Читать книгу The Black Sun - James Twining - Страница 14

Black Pine Mountains, nr Malta, Idaho

5th January – 5.34 a.m.

‘What’s the latest from inside the compound?’ Special Agent Paul Viggiano spoke over the background noise of technicians and ringing telephones, a trim muscular figure in his blue wind-breaker, FBI stamped in large yellow letters across his back.

Bailey, sitting at the kitchen table of the cabin they had commandeered the previous evening as their operational HQ, was the first to speak.

‘No movement, nothing. Not a single phone call. Even the generator shut down this morning. I figure it ran out of gas. No one’s come out to fix it.’

‘What about the dogs?’ Silvio Vasquez this time, the leader of the fourteen-man FBI Hostage Rescue Team that had been assigned to the investigation, sitting to Bailey’s right.

‘What?’ Viggiano frowned. ‘What the hell’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Didn’t someone say they had dogs? Have you seen them?’

‘No.’ Bailey shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘So that’s weird, right?’ Vasquez concluded. ‘A dog’s gotta take a leak.’

‘When did it last snow?’ Viggiano asked. Bailey noticed that he had found some loose matches and was arranging them into neat parallel lines as he spoke.

‘Two days ago,’ Vasquez answered.

‘And there are no footprints? You’re seriously saying no one has stepped outside that farmhouse for two days?’ Peering over, Bailey could see that he had rearranged the matches into a square.

‘Not unless they can fly,’ Bailey confirmed. ‘And that includes the dogs.’

‘I still say you boys have screwed up big time.’

It was the local sheriff’s turn to speak. A tubby man with ginger hair and a closely trimmed moustache, Sheriff Hennessy seemed to be in a permanent sweat, the perspiration beading on his pink forehead and cheeks like condensation on glass.

‘I know these people,’ he continued, the top of his clip-on tie losing itself in the fleshy folds of his neck. ‘They’re law-abiding, God-fearing folk. Patriots.’

‘So you say,’ Bailey began, feeling the resentment welling inside him. ‘But they happen to be on a federal blacklist for suspected links to the Aryan Nations and the Klan.’

Bailey saw Viggiano give a slight shake of the head, warning him to back off. ‘Now, Sheriff, it’s true we don’t know for sure that these people have done anything wrong,’ Viggiano resumed in a conciliatory tone, ‘but we do know that three days ago an exhibit was stolen from the National Cryptologic Museum in Maryland. We know that whoever took it left no physical evidence that we’ve been able to find.’

‘Apart from the security guard they strung up like a hunk of meat in cold storage,’ Bailey couldn’t help himself from adding.

‘We also know,’ Viggiano continued as if he hadn’t heard him, ‘that our Salt Lake office got a call yesterday suggesting these law-abiding patriots of yours were involved.’

‘I know all that,’ Hennessy said, dabbing his brow with a paper napkin taken from the dispenser at the side of the table. ‘But any crack-head could have made that call. It don’t prove nothing.’

‘It proves that the caller knew about the theft. With the press blackout the NSA have imposed, the only people outside of law enforcement agencies who could know about that are the people who did it. So this is a lead, Sheriff, and we’re going to follow up whether you agree with it or not.’

Hennessy slumped back into his chair, muttering under his breath. Bailey smiled, feeling somewhat the better for his capitulation.

‘So what’s the plan?’ he asked.

‘Well, I’m not sitting on my ass till these jokers run out of water and crackers,’ Viggiano declared. ‘We’re going in. Today.’

There was a murmur of approval from around the table, Hennessy excepted. ‘But I want to keep this simple,’ Viggiano continued. ‘We’ve got no reason to assume things will get ugly, so we keep the Humvees under cover and the choppers on the ground. Hopefully we won’t need them. Vasquez?’

Vasquez got to his feet and leant over the table. His face was dark and pockmarked, his lank black hair tucked under an FBI baseball cap which he wore back to front, his dark eyes glowing with excitement.

‘The Sheriff’s men have put road blocks here and here –’ he indicated two roads on the map spread out in front of them – ‘blocking all routes in and out of the compound.’ ‘I want SWAT teams here, here and here, in the trees on the high ground to cover the windows. First sign of any hostile activity once my guys are inside the compound, they put down covering fire while we fall back to the RV point here.’

‘You got it,’ said Viggiano.

‘The two HRT teams will come in from the front and the rear. Based on the blueprints, we estimate we’ll have the main building secured in about three minutes. Then it’s over to you.’

‘Good,’ said Viggiano as Vasquez sat down. ‘Now remember, when this thing goes down, I want it done by the numbers. No exceptions. There are families in there – women, kids.’ He pointed at the pile of manila folders containing photos and profiles of all the people the FBI had identified as living in the building. ‘So we knock on the door nice and easy. We ask to come inside. Any sign that this is more than a plain vanilla secure-and-search operation, we pull back. The last thing I – the Bureau can afford right now is another high-profile hostage situation. Besides, if it gets hot, the DC brass will want to handle it themselves. They always do.’

Vasquez nodded his agreement.

‘You got it.’

‘Okay then.’ Viggiano slapped the table. ‘Let’s move out. There’s a shit-load to do, and I want to hit this place after lunch.’