A Triple Thriller Fest (14 page)

Director Wentworth frowned again and gave Sully another stare.

Sully paused a moment and then, in a softer voice, continued. “The decision should be reached based on its results and benefits, not on the latest bombing incident. We still need to address the issue based on
our
national objectives, and the British need to take a much larger view. The whole political alliance thing has changed over the past fifteen years. Holding on to a piece of land that doesn’t want to align itself is senseless. With former alliances breaking up all over the world, countries like Puerto Rico want to align with a larger power, and others just want out of their existing ties. In Ireland’s case, they’ve been trying for several centuries. It’s crazy to force them to stay.”

“Grant, before our guests arrive, tell us—would that analysis apply to the current furor in California?” the director asked, changing directions and spurring interest around the table as all waited for Sully’s answer.

Startled by the comparison, Sully nevertheless maintained his composure. “California’s just political hyperbole, Director. Senator Turner had a stiff test against a younger and better-financed opponent, and he found a horse to ride back into the Senate—maybe even into Eastman’s job in a couple of years, if he can milk it that long.”

“From what I hear, the matter’s going to the California Supreme Court, and the militia units are having a field day.
Have
we got a handle on what’s happening, or not?” the director pressed.

“It’s nothing more than political posturing.”

“So you’re telling us that in spite of overwhelming voter approval, a United States senator’s support, and growing militia unrest, you see no substance behind this secession mania? Why, then, is he forcing it to the Supreme Court?” Wentworth continued.

Sully shifted in his seat and changed directions. “Sir, I have to admit, it’s taken on a momentum of its own, but I have no hard data, since domestic issues fall under the FBI. Maybe they can tell us more when they arrive, but I believe that it’s all bluster and will disappear when the court renders its opinion.”

Pug motioned to Director Wentworth, who nodded for him to speak.

“Sir, the Provos are watching this California thing closely, to see what the federal government’s going to do.”

“You think they’d take action against Americans?” Wentworth asked.

“I don’t know, but the internal dissent is real. Their beef is with the British, but they don’t like the fact that America seems to be taking the secession talk lightly. They feel Ireland should have been allowed to unify with the north decades ago. We should consider all possibilities and keep a close eye on them.”

“Grant?” Wentworth said, looking toward the DDO.

“We’re watching them, Director,” he said, glancing at Connor.

The main entrance door to the conference room opened, and one of the director’s aides caught his eye. Judge Wentworth waved his hand, signaling the man to show the guests in. Two men—a civilian and an Army major in uniform—entered the room and took the two seats that had been reserved near the director at the head of the table.

“Gentlemen, we welcome you to our daily ‘donuts and coffee’ gathering,” Wentworth said. “I understand you have some new information for us on the domestic side of the house.”

The civilian nodded and opened a leather briefcase, retrieving about a dozen stapled reports, handing them out around the table.

“Director, with your permission,” he said.

Wentworth nodded.

“Gentlemen, my name is Jeff Casey. I’m the agent in charge of the bureau’s militia investigations unit.” He looked quickly around the table, nodding and smiling at several familiar faces, including Pug Connor’s.

“Roughly fifteen months ago, FBI Director Hazelton tripled the manpower in our militia task force to look into their escalation of operations. Of course, militia units have been under surveillance for many years, but a recent upsurge in activities and recruitment has given immediacy to the bureau’s concern. In the Far West and Northwest, an increase in bank robberies has been attributed to three of these recognized militia groups. In addition, responsibility for the murder of the two appointed federal judges in California has been claimed by the California Patriot Movement, an umbrella organization made up of a loose confederation of militia units. As of earlier this week, we are also investigating the execution-style murder of a California National Guard lieutenant who had infiltrated the Shasta Brigade, the largest of the California militia units. A sheriff’s deputy who surprised the perpetrators at the scene was also killed in that incident. Their actions are viewed as the first open declaration of hostility directed at established military authority.”

“What authority?” Sully asked. “The guard has no authority in civil matters, other than those authorized by the governor in times of emergency.”

“Granted,” the FBI briefer agreed. “Still, an open and direct assassination of a federal officer has occurred, and the bureau has been investigating the incident. We believe the killing is in response to federal opposition to secession—opposition that the militants have used as a rallying cry to promote a declaration of independence for California.”

“You’re not serious,” General Austin said.

“I’m afraid we are, General. These people have taken the results of the two referendums literally and are storming through the state in support of every speech Senator Turner gives. That support often takes the form of physical intimidation, not unlike that used by Hitler’s brown-shirt thugs. Their actions speak for themselves.”

“What does the Army have to say about the matter?” Director Wentworth asked.

“Major Brighton can respond to that, Mr. Director,” the FBI agent said.

Brighton stood. “Sir, General Robert Del Valle is in command of the California National Guard and is also the acting adjutant general for the state of California. Previously, we were cooperating with him and his local CID unit in this investigation.”

“What do you mean by ‘previously,’ Major?” the director inquired.

“Well, sir, the joint chiefs have conferred with legal counsel on this issue, and they have a serious concern that General Del Valle’s National Guard units have been infiltrated by members of the patriot movement and other militants throughout California, especially the Shasta Brigade.”

General Austin spoke again. “So you’re telling us, Major, that in addition to us trying to get agents into the brigade, they’ve been recruiting members from your National Guard units and reversing the intelligence-gathering process?”

“Essentially, that’s correct, General. Many of the reserve components are made up of men who like this sort of activity. They’re prime targets and easy marks for militia recruitment.”

“And as a result, Army command has cut one of its own generals out of the pipeline; is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, sir, although General Del Valle is no longer regular Army.”

General Austin banged his fist on the table. “Regular Army or National Guard, he’s one of your field commanders, Major. How does the JCS expect him to ferret out his informants without your support and cooperation?”

“Sir, the joint chiefs feel we can’t afford the leak at a time when Senator Turner is calling for secession.”

“Good heavens, man,” Wentworth said, “are you telling me that even the Pentagon is taking this movement seriously?”

“They see it as a clear threat to the continuity of the chain of command, Mr. Director,” Major Brighton said.

“And why have we been included in this briefing, Mr. Casey?”

“We’re calling in all our assets, Director,” he said, glancing at Sully.

“
Domestic
assets, you mean,” Wentworth said, then reminded him, “We’re restricted from operating within the jurisdiction of the United States.”

“Of course,” Casey replied, a flicker of a smile crossing his face, “but we thought—hoped perhaps—that you might have stumbled onto some information that would provide a larger view of the situation.”

“Sully,” Director Wentworth said, “what’s he talking about?”

“Sir, apparently the bureau continues to assume that the Agency has operatives inside the borders of the United States. While we do, on occasion, come across information relevant to domestic issues, I can assure you, sir, that we have no assets operating within the country.”

“I see,” Agent Casey said. “In that case, I hope our briefing has been informative. Please read over the documents I’ve presented and feel free to contact my office if anything comes to mind. If there are no further questions, Director?”

Wentworth glanced around the room and got no response.

“We appreciate your coming this afternoon, Mr. Casey. We’ll be in touch if anything develops and would be pleased if you could keep us informed as well.”

“Our pleasure, Director Wentworth. Good day, gentlemen,” Casey said, gathering up his papers and stuffing them in his briefcase. He and Major Brighton walked the length of the table toward the end of the conference room. As Casey passed by, Pug reached out and touched his sleeve. Casey paused and leaned down next to Pug’s ear.

“It’s good to see you again, Jeff. What’s the word on a new director for the bureau?”

Casey smiled and whispered, “Could be you’re a lot closer to the man than any of us,” he chuckled. “Rumor has it that Judge Granata is at the top of the president’s short list.”

“He’s a good man, Jeff. If you get him for your next director, the country will be well served. I owe you for the tip. Chalk it up,” Pug laughed softly.

“I keep a log book. I’ll call you some morning about 3 a.m. and collect.”

Pug nodded, and Casey straightened, patting Pug on the shoulder and continuing to follow Major Brighton. Sully was talking to Director Wentworth, but Pug’s thoughts ran quickly through his own memories of Judge Granata. They had been next-door neighbors in Woodbridge, Virginia, for over twelve years. Granata had been appointed by the previous president to the federal appeals court some nine years earlier. If, indeed, President Eastman was considering nominating Granata to be the new FBI director, Pug thought it was a fine choice.

Pug’s attention was called back to the discussion at hand. Director Wentworth was speaking with a raised voice, trying to elicit something or other from Grant Sully. At his last loud request, the room had gone silent. No one spoke for several seconds until Wentworth apparently became impatient.

“Grant?” Wentworth said, snapping his pencil in two and glaring at the DDO.

“Director, of course I have people keeping an eye on the militia units—at least the larger, more active units. They often have representatives overseas raising money or weapons for their arsenal. I’ve briefed you on that before.”

Wentworth nodded. “So, we
do
know what’s going on?”

“Not much. They’re active, raising Cain, and, if Casey is right, have evolved to outright murder of judicial and military personnel.”

Judge Wentworth sat silent for a few moments, trying to tap his pencil stub. Finally he threw the broken object in the corner wastebasket and stood.

“That’s all for this morning, gentlemen. Grant, I want a written report on everything you know about this, uh, Shasta Brigade, and the patriot movement in general throughout California. And I want better surveillance.”

“But, sir, our restrictions prohibit—”

“Forget the restrictions, Grant. They’ve never stopped you before when you wanted to learn something. Now
I
want to learn something. Is that understood?”

“Understood, Director.”

Chapter 10

Chesapeake Bay, Virginia

Stand by to come about, Pug, and then pop the kite. I’ll show you what this baby can really do downwind,” George Granata said.

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Pug smiled, his face dripping with salt spray from broaching upwind breakers.

The twenty-eight-foot, fiberglass racing yacht came about, heeling hard over as Granata swung her bow downwind. Pug pulled the lanyard loose, and the spinnaker immediately billowed, popping the rubber bands that had held the folds together. Instantly, the sleek craft lurched forward, her hull seeming to skim above the waves.

“Man, I love this life,” Granata bellowed over the wind as Pug made his way aft, taking a position starboard of Granata, who stood at the helm. “If I had it to do all over again, I’d say to heck with law school and take up the offer old Martin Tarkington made to me back in ’58 to crew with him. Who knows where I’d have been now? Certainly your Kiwi cousins wouldn’t have taken our Cup to Auckland at the Royal New Zealand Yacht Squadron, and then lost it to the Swiss,” he challenged.

“Who’s Tarkington?” Pug asked, smiling at Granata’s jab.

“He ran several sailing crews out of Newport in the old days … when American racing yachts were unchallenged.” He smiled again.

“Those days are over, Judge,” Pug shouted back over the wind.

“Well San Francisco won it back from the Swiss fair and square and it’s going to stay in America,” Granata said.

“Like hell,” Pug replied. “The Kiwi’s will be back. Watch and see. Remember how they felt about the last time, when Denis Connors ran the show. His actions off the coast of San Diego disgraced America, in case you’ve forgotten. Did you know that in New Zealand, during the first Cup defense challenge the Kiwis ran, one of the most popular souvenirs was a T-shirt with the slogan,
New Zealand rules the waves—Denis Connors waives the rules
? I was ashamed to share the same name with him.”

“Are you an American or a Kiwi?” Granata yelled again, laughing at Pug.

“At the moment, I’m more Kiwi.” Pug grinned back.

“Check your passport. Oh, of course,” Granata laughed again. “You’ve got both, right? Ignorant foreigner. But you’re right about Connors. It was not American yachting’s finest hour, and I don’t mean just the five-zip loss to the Kiwis.”

With the coastline barely visible over the horizon to the west, they sailed downwind under the pull of the spinnaker and the mainsail for nearly twenty minutes, enjoying the movement and the solitude of the open sea. As Pug turned around to say something to Granata, he spotted a motor vessel fast approaching from astern and pointed so the judge could have a look. Both men instantly recognized the bright orange strip running from bow to waterline at a vertical angle.