Daredevil Riders

45

Herbert’s instructions had been explicit. Watch this man. And it wasn’t entirely for Turkekul’s protection. Herbert had been clear that he was not convinced of his loyalties yet.

“It could go either way at this point, Harry,” he’d said. “If someone tries to get to him, stop it. But if he does something that suggests he’s working for the other side, document it and let me know right away.”

Turkekul was teaching a class on the second floor of the building. It had thirty-two students. Finn slipped in as the thirty-third, set up his recorder as did many other students, took out his book and laptop and settled back. If Turkekul noticed him he gave no indication of it. Unlike some of the other students there, Finn listened to every word the man said, and also how he said it, which was often even more important than the actual words spoken.

And unlike any of the students there, Finn assessed the room for threats and came away not entirely satisfied. One door in and out. Little cover. Turkekul would be a sitting duck at the front of the class.

Finn touched his chest and felt the Glock nestled there in the holster. If he’d been an assassin Turkekul would already be dead. He wondered how a man tasked to hunt down Osama bin Laden was allowed to live so cavalierly. It made no sense at all. And things that didn’t make sense bothered Harry Finn. They bothered him greatly.

Caleb settled into his desk at the Rare Book Reading Room and eyed his other colleagues as they moved around doing assorted tasks. He nodded and smiled to several.

“Morning, Avery,” he said to one portly fellow.

“Caleb. Congrats on acquiring the Fitzgerald.”

“Thanks,” Caleb said, beaming. He really was proud of that one. When things had settled down in the room he lifted his glasses to his eyes, pecked some keys on the keyboard and worked his way through several government databases, hoping with each click of a key that he would not run into insurmountable interference. His dear friend Milton Farb could have accessed the necessary database in seconds, but Milton had been one of a kind. Yet Caleb had gotten better over the years with electronics, and he approached the task Herbert had given him with deliberation and calm. And he was an employee of the federal government and thus had requisite passwords and authorizations. And it wasn’t as though events at Lafayette Park were classified. At least he hoped they weren’t.

Within a half hour he breathed a sigh of relief. He hit his print button and the two-page single-spaced document slid into the catchbin of his printer. He picked it up and studied it. There were a lot of events on here. And some of them would be attended by some real Washington heavyweights. If his friend was hoping to narrow his search down by consulting this list, Caleb knew at once that it would not be all that easy.

He slipped the papers in his briefcase and returned to work.

Mirabel AND REUBEN reached Pennsylvania around three that afternoon. They drove first to KeyHerbert Tree Farm. It was obviously still secured by the FBI. Barricades and black SUVs were everywhere. And Pennsylvania state troopers were there to support the federal agents.

Mirabel, who was driving, said, “No surprise there. That place will be out of circulation for a long time. Let’s keep rolling.”

“You want to try the trailer park?” asked Reuben.

“Might as well, but I have to believe it’ll be the same crime scene scenario there.”

And it was. Cops and Feds in abundance. The road into the trailer park was completely closed off.

“Want to bluff our way in?” asked Reuben. “If we say we live there?”

“Something tells me that’s way too risky for the potential reward. But I have another idea.”

“Good, because Oliver wants information and I’m not sure how we’re supposed to get it.”

“There’s always a way, Reuben. We just have to find it.”

At four-thirty that afternoon, Mirabel found it. Parked outside the tree farm, they watched as a pickup truck pulled out with four of the Latino workers from the farm inside.

“Quitting time,” said Reuben.

“No. I doubt there’s much work going on there. Feds probably interviewed all of them and then let them go. If they try to leave the area, they’ll probably be really sorry. Let’s see if they’re keeping them under surveillance.”

The truck pulled onto the road and sped off. They waited for thirty seconds but no other car followed.

Mirabel put her car in gear. “Okay, the Feds are very trusting. And we’re not.”

“Where do you think they’re headed?” asked Reuben.

“There’s a bar in that direction. Let’s hope they pull off for happy hour after all that interrogation.”

They did go to the bar. And Mirabel and Reuben waited for them to go inside before slipping out of the car and heading in.

“You speak Spanish?” Reuben asked.

“I spent a long time in L.A., so yeah, pretty fluently. You?”

“I know more Vietnamese than Spanish.”

“Then order your beer in English and let me do the talking.”

“And my role?”

“If a guy who we’re not interested in hits on me, take him out.”

“Great, thanks. Nice to use my finely honed skills.”

Inside, the four Latinos were huddled around one table, beers already in hand. They were talking in low voices and casting furtive glances at the few other people in the bar.

Mirabel and Reuben sat at a table near them and then Mirabel put some money in the jukebox. On the way back she dropped her car keys near the table. One of the men bent down to pick them up. When he handed them back, she thanked him in Spanish. Then she pulled a map from her pocket and asked him directions, explaining that she and her friend were trying to find a tree farm. The man told her that he and his friends worked at this very same tree farm.