After two days of close monitoring by the agents occupying the Staley place, the Agency unraveled the coding used in the messages sent to the person alleged to have killed the sheriff of Picketsville, Virginia. Once done, they moved in to arrest them. The charges were vague, but as they were found with a substantial cache of C-4 and the messages they were sending, although in plain English, were obviously coded, they were picked up and arrested. Terrorism, whether domestic or foreign, the arresting officers explained to them, was still terrorism.
The men protested that they were patriots, not terrorists, to which the arresting officer retorted they should be happy then, because they were being charged under the terms of the Patriot Act. The men effectively disappeared. Sometimes, Charlie thought the Act had its uses. The three women in Ruth’s cottage returned to Washington and resumed their duties; Ruth’s doppelganger as the executive secretary to the director of the CIA, the other two to the “Farm” to train new Agency recruits in martial arts, among other things. The men moved from Staley’s to Ruth’s and assumed the task of forwarding plausible messages to the as-yet-unknown-but-presumed felonious recipient. The known word count of the set of transmissions provided a ready resource for Sam to eliminate many of the possible frequencies when she finally began to sort through all the signals emanating from the radio tower. Knowing the word count helped to eliminate well over half of them. Eventually, all of them save one. But Charlie insisted on knowing not just who was receiving, but what was said and who was saying it, which would take a few more days of fiddling with the encryption.
Down-Easters have a highly developed sense of privacy. Thus, most of the activity at the cottage went unnoticed by Scone Island’s permanent residents. Vacationers, they knew, were peculiar people and after that big helicopter crash the previous year about which Trooper Stone didn’t want to talk, they figured it was just one of those cycles when odd things happened, like the time the four lobster boats all had their bottoms stove in on Cooligan’s reef in the same year, or when the tide didn’t match the chart like it should have for three weeks. Caused some consternation, that did, eh-yah.
***
Buffalo burgers, among many offerings, were the specialty of Bert’s Western Bar and Grill. Bert’s also served a variety of sandwiches named after celebrities who had at one time been or were now residents of the area or who’d appeared in a film shot in Idaho. Sonja Henie and Marilyn Monroe both made the menu roll call. Ike said that was ironic. Ruth said she couldn’t see why and before he explained, said that she didn’t care. The back of the menu listed the eighty or so films made in the state over the years and a brief bio of Bert, the owner, and his career as an extra in two of Clint Eastwood’s films.
“I thought the buffalo was an endangered species. How can this place serve them on a bun with,” Ruth consulted the plastic laminate menu, “lettuce, tomato, pickle, and special BBQ sauce?”
“They were endangered. Some will insist they still are, but they have been domesticated for decades and the bison on your bun will be farm-bred and corn-fed.”
“Someone in a ten-gallon Stetson didn’t shoot him, you’re saying.”
“I don’t think so, but I could be wrong. I think the government allows some limited hunting in the areas where the herds have grown too large on lands that are also leased to cattlemen.”
“So, you don’t know.”
“Not sure.”
“Then I’m having a chicken sandwich. I want to show my solidarity with the Plains Indians and a lost generation.”
“I’m sure they will appreciate the gesture. Since when did you take up the cause of the Diminishing West?”
“It came with the red hair. Speaking of which, how are we to explain the arrival of Sam into our midst?”
“You just nailed it. She has red hair, if you recall. You have red hair. She is our daughter come for a visit.”
“What? She isn’t. Do you think I look old enough to be her mother? No way, Ike. You can be the dad, if you want, but there is precious little left of my youth and I don’t plan on ceding it to that nonsense.”
“Then your ‘somewhat’ younger sister. How’s that?”
“Better. Here’s our waitress. Order up and no buffalo burger if you want to continue sharing the connubial bed.”
“Jesus, you’re hard, June Gottlieb.” Ike turned to the waitress whose badge announced that she was Marcie and ‘Sure Glad to be serving Ya.’ “Are these buffalo hunted or raised?”
Marcie seemed puzzled and allowed as how she didn’t know but she’d ask Mr. Bert. Ike said it wasn’t important and ordered two Francis Farmer chicken sandwiches and coffee. Sides and fries came with them Marcie explained, “Does the gennelmin ’n lady want swede potado or reglar fries?”
Ruth frowned and looked at Ike.
“Sweet potato for us both,” he said. Marcie nodded and left to fill their order.
Ruth shook her head and turned her attention to the other diners. “How many of these people are ‘all hat and no cattle’?” she asked.
Ike scanned the room. “All of them, I think. It’s afternoon and I don’t believe real cattlemen would waste daylight noshing on buffalo burgers in an obvious tourist trap like this. The real question is who, if any, of these people are connected with the folks we’re looking for.”
“You think they would be here?”
“I think it’s possible. Anything is. If we are close to them, there is a reasonable chance one or more of these people would be on their way to or coming from the bad guys’ lair.”
Ruth swung her head around and asked, “Any candidates?”
“Well, just reading people, mind you, and with no real information as to why, I think the two guys in the too-new boots at the counter qualify.”
“Reading people? So?”
“The tourists are scanning everybody else hoping to see a movie star. They, unlike the rest, are only interested in us. My guess is they will try to find out who we are and report back to somebody.”
“What somebody?”
“Could be the local sheriff, or the bad guys, or the chamber of commerce. There is no telling just yet.”
“How will they do it?”
“They will wait for us to leave and ask to see the credit card receipt we leave behind.”
“So, we pay cash, right?”
“No, we pay with one of Charlie’s fake credit cards. I want them to ID us now so they will leave us alone. We’re the Gottliebs, remember?”
“And they will leave us alone?”
“Unless they are very anti-Semitic, I think so…well, maybe. It depends. If they are just plain folks, yes. If they are from the paranoid sector, no.”
Their sandwiches arrived with two thick and lumpy pancakes on the side.
“What’s this?” Ruth asked pointing to the pile. “They look like potato pancakes.”
“Yes, ma’am, Swede potatoes,” Marcie smiled and plunked a bottle of ketchup on the table. “Bonny appetite.”
***
When the couple left, the woman, later identified as June Gottlieb, was heard haranguing her husband, Marvin, about what a waste it was to fly all the way out to this cowboy farm just to buy land when there was, like, lots of lots back in Carolina that they could have bought cheap, for crying out loud, and they could have saved the money. Her husband kept muttering something about movies and the latest trends in real estate investment. Idaho is hot, he said. Bruce Willis’ name came up once or twice. They paid and exited.
Martin Pangborn did not need to concern himself with that pair. That is, he didn’t unless they happened to stumble onto his property in their search for land to buy. Then, there might be a problem.
As it happened, it appeared one or two of his subordinates did have a problem. Mrs. Gottlieb was videotaped, camera in hand, taking a picture of the ranch gate. Why would a silly woman in that god-awful orange slacks suit from North Carolina want to take a picture of the ranch gate?