54
SITTING IN HIS cubicle in the 12th Street Command Center, Dart slowly replaced the telephone in its cradle. He glanced out the tiny, makeshift window. A black rectangle of night stared back at him. Then he picked up the telephone again and dialed. His hands shook slightly with a combination of exhaustion and rage. It was four o’clock in the morning but that made no difference.
The phone was answered on the first ring. “Special Agent in Charge Millard.”
“Millard? It’s Dart.”
“Dr. Dart.” Millard’s voice tightened audibly.
“What’s the status of the hunt for Crew?”
“Well, sir, while we’ve got a full complement of personnel still combing the area, we’re nevertheless growing increasingly confident he and his accomplice drowned in—”
Dart found anger overmastering his habitual control. “Of course you’re confident he drowned. Naturally. It’s what he wants you to think. Not only haven’t you caught him, but you let him waltz through the security perimeter of Los Alamos, run amok, and then waltz right out again.”
“Sir, that isn’t exactly the way it happened, and at the time I wasn’t—”
“Do you want to know what I equate that to, Agent Millard? I equate that to a wanted felon walking into police headquarters, helping himself to weapons and ammunition, flipping the police chief the bird, and then walking out again.”
This time, there was silence on the other end of the line. Dart realized he was already beyond the edge of control, but he didn’t care.
In the silence, Miles Cunningham, Dart’s personal assistant, stepped into the cubicle, placed a cup of coffee on the desk—hot, black—and stepped back out again. Dart had instructed him to cease his appeals for rest, instead ordering the man to bring him a fresh cup of coffee, every hour on the hour.
Despite the scalding temperature of the coffee, Dart took a huge swig, swallowed, cleared his throat. “Understand, Agent Millard,” he continued. “I’m not holding you fully responsible. As you started to imply, your command of the New Mexico operations is new. But I am holding you responsible for everything that happens, going forward.”
“Yes, sir.”
“N-Day is tomorrow. Every hour, every minute, the terrorist Gideon Crew continues to remain at large increases the threat to us all. I very much doubt he drowned in the Rio Grande. He’s still in the mountains somewhere. I want those mountains searched. End to end.”
“That search is ongoing, sir, and our people are doing their best. But the area in question covers more than ten thousand square miles of wilderness, and it’s extremely rugged.”
“Gideon Crew is on his own, without food or water. You’ve got hundreds of men and millions of dollars of high-tech equipment. I’m not interested in excuses, I’m interested in results.”
“Yes, sir. We’re going all out. In addition to the dogs and ground search teams, we’ve deployed a large arsenal of remote sensing and monitoring equipment. Choppers with infrared and pattern-recognition computer systems. Predator drones, equipped with the latest synthetic aperture foliage-penetrating radar. But at the risk of offending, I have to report they’ve found nothing, and the evidence really does suggest that Crew and the woman drowned in the river.”
“Have you found the bodies, Agent Millard?”
“No, sir.”
“Until you do, I don’t want to hear another word about drownings.”
“No, sir.”
Dart took another gulp of coffee. “Now, there’s another problem I want to talk to you about. Agent Fordyce. The man has demonstrated incompetence, an inability to follow orders, and a tendency to freelance. It’s come to my attention that he questioned the top Los Alamos security officer on his own, with no authorization and no required partner. He didn’t even record the interview. Do you know what that means?”
“I think so, sir.”
“It means that whatever he learned is rendered useless in court and unreliable for investigative purposes. If Novak was involved in some way, this totally undermines our chances of prosecuting him.”
“I’ve already taken Fordyce off active field duty and reassigned him to R and A.”
“I want him relieved of duty. Off this investigation. It’s clear to me the man is having some kind of breakdown.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to do it in a way that doesn’t get FBI internal affairs up in arms. We’re having enough conflict with the FBI as it is. Put him on leave—paid, of course. Call it a vacation, no return date specified.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Find Crew. And the woman. And for God’s sake—bring them to me alive.” Dart hung up, took another gulp of coffee, and stared back into the darkened window.