Midnight Sun by Basil Sands (books to read as a couple TXT) 📗

and far between,” Marcus paused and let out a brief, humorless chuckle. “I pray there is no one else in the world like him. But he is the kind of the guy no one can figure out. Totally focused, perfect actor, perfect killer.”

“Isheathreattothepresident?” Lonnie asked.

“Idon’tknow,” Marcus replied. “Ifhe'swatchingthebadguys,someoneisgoingtodie.Ifhe's switched sides,we’rescrewed.”

Chapter12

Captain Cook Hotel

Tuesday,June21st

07:35 a.m.

Theyscrapedupthelastbitsofomelet,toast,pancakes,andhashbrowns.Marcuswenttoretrievehistruckfromthegaragewhiletheotherspaidthebill.Theywereonthesidewalkoutsidethefrontentranceashepulledup.Ataquartertoeight,thesunwasalreadyhighinthesky,anditwasturningintoawarmsummermorning.Inatreethatstood in aroundconcreteplanterinthesidewalkoutsidethehotel,apairofbirdschirpedhappilyfromtheirinvisibleperches hidden somewhereinthe broad green leaves.Theirsong,repeatedbackandforth,soundedlikeacompetitiontoseewhocoulddoitmostperfectly.

“Listentothosebirds,” Hildesaid.

“Yeah,” Mike said, “theymakeitsoundlikewe’reinaDisneymovieorsomethinginsteadoftrailingaterrorist.”

TheyclimbedintotheF250andMarcus drovetheeightblockstotheFBIbuildingonEast6thAvenue. There was no public parking area for the FBI building itself, but a row of spaces inthelargelotattheOfficeDepotstoreacrossthestreet was labeled with signs that authorized FBI visitors to use the space. Marcus pulled in to one of the slots and turned off the truck. Theygotoutandwalkedtowardthebuildingtothetuneofmorebirdssingingfrominsidebasketsofflowershangingbeneathstreetlamps. The Municipality of Anchorage prided itself on the huge number of flowers it laid out every summer, taking full advantage of the limited months of bright sunshine. The streets were awash in the bright colors of every possible species of flower that could thrive in the Arctic. Theswallowsandjaysacted like they were in heaven on earth as they flittedbackandforthfrombasketstopottedtrees,makingthemorningseemmorelikeapartythanamanhunt.

Hildestartedtowonderiftheywerealloverreacting—the placewasjusttoopeacefulforaterroristattack.Astheycrossedthestreet,thehappybirdsongabruptlystopped,interruptedbytheloud,flatsquawkofa massive raventhat stooped ontheflagpolejuttingfromtheparapetoftheFBIbuilding.Theraventurned its head towardthefoursomepassingbeneath, its beady black eyes staring malevolently at them from aboveitslargebeak.  Hildelookedupatthebird.Itstaredbacklikeanillomen.

“Ravens,” Marcus said, “rudebeggarsofthewild.Thosethingshavelittlefearofmankind,especiallyifyouhappentohaveanykindoffoodtrashsittinginthebackofyourtruck.”

“That thing is huge,” Hilde said. “It looks like a crow on steroids.”

“Native lore says that they’re the reincarnated spirits of the dead, and their favorite thing is to play evil tricks and generally torment the living.”

“Let’s hope it’s not planning to trick us.” Lonnie said.

Theyreachedthebuildingandwalkedintothesmalllobby.Thespacewaspackedwithasecuritydesk,behindwhichsattwoarmedfederalpoliceofficers,andabankofcamerasthatscannedtheoutsideofthebuilding,thestreetsaroundit,andthesecureparkinggarage.Theremainingareacontainedapairofuncomfortable-lookinggovernment-issuechairsandalargemetaldetectorandx-raymachine,leavingbarelyenough open space forthefourofthemtostand. One of the officers looked up as they entered. The other kept his eyes on the series of black-and-white surveillance screens. Mike and Hilde both pulled out their FBI credentials and said whotheywere.

“Yeah,AgentCaufield’ssecretaryjustcalleddowntoletmeknowhewasexpectingyou,” the officersaid. “Are any of you armed?”

“Yes,” Lonnie said,producinghertrooperbadgeandIDandadding, “WaltherPPKinmyankleholster.”

Theofficerglancedatherasifshesaidsomethingcrazy.ThenhelookedoverhercredentialsandnoddedtoMarcus.

“You?”

“No,” Marcussaid. “I'mtheonlynon-cophere,andIdidn'twanttopushmyluckbringingin afirearm.”

“Good,” saidtheofficer, “cuzifyouhad,I'dneedtodisarmyou,andbythelooksofyou,that'snotsomethingIthinkI'denjoymuch.”

Hemotionedthemthrough the metaldetector,whichfilledtheonlyaccesspointtothebuildinglikeagatewithanelectronicportcullis.Beyonditstretcheda short,featurelesshallthatterminatedatanelevatorandastairwelldoor.Theguardtoldthemtowaitfor a few minutes while the escort came down whowouldtakethemuptothesecondfloor,whereSpecialAgentinChargeWilliamCaufieldwaswaitingforthem. Just as the words finished reaching their ears,Caufield'ssecretary,asmartlydressedmiddle-agedwomanwithadisarmingsmile,cameoutoftheelevator.

“Goodmorning,” shesaidwithaprofessional-sounding voice. “MayIhelpyou?”

“Yes,IamAgentHildegardFarrisfromtheOhioValleyoffice.UndersecretaryPaulHogansaidhehadarrangedameetingwiththeSAC.”

“Yes,wejustgotthecallalittlewhileago,andhe’s waitingforyou.”

Shetookthemupintheelevatorandledthemdownalonghallwaylinedwithofficeson both sides.Astheypassedeachoffice,agentsglancedup through open doors, throwing suspiciouslooksatthestrangersasiftheyweretryingtoseethroughthemwithx-rayvision.Itwasthe kind oflookonlyacopcangive,oradistrustfulmother-in-law.Intheoffice,Hildenoticedthatthesecretary’sdesklookedveryexpensive,anicedarkcherrywoodthatglowedreddishbrown.Theofficewaswarmandcomfortable.

“Isthatthem,Amy?” calledasmoothmasculinevoicefromanopendoorin thewallbehindthesecretary’sdesk.

“Yes,sir,” shereplied.

TheSACcameoutofhisofficeasshespoke.Caufieldwastall,aboutsixfeet,fiveinches,andhandsomeinafriendlyway.Theforty-somethingagentsportedathickmaneofredhair combed straight back that seemedtostraininrebellionagainstthegelthathelditinplace. Beneathmanicuredeyebrows of the same solid red shoneelectricblueeyesthatsparkledwithahintofmischief.Aprominentnose,spatteredwithacollectionoffreckles,lookedasthoughsomeonehadtossedahandfulofdotsathim that stuckabovehisamiablesmile.Helookedmorelikeahigh-schoolchemistryteacher,thekindpronetowildexperimentsandhavingfunblowingstuffupinclass,thanaseniorfederallawenforcementofficer.

“Comeonin,folks,” hesaid. “UndersecretaryHogancalledthismorningandgavemeaverybriefoverviewofwhatyoutoldhim.HealsofaxedsomepaperworkregardingaMr.FarrahwhoresideshereinAnchortown.”

Heledthemintohisoffice. The difference in décor was somewhat of a shock, as if they’d just stepped through a time portal and landed in 1982.Unlikehissecretary,Caufield’sofficewasdecoratedstrictlyintheUSgovernment’sfunctionalstyle.Thedeskwassolidbrownwood,largeandclean,butatleastthirtyyearsold.HilderememberedseeingonejustlikeitintheofficeofherfirstSACinthemid-nineties.Alarge, matchingtablewitheightworn cloth-coveredofficechairsarounditfilledonesideoftheroom.Aflat-screentelevisiontoppedwithavideoteleconferencingcamerarestedonastandwhereitcouldbothseeandbeseendownthelengthofthetable. The TV and the computer on Caufield’s desk were the only modern looking components to the office.

WhileMarcusandMikebothseemedoblivioustothedécor,Caufieldnoticedbothwomenappraisingtheroom.

“Whatdoyouthinkoftheinteriordesign?” heasked in aplayfultone. “Icall it retro-federal.Ihadconsideredgoingwiththeoldseventiesmetaldesks,buttheclimateuphereconvincedmetostickwitheighties wood.Notsocoldtothetouch,youknow.”

“Perhapsyoushouldhaveoptedtoletyoursecretary’sdesignerdoyourofficeaswell,” Lonnie said.

Hesmiled. “We’reinprogresswiththat,actually.ThelastfewSACsallhadthisnotionthatafederalofficershouldlivelikeaSpartanandhadn’t spentapennyonnewfurnituresincebeforeIwaseveninthebureau.Idon’tknowwhytheydidthat—I thinkitcheapenstheappearanceoftheposition.Weneedtoimpressonpeople’smindsthatweknowwhatwe’redoing,notthatwe’repennypinchers.I’veonlybeenstationedhereacoupleofmonthsnowanddon’tplantospendthenextfouryearssittinginthesamechairmyfathermayhavesatinwhenhewasanagentuphere.Thisofficewillfinallygetitsupdateddécor later this week.It’sbeingdeliveredaswespeak.Inthemeantime,let’stalkbusiness.”

Hemotionedtofour threadbare cloth-boundchairsinfrontofhisdeskashemovedaroundbehindit.

“Coffee,anyone?”

“Notme,” Mike said. “Hadplentywithbreakfast.”

Theothersnoddedagreement.

“SowhatcanIdoforyou?” Caufieldrefilled hisowncupfromabone-coloredplasticcarafethatsatonatrayonthehutchbehindhisdesk.Hildestartedandtheywentoverthedetails,beginningwiththeweddingandendingattherail-yardconfrontation.

“Wecalledforataxitotakeusbacktothehotelaftertheattackattherailyard,” Hilde said.Mikeglancedather,discreetlysignalinghernottomentionKharzai. “WetriedtogetholdofToniathismorning,butcouldn’t. Ileftamessageonhercellphone,butshehasn’t calledbackyet.”

“Well, I might be able to shed some light onthatlastconcern,” Caufield said. “AgentsWarnerandRobertsareinspectingtheundergroundtunnelsbeneaththeDelaneyParkStripandadjacentareaswithoneofmyagents.Theyaregoingtobeoutofcellrangeaslongastheyareunderground, whichisprobablygoingtobemostoftheday.”

HeraisedhiseyesthoughtfullyandlookedatLonnie. “Mrs.Johnson,Ithinkyouknowoneofmyguysdowntherewiththem.TonyTomer.HejustgottransferredherefromFairbanks.”

“Tomerishere?” Marcus asked. “InAnchorage?”

“Youknowhimtoo?”

“Yeah,we’vemet.”

“Acoupleofyearsago,MarcusassistedinacaseTomerwason,” Lonniesaid.

CaufieldscannedhismentalRolodex,hiseyebrowsarchingwhenhehittherightmemory. “TheNorthKoreanbio-weaponcase.Irememberhearingaboutthatduringmyin-brief.Tomerwastheagentassignedtoit,alongatroopernamed…uh…Wyatt.Hehadarun-inwithsomeNavySeals,asIrecall.”

“I’m Wyatt,” Lonnie said. “It's mymaidenname.And MarcuswasleadingthoseSeals.”

“Isee.” CaufieldlookedatMarcus. “ThenIamgoingtoassumeyouaretheonewho,shallwesay,putTomerinhisplaceinthatcabin?”

“Howdidyouknowaboutthat?” Marcus asked.

“Oneoftheotheragentsheardthestoryfromatrooperwhohadbeenthere.Tomerwasneveranyone’sfavorite.Thestoryspreadprettyrapidlythroughtheranks.ItmadeitallthewaytoQuantico,actually.  Tony has a long list of people he's pissed off over the years.”

“Didhecalmdownany?” Lonnie asked.

“Notreally.” AslygrincreasedCaufield’sexpression. “Butheismoreselectivewhenitcomestocommentingonwomen’sfiguresamongunknowncompany.”

“Ishegoingtobeonthiscase?” Lonnieasked.

“Yes,afraidso.Histeamisdetailedtothepresidentialpartyalready.Can’ttakethemoffbecauseofapersonalissue.” Caufieldmadeaconciliatorygesture. “Itshouldbefine,though.Heknowshissituationinthesocialstrataaroundhereandhasrecentlyshownadesiretomakefriendsratherthan act like an ass.”

Mikeleanedforwardinhischair. “Sowhatdowedonext?”

“We’vegotTomerandtheSecretServiceinthattunnelalready,” Caufield said. “We’vealsogotacoupleoftechswhocancheckdeeperifthereissomethingamiss.Inthemeantime,I’llputatailonFarrahandseewhereitleads.”

“Lonnie,yousaidFarrahshowedupattheaccidentonGoldenviewDrive,” Mojosaid.

“Yeah.Justmomentsaftertheaccident,” shesaid. “Hecamefromthesouth,theneighborhoodsinsteadofthehighway.”

MojoturnedtoMike. “Youwanttogotakeatourdownthatroadandseewhat’sthere?”

“I’mgame,” Mike said.

“Youguyscan’tbesearchinganyone’spropertywithoutawarrant,” Caufield said.

“No,ofcoursenot,” Mojoshook his head in denial. “We’rejustgoingtoseewhat’sthere.Ifthereisanythingsuspicious,we’llletyouknow.”

“Idomeanit,” Caufield’s expression turned serious, almost scolding.. “Don’tgosnoopingaroundonanyone’sproperty.Wedon’tneedsometechnicalitythatcouldfreethemafterwemakethearrest.”

“Nottoworry,” Mikeraised a placating hand. “We’renotagents,andwe’renotworkingonanythingfortheFBI.We’renotgoingtobebreakinganylaws,andifthereareanyquestions,youhaveperfectdeniability.”

“Yeah,tellthattothejudge,” Caufieldreplied.

“Willdo,” Mike said. “Hilde,youwanttocomewithusorstayhere?”

“I’llstay,” shesaid. “Whileyouguysareoverthere,IwanttogetontheFBIdatabaseanddosomediggingonFarrahandanyoneelseinvolved.”

“I’llstaywithHilde,” Lonniesaid, massagingherabdomen. “Idon’tfeeluptoanydrivingrightnow.”

MarcusandMikewalkedoutoftheoffice.Caufield led the women to an empty office a few doors down.

“You can do your research here,” Caufield motioned toward the computer on the desk. “Just log in with your normal FBI credentials and the network should pull up your profile from your home office computer.”

HildeturnedtoCaufield. “IsthereanyotherwaytogetholdofAgentsRobertsandWarner?”

“Downinthosetunnels,there’s nocellphonereception,soyou’regoinghavetowaituntiltheysurfaceforlunch.”

LonnieturnedtolookoutthewindowandsawMarcus’ F250rumbleeast on 6th, heading outofdowntowntowardthesouthsideofAnchorage.Thedentinthetailgatedarkenedwiththeshadowcastbythesouthernsun.Ashistruckturnedthecorner,thebabyjumpedinherwomb.

Chapter13

Farrah’s Rented House

Goldenview Drive

Tuesday,June21st

08:15 a.m.

Thehouseattheendofthewindingdrivewaywouldhavebeencalledalogcabinbyfolkswhoweren’tfamiliarwithrealAlaskanlogcabins. Real log cabins like the type inhabitedbyhomesteadersandpeopleinremoteareasofAlaskaandNorthernCanada’s Yukon Territoryseldommeasuredmorethanfourorfivehundredsquarefeetinsizeandweremadeofeight-inchlogs,thelargestthatcouldbefoundinmassquantitiesintheArctic.Theyoftenhaddirtfloors,sometimescoveredwithrough-hewnboardsorslatslaidrightonthesurfaceoftheground. Fewhadelectricityorrunningwater,andweretypicallyheatedbyasinglepotbelliedwood-burningironstove,or,iftheownerscouldn'taffordthatconvenience,byafifty-gallondrumconvertedintoabarrelstove.Thebarrelstoveswerenotverypretty,buttheydefinitelycouldputoutsome seriousheatonacoldwinternight.

Thishouse, on the other hand,wasmoreofalogfortressthanacabin.Constructedofmassivesixteen-inchsprucelogsimportedfromBritishColumbia,itwaspracticallyimpervioustoanythinglessthanarmor-piercingartilleryshells.Atoverfourthousandsquarefeet,themini-mansionlookedlikearichman’sfantasyofwhatrusticfrontierlifeshouldbe.

StevenFarrahjoggeduptothehouse.Sweatsoakedthroughhisgraycottonrunningclothes,formingdarktriangularpatchesonhischestandbackandseepinginapatternbeneathhisarmpits.Heslowedand,breathingheavily,walkedovertotheAudiparkedinthelargeopenareainfrontofthestandalonegaragebuiltofthesamelogsasthehouse.Thetwobuildingswereconnectedbyaten-foot-longbreezeway.He reached into his pocket and pressed a button on the key fob to unlock the vehicle,reached in andclickedthegaragedooropenerattachedtothesunvisor,thenclosed and locked thecar.

Thepanelsofthetwo-car-widedoorrose slowlyliketheeyelidofa giant Cyclops.Blindedbythebrightsummersun,hebarelycaughttheman-shapedshadowinsidethegarageashedrewnear.Hisheartlurchedandheinstinctivelyreachedintohiswaistbandforthe Sig Sauer P232 healwayskeptthere.Theshadowmovedtowardhimfromdeepwithinthedarkroom.Thescuffofashoeonthecementfloorhastenedhisdraw.Justashepulledtheweapontofullheight,avoicecalledout.

“Mr.Farrah.Youshouldbelessparanoidandmorecautious.”

“Wha…?” Farrahstarted.Hegrittedhisteethandsqueezedhislipsintoasnarl. Recognizing the voiceheloweredthepistol.

“Really,” saidthefigureemergingfromtheshadowyspace, “oneneverknowswhoone’sfriendsare,doesone.”

Farrahslidthe Sig backintoafittedholstersetinawide,flesh-coloredelasticbeltwrappedabouthismidsection.Thesetupheldthesmall,flatweaponfirmagainsthisbody,renderingitinvisiblebeneathmostclothing.

“Youverynearlyceasedtobemyoranyone’sfriend.”

Kharzaisteppedintotheblazingdaylight,shieldinghiseyeswithhishand. The dog from the attempted robbery trotted beside him, tail wagging, then sat on his haunches beside Kharzai, sweeping a shallow cloud of dust up behind itself with every motion of its tail. It opened its mouth and let its tongue droop as the bright, hot sun almost instantly heated its furry body.

“WhowouldeverhavethoughtthatAlaskacouldpossiblygetthishot?” Kharzai wiped tiny beads of sweat from his forehead. “ItfeelsalmostlikeSevastopol.”

Farrahsquinted up at the blue sky, then dropped his eyes towardthetallmountains that seemed to be immediately behind the house. The house itself actually stood partway up the base of the mountain range, the peaks of which were indeed only a few miles to the east. From the second story of the house, one could see the northern limits of the Pacific Ocean lazily reflecting the summer sun.

“ItlooksmorelikeYalta,” he said

“Ididn’tsaylooks,” Kharzai replied. “Isaidfeels.”

Thetwowalkedintothegarage.Thedogfollowedthem,stayingclosetohisnewfriendKharzai.Farrahstoppedatthedoorleadingtowardthehouse. “Thatbeastisnotcominginside.”

“Ah, c'mon, Steven. I've gotten rather attached to the little guy.” Kharzai leaned down and scratched the dog behind the ears. “Haven't I, Deano?”

“Deano?” Farrah said.  “What on earth prompted that name?”

“It was on his tag,” Kharzai replied, “and he seems to answer to it, so Deano must be his name.”

“Named or not,” Farrah said, “he's not allowed in the house. I don't want dog hair on everything.”

“Whatever you say,” Kharzai said resignedly. “You're the boss on this one.”

He walked Deano to the space in front of the garage and picked up a gnarled dry stick one end of which was pocked with teeth marks suggesting the dog had probably dragged it out of the woods to chew on. Deano jumped and spun excitedly upon seeing the stick in his new master's hand.

“Ready, boy? Ready?” Kharzai taunted. Deano went wild with enthusiastic yipping. Kharzai leaned back, stretched his arm, and flung the stick like a missile launched from a trebuchet. It flew long and high, and Deano fired off after it with such speed that he must have thought his life depended upon him returning with that stick. Kharzai watchedthe dog sprint across the dusty driveway, kicking spouts of dust beneath his paws with every bounding step. He smiled, pleasure seeping through his expression. The momentary peace was abruptly split apart by the sound of Farrah's voice.

“Are you coming in or what?”

“Huh?  Oh, yes, yes, of course.”

He turned and crossed into the garage. Farrahhittheremotecontrolbutton by the door to the house and the motor on the ceiling lowered the large bay door with