Линкольн Чайлд - Crooked River

Gladstone stared at the man. The tired, almost bored look in his eyes made his words all the more believable. She felt herself trembling all over. “Please, Agent Pendergast. Answer his question.”

The general turned to Pendergast. “You heard her plea.”

“You mentioned we were all on the same side,” said Pendergast, his voice cool. “Perhaps if you helped us understand the vital work you are doing here, we might be willing to cooperate without coercion.”

The general looked at him a long time.

Now the woman in the pearls, who had been standing in the back during this exchange, spoke up. “General, I’ve had dealings with this man before. Take care with him — and don’t answer his questions.”

Pendergast spoke again, voice still mild. “I see you were a military man — a three-star, if I’m not mistaken. And Ms. Alves-Vettoretto—” he nodded to the woman standing to one side — “also strikes me as a person who was once military. So let us observe military correctness. Before you do this, it’s only honorable to try persuading us first.”

“General, I strongly advise against conversing with this man,” said the woman named Alves-Vettoretto.

Another impatient wave. “It’s a reasonable request. We’re all patriotic Americans here, after all.”

He sat back in a nearby chair and tented his fingers. “Are you familiar with Project MK-Ultra?”

The road through the swamp was like a tunnel in the darkness, at the end of which Coldmoon could now see the cluster of lights of a gate and guard station. He would have to get around that.

Moving as silently as possible, trying to become his grandfather Joe’s ghost, he exited the roadway and slipped into the warm, swampy water. Mosquitoes rose up around him, whining in his ears. The air was fetid with the smell of rotting wood and swamp gas. He had seen the occasional alligator as he’d driven in, and he was all too aware there were also snakes and God only knew what else in back bayous like these. He hadn’t been especially afraid of poisonous snakes while growing up. With a little care, you could avoid rattlers. But that was before he’d been bitten by a water moccasin on his first assignment with Pendergast. Christ, had that been less than a month ago? At the time, he’d promised himself he’d never look at a swamp again, let alone go near one. There were no swamps in Colorado: that’s one of the reasons he’d requested the position. And look at him now.

He’d heard one could see the reflection of a gator’s eyes in a flashlight beam, but he was in no position to turn his on. It was the blackest of nights, the only light being reflected from the brightly lit facility. The water was only a foot or two deep; below that, another foot of sucking mud, which made moving difficult and exhausting.

He slogged about a half mile from the road perpendicular to the facility, then made a ninety-degree turn and continued toward it. At any moment, he expected to feel fangs sink into his leg, or hear the sudden thrash of water as an alligator ambushed him. He glimpsed, from time to time through the cypress trunks, a flicker of lights of the guard station. Soon he had drawn almost even with it — and then, to his surprise, came up against a chain-link fence. A channel had been cleared on the far side, providing access for an airboat, probably operated by the guards at the gate. Incredible to think they had fenced a facility that was already isolated in a deep swamp in the middle of nowhere.

He took out his flashlight and — keeping the beam low — examined the fence, being careful not to touch it. He spied three wires along the top, running through insulated clips. The fence was electrified and, no doubt, alarmed as well.

He paused, thinking. A fence like this, running miles through a swamp, with dead trees, snags, birds, and animals, would probably generate a lot of false alarms. Not only that, but the storm was still picking up, the treetops swaying overhead. Even as he stood there, a smattering of heavy raindrops came down, hitting him in the face. He waded along the fence for another hundred yards until he found what he was looking for: a rotten tree standing close to the fence. He gave it a heave and, with a nasty mushy sound, it sagged into the fence, touching the wires. A few sparks popped.

Coldmoon retreated into the darkness, submerged himself in the water, and waited.

Sure enough: about ten minutes later, he heard the whir of an airboat and saw a spotlight pierce the murk. Two guards. They came to the leaning tree and illuminated it with their spotlight, accompanied by muttered cursing and the hiss of the radios. One of the men, wearing hip waders, got out and, using a hooked pole, pulled the rotten trunk free and shoved it over into the water.

After they left, Coldmoon continued walking alongside the fence, soon coming across another rotten candidate, this time on the far side of the fence. The wind was now blowing harder, along with gusts of rain, so the guards were unlikely to question why two trees fell onto the fence in quick succession.

Taking a piece of nylon parachute cord from his pack, Coldmoon climbed partway up the fence, looped the cord over the wires, then climbed back down. He then gave the cord a mighty pull, popping the wires out of their plastic clips, sparks flying in several directions. This time, he quickly climbed over the fence, avoiding the dangling live wires, then dropped down on the other side and gave the rotten tree a shove toward the fence. But this one wasn’t as rotten as the first, and he had a moment of panic when it refused to topple over. He laid his shoulder into it and, abruptly, the rotten upper portion broke off and came crashing down on the fence. He leapt aside, just missing getting clobbered.

The trunk ended up tangled in the wires. Coldmoon almost laughed — he couldn’t have asked for a better setup.

He headed on, slogging through the blackness as fast as he could move. In the distance, he heard the whine of the airboat returning to investigate. He wondered when he would encounter the next perimeter — and how hard it would be to penetrate that one.

He sure hoped he wouldn’t have to kill anybody.

The boat lunged and bucked as the waves got steeper, the offshore wind rising near the coast of the Panhandle. The wind and tide were producing a steep chop, and it began to rain harder: big, heavy drops that felt like hail.

Perelman had the VHF turned to the weather channel, which had been regularly broadcasting ever more dire small-craft warnings, but now it announced general tornado warnings. He’d been forced to drop his speed even further, much to his passenger’s displeasure. It was pitch dark on the water, and Perelman’s boat had no radar. He just hoped the small-craft warnings had cleared the coast of boats. Only a crazy person would be out in this weather. If they could get into the protection of the river before the main force of the storm hit... he recited a quick Baruch HaShem in his head, and then another, thanking God for having gotten them this far. Just a little bit farther, please?

The booming of the water against the hull and the whine of the engine, combined with the hammering of drops on the windscreen and the howling of the wind, created an almost deafening noise in the cockpit. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks. He glanced at the chartplotter. They were about six miles from Dog Island. Constance was still standing to his left, staring into the darkness with an implacable expression on her face, a real-life Joan of Arc.

Four more miles to go. The wind was really getting crazy. He throttled down again. At least this time Constance didn’t respond. To his immense relief he started to see a few faint lights from Dog Island, appearing and disappearing in the murk. The sea got worse as they headed toward the northern end of the island. Now the lights of Carrabelle came into view, smeared and blurry in the tempest. And then, rising to the west of the town, he saw the powerful beacon of the Crooked River Lighthouse, strong and clear, which flooded him with relief. They were almost there.