Harrington was much too euphoric to sleep after Streeter’s call. This was the moment of triumph; his and the Lord’s. Dressed and standing at the study window, he noted the time: 5:30 a.m. Thursday, December 21. It must be remembered and later documented.
The phone rang. “Culpepper’s son has been spotted in Copper Harbor,” Chapman reported. “Apparently he flew into Duluth last night.”
“Larry, we can’t permit this last-minute threat to destroy the mission. I want him apprehended now! Has the marina storage facility been searched?”
“No chest was found,” Chapman replied. “We just got word.”
“Are you telling me young Culpepper beat us to it?” Harrington growled.
“Sir, we’re not even sure it was there.”
“Of course it was, and now the fugitives have it. I want it recovered, Larry!” Slamming the phone down, he stormed to the window. Was there no end to this nightmare?
Minutes passed as he finally calmed enough to envision Houston’s serried skyline and the Tower of Faith rising above it, with the worship hall decorated for the Christmas Eve service. A desperate nation hungered for his wisdom and his guiding hand to rescue it from the chains of its sinful bondage.
Praise the Lord and His earthly partner, Seth Harrington.
Matt trudged through the trees rimming the dark, icy highway. Could Travis find a way to rescue them, or was the situation too desperate? Time was the variable. If they could survive long enough, there was a chance. He shuddered against another icy gust. The numbness in his hands and feet had deepened. He needed shelter and he needed it soon.
Another patrol car zipped by in the direction of Copper Harbor, then inexplicably screeched its brakes and, sliding over the icy road, returned west. As it entered the service station where another unit waited, he finally understood. Together the troopers and Feds began a search of his abandoned rental car.
Continuing towards the lights, he spotted the small motel with its bungalows situated around a courtyard. The sign flashed Harborside and beneath, the greeting he’d hoped for: Vacancy. Rushing forward, he quickly froze as two patrol cars pulled into the lot. The men jumped out and hurried into the office. He easily imagined their inquiry: Have you seen a white male in his late twenties, six feet, dark hair and eyes? A dumb Georgia shit with no overcoat, gloves or boots?
Seconds later they came out, went back to their cars and continued towards the bridge. Matt’s desperate gaze returned to the bungalows. Could he reach them without being spotted? Creeping closer, his heart sank. They had neither rear doors nor windows. And with the lit courtyard, it was too risky to enter through the front. Lifting the chest, he started once again through the trees.
Without destination, his spirit soon faded. His Gucci loafers, not designed for hikes through the Wisconsin snow, were soaked. His feet, like his hands, were losing feeling fast. Each step became torture as the chill’s grip deepened, snow fluttering once again from the dark sky. He couldn’t go on much longer.
Once Chapman’s office atop the FBI’s headquarters, the elegant enclave had become in recent weeks, a cluttered command post where plotted maps covered the walls, files rose daily on the furniture and trash accumulated on the Persian rugs. From here, he and Streeter had directed the fugitive operation. Hardly embarrassed, they were proud of the growing mess, which demonstrated clearly that no one was working any harder to end the crisis. Buried in the shambles, they now listened anxiously to the latest report from Northwood.
“Every building between here and Copper Harbor has been searched,” Nicholas said. “Culpepper should be found momentarily, most likely dead of hypothermia if he’s been out in the cold all night.”
“If that was the case,” Streeter muttered, “you would’ve found him by now.”
Chapman asked, “Pete, if the area between his car and the bridge has been scoured, where else could he be?”
“We’re not absolutely sure he’s heading towards the bridge. He could be moving in any direction. And with several hours’ head start, there’s a lot of ground to cover.”
“Have you checked all the motels along the highway?”
“Yes,” Nicholas replied. “Beginning with the Harborside, the one closest to his abandoned car.”
“How large is your force in Copper Harbor?”
“A hundred men and three choppers - it’s all we can spare until the Northwood operation has been concluded.”
“What’s the latest at the Kennesaw?” Chapman asked.
“The snow tracks indicate the fugitives headed for the eastern forest as expected. Further, given that there’s only one set of tracks, Waddill must be carrying Corelli, and she’s bound to get heavy in knee-deep snow. They can’t have gotten far.”
Streeter grumbled, “The fact remains the operation has been underway for two hours now and they haven’t been captured. And if they make it to that forest, who knows how long it’ll take to find them? How far is it from the inn?”
“A mile and a half,” Nicholas replied.
“Then they’re already there! Goddamnit Pete, how could you let this happen?”
“Sir, really, how long can a bunch of trees protect them against a wind chill of twenty below?”
After weeks of Nicholas’s arrogance, Streeter had endured all he could. “Listen to me, Pete. There’ll be no more excuses and weather reports. We want the fugitives, and we want them now!” Hanging up, he said, “I’m sorry, Larry. I know he’s your man, but he’s also the most arrogant sonofabitch I’ve ever known.”
Nodding, Chapman grabbed the flashing phone. It was Jim Ketchfield, the agent in charge of the Culpepper surveillance in Virginia, who reported: “Our distinguished subject just left Langley Air Force Base in a chopper headed for Dulles. Whatever the plan, it must’ve been conceived during his all-night workout at that posh club of his.”
Chapman was alarmed. “We’ll need a team at Dulles when he arrives. His activities have been suspicious enough to haul him in for questioning. If he refuses to disclose his mission, at least we’ll prevent his participation in it.”
“I’ll take care of it, sir. In fact, Dan Weston... Hold on. I have one coming in.”
Chapman’s stomach churned as he reported the developments to Streeter. “You know what this means, don’t you?” Streeter groaned. “Culpepper’s son found the chest. Travis intends to plead again for Longbridge’s intervention. Only this time, he has the firepower to support his case.”
“Not yet, Thomas. If his son has the chest, he’s either dead from hypothermia or else busy keeping himself from ending up that way. Either way, we’ll recover the chest before Travis gets his hands on it.”
Ketchfield returned to the line. “Sorry to keep you holding, but I just received a report from Dan Weston out at Dulles. He said that when he arrived, someone was already there to meet Culpepper’s chopper.”
Chapman’s heart pounded. “Who?”
“The President, sir.”
Streeter watched the blood drain from Chapman’s face. “What the hell’s going on?” He turned on the speaker as Ketchfield explained, “Air Force One will fly the men to Duluth the minute young Culpepper arrives. From there we assume they’ll proceed to Northwood. What should we do, sir?”
Chapman gaped at an equally desperate Streeter. “Tell Weston to stay at Dulles until they leave. Resume your surveillance at the Culpepper mansion and report any suspicious developments immediately.”
Pale and trembling, he hung up. “We have to call Harrington. If anyone can intercept Longbridge, it’s....” He stopped as the phone flashed again. Grabbing it, he switched on the speaker. “Yes?”
“Longbridge has ordered an immediate suspension of the operation,” a shattered Nicholas reported. “He, Culpepper and God knows who else are en route from Dulles. Further, he warned that if any harm came to the fugitives or Culpepper’s son, he’d hold every agent on site responsible.”
Chapman sunk deeper behind his cluttered desk. “This means he suspects our involvement in the cover up.”
“Still,” Nicholas insisted, “he can’t confirm his suspicions unless he gets the chest.”
Streeter frowned. “You don’t plan to disregard his order?”
“Why not?” Nicholas asked. “I’m dead anyway if the chest is recovered. You know the scenario, sir: One agent cuts a deal, then another. Soon we’re all falling like dominos.”
“I say the hell with Longbridge’s order,” Chapman said. “Our only hope is to dispose of the fugitives, Culpepper’s son and that damned chest.”
Streeter’s desperate eyes found the window. “We’re going down. Not even Harrington can save us this time.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Chapman snapped. “There’s no proof of our part in this conspiracy.”
“Not yet maybe, but there will be soon. It’s time to run.”
“Leave now?” he asked, incredulous. “There must be another option.”
“He’s right,” Nicholas said. “If I weren’t trapped here in Northwood, I’d do the same thing.”
Chapman watched Streeter grab the phone. “Harrington?”
“Screw Harrington!” yelled Streeter as he dialed a number. “He’s the one who got us into this mess. Let him fend... Custer!” he barked into the phone. “Get my car ready. I’m going to Dulles.” He frowned at the hesitating silence. “Custer, did you hear me?”
A strange voice now came on the line, “I’m sorry, Mr. Streeter, but your flight’s been cancelled.” In the same instant, three National Guardsmen marched crisply into the office.
“What’s the meaning of this?!” Streeter demanded.
“What the hell’s going on?” Nicholas chimed.
“I’m Guard Captain Rimstead,” the ranking officer announced sharply into the phone. “And you’re...?”
Outta here, The line clicked.
Flanked by his subordinates, Rimstead studied the two men submerged in their bunker of files and sophisticated electronic devices. “The President’s ordered me to assume your custody until the urgent matter in Wisconsin has been resolved.”
“If you’re referring to the fugitive operation,” Streeter snapped, “that resolution should occur momentarily, with their capture on the southern coast of Lake Superior.”
“I’ve been instructed not to discuss the matter with you,” Rimstead replied. His gaze fell to the phone in his hand. “I’m sorry your flight was cancelled. Perhaps you’d care to disclose your destination?”
“Wisconsin naturally, to assure the operation’s proper conclusion.”
“You needn’t worry. The President has made the trip himself. Although I must say,” he said as he studied their grim faces, “neither of you seems relieved by the news. Now let’s move, gentlemen.”