Nelson Demille - Wild fire

One of the guys replied, “The black Jeep did a recon ten minutes ago, and the driver asked us what we were doing.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him we were clearing brush and leaves, which are potential fuel sources for forest fires started by careless motorists throwing lit smoking materials out the window.”

“Did he buy it?”

“He seemed skeptical. Said no one had done that before. I told him the risk of forest fires was very high this year.”

“Okay. Tell you what-call Captain Stoner and tell him I want two highway repair crews here filling potholes. Real highway workers, with two troopers along, dressed like road crew and leaning on their shovels like they do.”

The trooper smiled. “Yes, sir.”

“Then you guys take off.”

“Yes, sir.”

Schaeffer continued toward Route 56 and said to us, “I think Madox is on to this surveillance by now.”

I replied, “He’s been on to the fact that he’s under surveillance since Harry Muller got caught on his property Saturday morning.”

Schaeffer pointed out, “We don’t know that Harry Muller got caught on his property.” He inquired, “Why was your friend sent here to gather information on Madox’s guests?”

“I don’t know, and neither did he.” I explained, “I spoke to him before he drove up here.”

Schaeffer probably thought he was going to get some information from us in exchange for saving us from Liam Griffith and taking us to the crime scene. So, to give him something that he should have had anyway, I said, “Harry was also supposed to check out the airport. Flight manifests and car rentals. The Feds will, or have already done that. You should do the same before that information disappears.”

He didn’t reply, so I added, “Kate and I happen to know that some VIPs from Washington arrived at the airport and may have gone to the Custer Hill Club.”

He glanced at me.

When you think you might be pulled from a case because you’re stepping on the wrong toes, you need to pass on the info to someone who might run with it-or at least hold it until they decide what to do with it.

I gave Schaeffer another tip. “You should keep the information about your Custer Hill surveillance to yourself for a while.”

Again, no reply. I think he’d be a little more chatty without an FBI agent in his backseat. But I’d said what I had to say, and I’d repaid him for his favors. What was written in Harry’s pocket was not information that Major Schaeffer needed to know.

Now it was my turn, so I asked Schaeffer, “Do you know this guy Carl? Sort of Madox’s right-hand man, or maybe bodyguard.”

Schaeffer shook his head. “I don’t know anyone at that lodge. As I said, his security people are not local. He has his barracks where he keeps them, and they probably do a week on, then go home, then back for another week or so of duty. As for the house staff, I have the impression they’re not from around here either.”

That was interesting.

“There’s more population north of here, outside the state park, starting with Potsdam, then Massena. In fact, the Canadian border is less than fifty miles from where we are right now, and I know that a lot of Canadians commute to work in the tourist industry here. So, if I was Madox and I wanted staff from out of the area, I’d go whole hog and get them from out of the country so that their gossip was not likely to travel back here.”

I hadn’t met any of the house staff, and I can’t tell an upstate accent from a Canadian accent, anyway. As for the security guys, whatever accent they’d been raised with had been replaced by an affected, clipped, military manner of speaking.

Schaeffer informed us, “I made a call this morning and checked that Enterprise plate number, and the car was rented to a guy named Mikhail Putyov.”

I didn’t reply, so Major Schaeffer said, “Sounds Russian.” He added, “And maybe he’s still at the lodge. No one has left the Custer Hill Club since last night.”

“Right. Aren’t you glad you did that surveillance?”

Major Schaeffer ignored that. “The guy I spoke to at Enterprise said two FBI agents, a man and a woman, came around yesterday and got copies of all his rental agreements. Do you know anything about that?”

I asked evasively, “How did he describe them?”

“He said the guy was hitting on Max, the Hertz lady, and the woman was very pretty.”

“Who could that be?” I wondered aloud, knowing I was in more trouble from the backseat than from Liam Griffith. Thanks, Major.

Kate spoke up. “I guess that was us.”

I asked Schaeffer, “Didn’t I mention that when we spoke?”

“No.”

“Well, I meant to.”

I looked at the dashboard clock and saw it was 10:15 A.M. I said to Major Schaeffer, “By the way, this guy Putyov is booked on the twelve forty-five P.M. flight to Boston. If he’s going to be at the airport one hour before departure, as required, he should be leaving the Custer Hill Club shortly-assuming he’s at the club.”

“How do you know Putyov is booked on the twelve forty-five flight?”

“Didn’t I mention that Kate and I did what Harry was supposed to do at the airport? Flight manifests and car rentals.”

“No, you didn’t.” He reached for his radio.

I said, “Madox’s security guys are certainly monitoring the police band. Use your cell phone.”

He glanced at me, and I couldn’t tell if he was impressed with my brilliance or worried about my paranoia. In any case, he used his cell-phone directory and called his surveillance team. “Anything to report?”

He had the speaker on and the trooper replied, “No, sir.”

“Well, there may be a vehicle coming from the subject property, heading for the airport. Advise our surveillance vehicle on Route 56.”

“Yes, sir.”

Schaeffer hung up and glanced at the dashboard clock, then did what I would have done first and called Continental Airlines at the airport. He got our friend Betty on the line and said, “Betty, this is Hank Schaeffer-”

“Well, how are you?”

“Just fine. And you?”

And so forth. I mean, pleasantries are nice, and it’s sweet that everyone in RFD land knows everyone else and that they’re all related by blood, marriage, or both, but let’s get down to business, folks.

Finally, Major Schaeffer asked her, “Could you do me a favor and see if you’ve got a guy named Putyov”-he spelled it-“on your twelve forty-five flight to Boston?”

Betty replied, “Well, I can tell you without looking it up that we did. But since then, I got a revised manifest out of the company reservations computer, and I saw that he canceled.”

“Did he rebook?”

“Nope.” Then it was Betty’s turn. “Any problem?”

“No, just routine. Call me at the office if this guy Putyov rebooks or shows up. Also, make copies for me of all your flight manifests and reservations for the last six days. I’ll pick them up later.”

“Okay. Hey, you want to hear something? Yesterday, a guy and a lady from the FBI come around, and they want copies of all my flight manifests and reservation sheets. They flew in on an FBI helicopter, so I knew they were for real and they had badges. So I gave them what they asked for.”

Betty went on awhile, then added editorially, “The guy had a real smart mouth, and I gave it right back to him.”

I didn’t recall that I was anything but polite, but even if I was a little smart with her, she hadn’t given it right back to me. Liar.

Major Schaeffer glanced at me and said to Betty, “Well, thanks-”

She interrupted. “What’s happening? This guy said it had something to do with the Winter Olympics.” She laughed. “I told him that was in 1980.” She added, “The lady was nice, and you could see she was kind of fed up with this crackpot. So, what’s this all about?”