Chapter One
I’m John Corey, former NYPD homicide detective, wounded in the line
of duty, retired on three-quarter disability (which is just a number
for pay purposes; about 98 percent of me still functions), and now
working as a special contract agent for the Federal Anti-Terrorist
Task Force.
The guy in the cubicle facing me, Harry Muller, asked, “You ever
hear of the Custer Hill Club?”
“No. Why?” “That’s where I’m going this weekend.” “Have a good
time,” I said.
“They’re a bunch of rich, right-wing loonies who have this hunting
lodge upstate.”
“Don’t bring me any venison, Harry. No dead birds, either.” I got up
from my desk and walked to the coffee bar. On the wall above the
coffee urns were Justice Department Wanted Posters, featuring mostly
Muslim gentlemen, including the number one scumbag, Osama bin Laden.
Also included in the nearly two dozen posters was a Libyan named
Asad Khalil, a.k.a. The Lion. I didn’t need to memorize this man’s
photo; I knew his face as well as my own, though I’d never formally
met him.
My brief association with Mr. Khalil occurred about two years ago
when I was stalking him, and as it turned out, he was stalking me.
He escaped, and I got away with a grazing wound; and, as the Arabs
would probably say, “It is destined that we meet again to settle our
fates.” I look forward to that.
I drained the dregs of the coffee into a Styrofoam cup and scanned a
copy of the New York Times lying on the counter. The headline for
today, Friday, October 11, 2002, read: CONGRESS AUTHORIZES BUSH TO
USE FORCE AGAINST IRAQ, CREATING A BROAD MANDATE.
A subheading read: U.S. Has a Plan to Occupy Iraq, Officials Report.
It appeared that war was a foregone conclusion, and so was the
victory. Therefore, it was a good idea to have an occupation plan. I
wondered if anyone in Iraq knew about this.
I took my coffee back to my desk, turned on my computer, and read
through some internal memos. We are now a mostly paperless
organization, and I actually miss initialing memos. I had an urge to
initial my computer screen with a grease pencil, but I settled for
the electronic equivalent. If I ran this organization, all memos
would be on an Etch A Sketch.
I glanced at my watch. It was 4:30 P.M., and my colleagues on the
26th floor of 26 Federal Plaza were dwindling fast. My colleagues, I
should explain, are, like me, members of the Anti-Terrorist Task
Force, a four-letter agency (ATTF) in a world of three-letter
agencies.
This is the post-9/11 world, so weekends are, in theory, just
another two workdays for everyone. In reality, the honored tradition
of Federal Friday-meaning cutting out early-has not changed much, so
the NYPD, who are part of the Task Force, and who are used to lousy
hours anyway, man the fort on weekends and holidays.
Harry Muller asked me, “What are you doing this weekend?” This was
the start of the Columbus Day three-day weekend, but as luck would
have it, I was scheduled to work on Monday. I replied, “I was going
to march in the Columbus Day Parade, but I’m working Monday.”
“Yeah? You were going to march?” “No, but that’s what I told Captain
Paresi.” I added, “I told him my mother was Italian, and I was going
to push her wheelchair in the parade.”
Harry laughed and asked, “Did he buy that?” “No. But he offered to
push her wheelchair.” “I thought your parents were in Florida.”
“They are.”
“And your mother’s Irish.” “She is. Now I have to find an Italian
mother for Paresi to push up Columbus Avenue.”
Harry laughed again and went back to his computer. Harry Muller,
like most of the NYPD in the Mideast Section of the Task Force, does
stakeouts and surveillance of Persons of Interest, which, in
politically correct speak, means the Muslim community, but I do
mostly interviewing and recruiting of informants.
A large percentage of my informants are total liars and bullshit
artists who want either money or citizenship, or who want to screw
someone in their close-knit community. Now and then, I get the real
deal, but then I have to share the guy with the FBI.
The Task Force is comprised mostly of FBI agents and NYPD
detectives, plus retired NYPD, like me. In addition, we have people
assigned from other Federal agencies, such as Immigration and
Customs Enforcement (ICE), plus state and suburban police, Port
Authority Police, and so forth, too numerous to name or for me to
remember.
Also included in our collegial group are people who, like ghosts,
don’t actually exist, but if they did, they’d be called CIA.
I checked my e-mail, and there were three messages. The first was
from my boss, Tom Walsh, special agent in charge, who had taken over
the ATTF when my old boss, Jack Koenig, died in the World Trade
Center. The e-mail read: CONFIDENTIAL-REMINDER-IN THE RUN-UP TO
POSSIBLE HOSTILITIES WITH IRAQ, WE NEED TO GIVE SPECIAL ATTENTION
TO IRAQI NATIONALS LIVING IN CONUS.
“CONUS” meant “Continental United States.” “Hostilities” meant
“war.” The rest of it meant “find an Iraqi we can link to a
terrorist threat against the U.S. so we can make life easier for the
folks in Washington before they bomb the shit out of Baghdad.”
The message went on: PRIMARY THREAT AND EMPHASIS REMAINS UBL WITH
NEW EMPHASIS ON UBL/SADDAM LINK. BRIEFING ON THIS NEXT WEEK-TBA.
WALSH, SAC.
For the uninitiated, “UBL” is “Osama bin Laden,” which should be
“OBL,” but long ago somebody transliterated the Arabic script into
Latin letters as “Usama,” which is also correct. The media mostly
uses the “Osama” spelling of the scumbag’s name, while intelligence
agencies still refer to him as “UBL.” Same scumbag.
The next e-mail was from my second boss, the aforementioned Vince
Paresi, an NYPD captain assigned to the ATTF to keep an eye on the
difficult cops who sometimes don’t play well with their FBI friends.
That may include me. Captain Paresi replaced Captain David Stein,
who, like Jack Koenig, was killed-murdered, actually-one year and
one month ago today in the World Trade Center.
David Stein was a great guy, and I miss him every day. Jack Koenig,
for all his faults and for all our problems with each other, was a
professional, a tough but fair boss, and a patriot. His body was
never recovered. Neither was David Stein’s.
Another body that was never recovered, along with two thousand
others, was that of Ted Nash, CIA officer, monumental prick, and
archenemy of yours truly.
I wish I could think of something nice to say about this asshole,
but all I can think of is, “Good riddance.”
Also, this guy has a bad habit of coming back from the dead-he’s
done it at least once before-and without a positive body
identification, I’m not breaking out the champagne.
Anyway, Captain Paresi’s e-mail to all NYPD/ATTF personnel read: YOU
ARE TO STEP UP SURVEILLANCE OF IRAQI NATIONALS, REACH OUT TO IRAQIS
WHO HAVE BEEN HELPFUL IN THE PAST, AND BRING IN FOR QUESTIONING
IRAQIS ON WATCH LISTS. YOU ARE TO PAY SPECIAL ATTENTION TO IRAQIS
WHO ASSOCIATE WITH OTHER ISLAMIC NATIONALS, I.E., SAUDIS, AFGHANIS,
LIBYANS, ETC. STAKEOUT AND SURVEILLANCE OF MOSQUES WILL BE STEPPED
UP. BRIEFING NEXT WEEK, TBA. PARESI, CAPT. NYPD.
I think I see a pattern here. Hard to believe, but it wasn’t so long
ago that we were trying to figure out what we were supposed to be
doing every day, and memos were more carefully worded so as not to
appear that we disapproved of Islamic terrorists or that we were
upsetting them in any way. That changed real quick.
The third e-mail was from my wife, Kate Mayfield, whom I could see
at her desk across the NYPD/FBI great divide of the 26th floor. My
wife is a beautiful woman, but even if she weren’t, I’d still love
her. Actually, if she weren’t beautiful, I wouldn’t have even
noticed her, so it’s a moot point.
The message read: LET’S KNOCK OFF EARLY, GO HOME, HAVE SEX, I’LL
COOK YOU CHILI AND HOT DOGS, AND MAKE YOU DRINKS WHILE YOU WATCH TV
IN YOUR UNDERWEAR.
Actually, it didn’t say that. It said: LET’S GO AWAY FOR A ROMANTIC
WEEKEND OF WINE TASTING ON THE NORTH FORK. I’LL BOOK A B&B. LOVE,
KATE.
Why the hell do I have to taste wine? It all tastes the same. Also,
bed-and-breakfast places suck-cutesy run-down hovels with
nineteenth-century bathrooms and creaky beds. And then you have to
eat breakfast with the other guests, who are usually yuppie swine
from the Upper West Side who want to talk about something they read
in the Arts and Leisure section of the Times. Whenever I hear the
word “art,” I reach for my gun.
I typed my response: SOUNDS GREAT. THANKS FOR THINKING OF IT. LOVE,
JOHN.
Like most men, I’d rather face the muzzle of an assault rifle than a
pissed-off wife.
Kate Mayfield is an FBI agent, a lawyer, and part of my team, which
consists of another NYPD guy and another FBI agent. Plus, now and
then, we add a person or two from another agency, as needed, such as
ICE or CIA. Our last CIA teammate was the aforementioned Ted Nash,
who I strongly suspect was once romantically involved with my then
future wife. This was not why I disliked him-it was why I hated him.
I disliked him for professional reasons.
I noticed that Harry Muller was cleaning up his desk, locking away
sensitive material so that the cleaning people, Muslim and
non-Muslim alike, couldn’t photocopy or fax it to Sandland. I said
to him, “You got twenty-one minutes before the bell.”
He looked up at me and replied, “I have to go pick up some Tech
stuff.”
“Why?”
“I told you. I’m doing a surveillance upstate. The Custer Hill
Club.”
“I thought you were an invited guest.” “No, I’m trespassing.”
“How did you catch this one?” “I don’t know. Do I ask? I own a
camper, a pair of boots, and a hat with earmuffs. So, I’m
qualified.”
“Right.” Harry Muller, as I said, is former NYPD, like me, retired
with twenty years in, the last ten in the Intelligence Unit, and now
hired by the Feds to do stakeouts and surveillance so that the
Suits, as we call the FBI, can do the cerebral work.
I asked him, “Hey, what’s with this right-wing stuff ? I thought you
were with us?” “Us” meaning the Mideast Section, which makes up
about 90 percent of the ATTF these days.
Harry replied, “I don’t know. Do I ask? I just have to take
pictures, not go to church with them.”
“Did you read the e-mails from Walsh and Paresi?” “Yeah.”
“You think we’re going to war?” “Duh … let me think.”
“Does this right-wing group have any Iraqi or UBL connections?” “I
don’t know.” Harry glanced at his watch and said, “I need to get to
Tech before they lock up.”
“You got time.” I asked him, “You going alone?” “Yeah. No problem.
It’s just a non-invasive surveillance and stakeout.”
He looked at me and said, “Between us, Walsh says this is just
killing trees-file building. You know, like, we’re not just up the
Arabs’ asses. We’re on the case of domestic groups, too, like the
neo-Nazis, militia, survivalists, and stuff. Looks good for the
media and Congress, if it ever comes up. Right? We did this a few
times before 9/11. Remember?”
“Right.”
“Gotta go. I guess I’ll see you Monday. I need to see Walsh first
thing Monday.”
“He’s working Monday?” “Well, he didn’t invite me to his house for a
beer, so I guess he’ll be here.”
“Right. See you Monday.” Harry left.
What Harry said about file building didn’t make too much sense, plus
we have a Domestic Terrorist Section for that kind of stuff. Also,
snooping on rich right-wingers with a club upstate was a little odd.
Also odd was Tom Walsh coming in on a holiday to debrief Harry on a
routine assignment.
I’m very nosy, which is why I’m a great detective, so I went over to
a separate, stand-alone computer where I could access the Internet,
and did a Google search for “Custer Hill Club.”
I didn’t get any hits, so I tried “Custer Hill.” The counter at the
top showed more than 400,000 hits, and the mix on the first
page-golf courses, restaurants, and several historical references in
South Dakota having to do with General George Armstrong Custer’s
problem at the Little Bighorn-indicated that none of these
references would be relevant. Nevertheless, I spent ten minutes
scanning the hits, but there were no references to New York State.
I went back to my desk, where I could use my ATTF password to access
internal files on the ACS -the Automated Case System, the FBI’s
version of Google.
The Custer Hill Club came up, but apparently I had no need to know
about this file, and below the title was row after row of Xs.
Usually you get something, even on restricted files, such as the
date the file was opened, or who to see about getting access to the
file, or at least the classification level of the file. But this
file was completely Xed out.
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
rightwingers whose threat level to national security is probably
somewhere between low and non-existent at the moment.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from Wild Fire
by Nelson DeMille
Copyright © 2006 by Nelson DeMille.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Warner Books
Copyright © 2006
Nelson DeMille
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-446-57967-X
