’t think the sheriff was on the way.

Harry watched Bain Madox sitting quietly behind his big desk in the large pine-paneled office on the second floor of the lodge. Through the window to his right, he could see the rising slope behind the lodge, and at the top of the hill, he noticed the tall antenna he’d seen from the woods.

Mr. Madox asked his guest, “Would you like some coffee? Tea?”

“Fuck you.”

“Is that a no?”

“Fuck you.”

Bain Madox stared at Harry, and Harry stared back. Madox looked about sixty, Harry thought, very fit, unseasonably tanned, swept-back gray hair, a long, thin, hooked nose like an eagle’s with gray eyes to match. Harry also thought this guy looked rich, but not stupid rich. There was something about Madox that signaled strength, power, and intelligence. Command and control. And Madox didn’t seem one bit nervous about having abducted and detained a Federal agent. This was not good, Harry knew.

Madox took a cigarette from a wooden box on his desk and asked, “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“I don’t give a fuck if you burn. Call the sheriff. Now.”

Madox lit the cigarette with a silver desk lighter and puffed thoughtfully, then asked, “What brings you here, Detective Muller?”

“Bird-watching.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but that seems like a sissy hobby for a man involved in anti-terrorism.”

“You’re about one minute away from me placing you under arrest.”

“Well, then, let me use that minute wisely.” Madox examined the items strewn across the desk: Harry’s cell phone and pager, which were now shut off, his key chain, the Handycam, the Nikon digital camera, the binoculars, the Sibley bird guide, a terrain map of the area, the compass, the wire cutters, Harry’s credentials, and his 9mm Glock 26, the so-called Baby Glock that was easier to conceal. He noticed that Madox had removed the magazine, which was smart of him.

Madox asked Harry, “What am I to make of this?”

“Whatever the fuck you want to make of it, pal. Give me my shit, and let me the fuck out of here, or you’ll be looking at twenty years to life for kidnapping a Federal agent.”

Madox made a face, suggesting he was annoyed and impatient. “Come on, Mr. Muller. We’re well beyond that by now. We need to move forward.”

“Fuck you.”

Madox suggested, “Let me play detective. I see here a pair of binoculars, a small video camera, a very expensive digital camera with a telescopic lens, and a bird guide. From that, I can conclude that you are an enthusiastic bird-watcher. So enthusiastic, in fact, that you also have these wire cutters in the event a fence comes between you and a bird. Plus, a 9mm handgun in case a bird won’t stay still long enough for you to photograph it.” He asked Harry, “How am I doing?”