Randolph Kennedy’s telephone jangled him awake at six o’clock in the morning on Monday.
“Hello,” he said dully, still sleep stupid. “This had better be good news.”
“Yes, sir, it is. You and me are going hunting for moose today. Got to fill up the larders. Don’t say another thing; just be in your hunting stuff and ready to go. I and some friends will be there to pick you up shortly. You got to call in sick.”
It was Devlin O’Herligy. Prudence indicated to Randolph not to mention names or to say anything the feds might find incriminating. He had been sure that his telephone was being tapped for some time now.
“Okay, if you insist,” he said.
“Good man. See you inside forty-five minutes.”
The telephone clicked dead.
Devlin was not given to theatrics in matters of importance. Randolph decided that this was important, and got ready for a hunt. It took him forty minutes to round up his stuff and to get dressed in tough hunting clothes. A few minutes later, two pick-up truck loads of men drove noisily up Randolph’s road and clattered to a stop in front of his lawn. They yelled and punched each other like a bunch of adolescent boys going on an outing unsupervised by adults. They were clearly trying to direct attention to themselves.
The noisy camaraderie continued until Randolph let the men into his Devlin whispered, “Look, my friend, there are federal agents watching your place. Couple right out in your trees to the north, can’t say how many others there may be. I think they plan to pay you an uninvited visit, a very noisy visit. Probably to do with those crates of guns you brought up from Anchorage this past week.”
“They’re legal; most of them are plugged model M-60s incapable of being fired, don’t even have a firing mechanism,” Randolph protested.
“Doesn’t matter. The crates look like standard military issue, and the press will have a field day. We don’t need that kind of publicity. And you recall your incident in Virginia—they don’t need much of an excuse—the feds or the press.”
“So, what do you have in mind?”
“These two yahoos carry the crates out the back way and hide them in the woods. That’s the best I can think of right now. The rest of us make the big noise and do all the male bonding crap and go off on a hunt. I don’t think the feds will be sure of their count of us, and one or two more or less won’t be obvious. They would have to use the fingers of more than one hand, and they don’t go in for higher math that much,” he grinned as he said it.
“Won’t work. If my previous experience is anything of an indicator, they will hunt this hillside over until every crevice and cranny has been searched. I have a better plan.”
“That’s a relief. I didn’t much like mine, but I couldn’t for the life of me think of anything better on the spur of the moment.”
“C’mon down to my basement. I have something to show you. This is for you guys; eyes only, okay?”
They all nodded, and Randolph took them into his bathroom. He let them look around for a moment, then he removed the towel rack, lifted the ring latch for the trap door and opened the way into the fortress basement.
“I’m impressed,” said Devlin.
“You’re missing the best part,” said Randolph, after allowing his friends a few minutes to look around the basement.
“All right, you guys, find an exit.”
They set about looking like a group of children playing hide-and-seek. None of them could find another way out other than back up into the main floor bathroom. Randolph stepped to the rack of skis and poles. He unlatched the second to the last ski on the rack, set the ski aside, and twisted the rubber ski holder counter-clockwise. The portion of the pinewood lined wall holding the ski rack eased away from the adjacent segments of the wall, and the men saw a cleverly constructed door open into a cavernous area beyond the wall. Randolph found the newly installed light switch on the vestibule of the secret tunnel and turned it on. A single bright light flashed on, illuminating 50 feet down the tunnel.
Randolph said, “There are battery operated lamps every fifty feet beyond the electric light. You can see the next one from the last lamp turned on. You can turn of each light in its turn and go to the next. No one will ever be able to figure out how to light the tunnel except with flashlights which will take them precious time.
“I’ll be…exclaimed Kevin Wirthlin, one of the Militiamen.
“That’s the best hidey hole I ever seen,” added Derrin Crump. “It’d take the feds a year to find you in there.”
All eight men had a rollicking laugh. Happiness—by definition—was annoying the feds.
“Longer than that,” said Randolph. “In the interest of time, let me tell you that this tunnel leads down to an opening on the cliff south of the house—about a mile away. You guys can carry the crates of guns out of here and down to the main road. Bear to your left when you come out, and you can avoid the driveway onto my land. You ought to be able to drive off with the crates without anyone being the wiser. My old dump truck and back hoe’re down at the bottom. Remember to bring it back. I figure it won’t be all that long before I need it on the sly.”
The seven visitors shook their heads in admiration.
“Okay,” said Devlin, “Let’s get outta here before the federales get suspicious.”
Randolph showed the two men who were going to stay how to close the door to the basement bunker and to the tunnel so that no trace could be seen that a doorway existed. Then he and the hunters walked out the front door making as much noise as possible and milling about with frequent and rapid changes of position to interfere with the ATF agents’ head count.
Allen Heaps quickly radioed along the line as soon as Randolph appeared outside.
“My count is five…no, six. Anyway, I think there may be a couple of them still in the house. Number three and number four, follow the trucks when they hit the main road. The rest of you stay put. I’m going to get some orders. Right now, I don’t think it’s wise to make any kind of significant move, over.”
Four navy blue clad men with bright yellow block letter “ATF AGENT” signs on their backs started down the hillside on the double.
‘Heaps’ walkie-talkie crackled.
“Number one,” he said quietly.
“Go ahead, Perrency.”
“Maybe we can’t do anything, but how about just going up to have a peek inside?”
Heaps thought about it and couldn’t see any harm.
“Okay, you and Swensen go up. No noise, no chances. Understood?”
“Roger that. And willco. Out.”
“Out,” Heaps said to the now dead receiver.
Thirty minutes later Heaps’ walkie-talkie squawked again.
“Number one,” he answered.
“Number two, here. Quiet as a tomb in there. I’m sure nobody’s up there. Want to go in now and secure the place, boss?”
“No. Repeat, no way. We want the perps more than the guns. Sit tight. I’ll call Drake down in Wasilla.”
Heaps called the number for the ATF mobile headquarters.
“Yeah?” came Drake’s brusque voice.
“Suspect has vacated the premises. Looks like he’s goin’ huntin’ with a few of his backwoods buddies. Request instructions.”
“Do nothing. Sit on your hands. Nobody goes near that house without I’m there. I want Kennedy. We’ll wait a week if we have to. He’ll come back. You copy that loud and clear?”
“Loud and clear.”
Drake rang off.
Quatraine waited until Drake completed the call before resuming his argument with him.
“Look, every evidence says the perp has crates of illegal guns inside. We don’t have to drop any evidence.”
“I’m a belt and suspenders kind of guy, Quatraine. I’m also a team player—you could take a lesson. You heard the Pres. and AG; we nail this guy whatever way we have to. That’s it. Now, go get on somebody else’s case and leave me be.”
Quatraine sighed and shrugged. He might as well have been speaking Sanskrit to his dog for all the good this conversation with Drake was doing him.
“Okay, don’t forget that I warned you. This is hokey, too hokey. But I’ll shut up on the subject. Show me the evidence you’re going to drop.”
Drake rolled his eyes.
“If it’ll get you off my back.”
He gestured for Quatraine to follow him. They walked into the backyard of the old house they had rented to use as headquarters. Nearly twenty ATF agents were in the yard having a barbecue. Drake put his forefinger to his lips.
“Loose lips sink ships,” he muttered through his teeth.
The two men walked into a side yard where an outsized decrepit old Dodge Ram II delivery van stood. It was huge, a sickly white in color, and looked as if it may have been a commercial milk truck or a bakery wagon at one time. Its paint was peeling, and it was covered with a myriad of old dents, scratches, and rusty gouge marks indicative of a long life of heavy use. A long, tall trailer covered with a tarpaulin was attached to a hitch on the back of the van.
Drake looked around to be sure that no one was paying attention to them, then he unlocked the padlock on the large van’s rear doors. He pulled open the doors quickly and stepped into the interior. He motioned for Oliver to follow him. He drew the doors as nearly closed as possible and turned on his flashlight. On the floor in front of them and making entrance into the trailer difficult were several large bags of ammonium nitrate fertilizer. Quatraine did not think it necessary to wonder if this van load represented a large scale gardening project. There was enough raw chemical there to make bombs capable of taking out the White House and six city blocks.
Next forward stood boxes full of chopped leaves densely packed into zip-lock baggies, and five kilo bags of white powder, hundreds of them. Lying on the floor in front of the drugs were six wooden crates of guns standing upright. Quatraine guessed that the street value of the powder, either cocaine or heroin, had to be in the multi-millions; and the munitions had to be of nearly equal value.
“Pardon me if I don’t open the crates. Take my word,” said Drake, pleased with Quatraine’s stunned expression. “You’re looking at two crates each of LAWs, M-72 grenade launchers, and Roadblockers, and one each of Czech Vz.58s, AK-47s, and 9mm Parabellem Tokagypts.”
Quatraine ached to have a look at the famous Vz.58s, the terrorist’s choice of automatic rifles, and especially at the 10 gauge shotgun that held only three rounds, known as a Roadblocker because it was an accurate description of the power of the weapon. He controlled his curiosity and resisted examining the crates further.
“Man, the world would be a worse place if those ever fell into the wrong hands,” he said as an understatement.
“They were, and they won’t again. The ATF is on the job,” Drake said smugly.
Quatraine shook his head unconvinced.
“I’d hate to be in our shoes if anything ever does happen to those things. The perps’ll be better armed than a Response Team.”
“Stop being such an old lady, Quatraine. This is the majors. Suit up and get in the game.”
Drake’s voice carried an intentional sting.
Quatraine ignored the implication as he did with most of the white agents’ snide remarks toward him and his fellow minority agents.
“Let’s have a look in the trailer,” he said.
The windows on the rear doors had been painted over. He opened the large cargo doors, and Drake pushed aside one row of the “New & Brite Fax Paper” boxes that stood against them and set aside the loading ramps. It was pitch black behind the rearmost row of boxes.
“Look, and weep,” said Drake, and shined his light into the depths of the trailer.
Oliver took an involuntary breath and hissed it out through his teeth.
“Geez, is that what I think it is?”
There were three rows of pallets stacked two high all the way to the front of the trailer. On each of the pallets were bundles of tightly packed currency secured to the pallet with plastic shrink wrap. The money was pressed into the compartment floor to ceiling and wall to wall. It was not possible to tell the denominations, but even if they were all ones, it was a staggering amount of money. Quatraine remembered a silly fact from a boyhood visit to Washington D.C. where he had taken the standard tour of the Bureau of Printing and Engraving. A stack of ones a mile high was fourteen and a half million dollars. This looked like a hundred miles of money—a fortune large enough to rival Croesus. It was breath taking.
“Is that real?” he choked out.
“All hundreds. Uncle Sugar’s finest. All used, unmarked, no purple dyes, no newspaper cuttings in the center of the stacks. No ringers. All stacks are at random, no serialized bills. We have never monkeyed with that little fortune since it came our way from the raid in Ketchikan. And it’s all evidence. Don’t think of it as money.”
That was said with genuine jocularity.
Quatraine could only stare for a few minutes. It made him feel all warm and good inside just to stand near so much money. He shook his head to bring himself back. It was not a dream. That was real money and more than he had ever imagined, let alone seen.
“Any idea how much there is total?” he managed.
Drake laughed out loud.
“Don’t get any thoughts, Quatraine. This stuff is going back into the impound vault where it came from as soon as this case is over. As long as I have a say, not one bill of that stack is going to find its way into the wrong hands, perp or copper.”
Oliver thought for a moment; his analytical side showed itself as usual. He had a nagging thought which he now expressed aloud.
“If this is the Ketchikan loot and constitutes the main evidence from that raid, how can it be used twice? I mean, once the Ketchikan trial is over, it will be distributed to the federal agencies. It won’t be available for this case, will it?”
His face showed serious concern. He was sure he had discovered the fatal flaw in the whole phantasmagorical plan.
“Don’t give it a second thought, Ollie, my boy,” Drake taunted gleefully. “Uncle Henry has all of that under control. Don’t worry your pretty little burr head about that inconsequential problem. Your Uncle Henry will take care to see that that never becomes a problem.”
There was a hard, nasty edge in his gruff voice. That part of the plan had escaped Quatraine; and he thought maybe it was better if he did not know everything; but he could not avoid the chill that raised the hairs on his neck. He ignored the mockery.
“Back to my question, Drake. How much do you think is there?” he asked, changing the subject.
“I don’t honestly know. I’d say that you could put three kids through Harvard and give them each a house with one of those little bundles out of one of those stacks. Whole thing? Maybe four, five hundred mill, maybe more.”
He tossed it off as if he were describing the kids’ lunch money.
Quatraine felt numb and distinctly uncomfortable standing there before all that money and all the implications of its presence. Drake’s cocksureness failed to assuage Oliver’s misgivings. No need to worry, to concern himself? Fat chance. Quatraine was a worrier, and he was vividly aware of the hazards of using the arms and money to frame a suspect—even one as reprehensible as Kennedy—compounded by the audacious plan to use that same evidence twice. The deeper realization that the Response Team was going to stage a raid that had no intention of resulting in a post-raid trial in a court of law made Oliver Quatraine—the letter of the law straight shooter federal agent—shudder at his own involvement, even at his guilty knowledge. Oliver was now immensely glad that he was recording everything. He walked away from Henry and surreptitiously switched the recorder off, reminding himself to get some new tapes.
Randolph shot a large bull moose late Tuesday afternoon. He, Devlin, and Tom Bradshaw had been hunting the easy way, from a small river boat on the Mulchatna River. By the luck of the draw of straws, Randolph had been the one to shoot the first animal. In the distance they saw a fine bull with an estimated sixty inch spread of his airplane propeller antlers. The men silently glided to within a mile of the big black beast, beached their boat, and crept up on it slowly keeping downwind. Randolph put two rounds from his .338 into the kill zone, and the beast dropped and was still after a slow twenty yard run. It was well after dark before they had skinned and field dressed the carcass and loaded all of the meat, the expertly caped hide, and the skull and horns into the boat. As it turned out, Randolph was the only one of the hunters to get a shot. The meat was all that mattered to the rest of the men; they had trophies aplenty. When they divided up the 1900 pound animal, there was more than enough deboned meat to provide a winter’s supply for all of their families.
Randolph was ready to head back home Wednesday night, but Devlin cautioned him, “I think the feds will get tired of watching your place given another day. Or you might only annoy them. Either way is a plus. Let’s wait until tomorrow. I look for them to be gone by then; and you can get back to living like a regular American citizen—one who doesn’t have the special protection of federal officers watching him and his property all the time.”
Devlin could not speak of ‘federal officers’ except with a hard edge.
“All right, Devlin. I have a ton to do, and my boss just might get on my case if I don’t get back to work there before too long.”
“Don’t worry, friend, Ian Laird knows it’s the moose hunt. No real man would begrudge a man his inalienable right to the moose hunt, right? Besides, your position as head of the Militia covers a lot of sins; I ought to know.”
“Right,” agreed Randolph, amused.
He liked Devlin’s spurious logic even though most of the time it was at the level of an adolescent boy’s rationalizations.