Wilson — Bailey Island, ME
Wilson woke up bathed in sweat. He immediately looked at his watch. It was fifteen minutes after five o’clock in the evening. They’d slept for more than three hours. Montsweag’s would be closing in fifteen minutes. Wilson bolted down the stairs to the pay phone on the wall outside the marina store. It was raining hard.
After punching the numbers into the pay phone, he heard a woman’s voice, “Montsweag’s Whale Watching and Sightseeing Excursions.”
“We rented a boat this morning. It’s in my girlfriend’s name Emily Klein. We left…”
“Let me get Mr. Montsweag,” she interrupted.
As Wilson waited on the line, he wondered what Carter was doing.
A few seconds later, a deep gruff voice came on the line. “Son, the police have been here looking for the two of you.”
Wilson’s heart sank as he looked around him in the pouring rain, trying to discern if anyone was watching. “What did they want?” Wilson asked, looking at his watch and trying to remember how long it took to trace a call. It had already been twenty seconds or so.
“Some kind of emergency at home. They didn’t say anymore than that.”
Wilson braced himself against the wall of the marina store to keep his balance and hung up the phone. Then, he called the number, again, “Sorry. I was cut off.”
“Where are you?” Montsweag said when he got on the line, again.
“We got stuck in the storm. We’re fifty miles north in Stonington.”
“Where you stayin?”
“Uh. Don’t know yet,” Wilson replied, attempting to keep his composure. “Probably at the Inn by the old Opera House.”
“Okay. Better call home, son. You can bring the boat back tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Mr. Montsweag,” Wilson said, panicking inside. He entered the marina store to get more quarters. As he looked around, nothing seemed out of place. Jaclyn was still behind the counter waiting on customers. When she got to Wilson, she asked, “How many nights are you planning to stay?”
“Can I let you know in the morning?” Wilson asked.
“Sure,” she said. “I need an imprint of your credit card.”
“I’ll pay cash. How much?”
“Off season rate is $89. With food and tax, it’s $122.41.”
Wilson gave her seven twenty-dollar bills and asked for the change in quarters. Luckily she had several rolls of quarters. She grabbed two and cracked them open.
Back at the pay phone, Wilson dialed Hap Greene’s emergency number and then deposited two dollars and fifty cents.
A woman’s voice answered, “Hello.”
“Who’s this?” Wilson asked, startled.
“Wilson? Is that you? This is Agent Kohl.”
“Where’s Hap?”
“We can’t talk on this phone. Call me back at 212-555-0004.”
Wilson hung up, dialed the new number, and deposited another two dollars and fifty cents.
Kohl’s voice came on the line, “Wilson?”
“Are you trying to trace this call?”
“No,” Kohl said. “As long as you’re safe…”
“Is my family safe?” Wilson said, interrupting her.
“Yes,” Kohl said.
Wilson heard the hesitation in her voice. “Where’s Hap?”
There was silence on the line.
“Where’s Hap?” Wilson repeated.
“He left this cell phone with a message that he’d be back soon. The agent who was with him is dead.”
“What happened?”
“There was a fire and explosions at your family’s Brattle Street residence earlier this morning. The firemen took care of it quickly. Your family is fine. A team of paramedics tried to kidnap your mother and niece. Hap Greene and the other agents stopped them. Your mother, your sister, and your niece were not harmed, just a little smoke inhalation. Your brother-in-law was wounded in the shoulder, but he’s doing fine. All of them are at Mount Auburn Hospital under heavy guard.”
“You said they were safe before. Are you sure they’re safe now?” Wilson asked, his voice cracking. He felt responsible for everything. And when his family needed him most, he was too far away to help.
“Yes,” Kohl said. “Let us bring you in, Wilson. We can protect you.”
“We’ll take our chances where we are. Just keep my family safe,” Wilson said, looking at his watch. Twenty seconds had passed. “Are you sure no one’s tracing this call?”
“Absolutely,” Kohl said. “This is my personal cell phone and everything on it is scrambled. I purposely don’t have caller ID and I’ve never used it to trace anyone. Trust me.”
“What about the compromised agents?” Wilson asked, deciding to believe her.
“We’ve identified all of them. The first one we found, an agent named Switzer, confessed to everything.”
“How many are there?”
“Eleven. Six from the FBI, two from the Justice Department, one CIA, one NSA, and one of Hap’s men.”
Wilson swallowed hard. “Tell me they’re in custody.”
“Five of them are still at large. Three FBI agents, the CIA operative, and Hap’s man.”
There was dead silence on the line as Wilson digested the information. “There are eight men following us,” he said.
“How…”
“Don’t ask. We saw them last in Boothbay Harbor. They’re driving a red Jeep Cherokee, a dark blue Ford Taurus, a beige Taurus, and a black, bullet-pocked Range Rover.”
“I’ll run a check on the vehicles. Let us protect you, Wilson.”
“Look Ms. Kohl,” Wilson said, “I’m not suggesting you don’t already know this, but let me underscore it for you. These people are ruthless and relentless. They have their own death squads. They believe anyone can be corrupted at any time and they won’t stop until they’ve won. Do you understand me? They want us dead. They want my family dead.”
After a long pause, Kohl responded, “More than twenty FBI agents have lost their lives since three o’clock this morning. Some of them were close personal friends. We’ve made over two hundred arrests and we expect to double that by midnight. Believe me, Mr. Fielder, we understand.”
“Have you found Swatling or Tate?”
“No, but the NSA and CIA are on it.”
Just then the automated operator came on line, asking for another deposit. Wilson quickly deposited a handful of quarters. “Why the NSA and CIA?”
“We have reason to believe that Tate and Swatling are no longer in the country.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“Somewhere in Europe.”
“Italy?”
“Possibly.”
“Have you heard from Carter?” Wilson asked.
“No,” she said, pausing again. “The undercover agents at Stanford who were in contact with Carter in case we needed information to maintain their covers were murdered early this morning. The men who did it are in custody.”
Wilson collected his thoughts. “Have you talked to Detective Zemke in Sun Valley?” he asked.
“No. Why?”
“You haven’t listened to the tape?”
“What tape?”
“An overnight package from Zemke should have arrived at Fielder amp; Company this morning. Open it. Listen to the tape and then contact Zemke. I think it will shed some new light on what you’re up against.”
“What are you saying?”
“It was Carter who shot my father. And, right now, I’m not sure what he’s up to. Tate and Swatling have gone to Europe to either persuade him or kill him.”
Kohl remained silent, but Wilson could hear her exhaling with a sigh.
“Find Hap. I’ll call you tomorrow,” Wilson said. He hung up the phone before she could respond. He hated to admit it, but there was nothing more he could do to ensure the safety of his family. They were now in Kirsten Kohl’s hands. He could only pray that Hap Greene was still alive. His first impulse was to find another boat and take off for Canada, but that would present other dangers, especially in this weather.
Just to be safe, Wilson made arrangements with Mo Bobicki to sleep on the sixty-foot charter sailboat docked at the marina. He returned to the loft and told Emily about his conversation with Kohl. When it got dark, they pulled the blinds over the windows of the loft and left the television and lights on, and then exited through the inside stairway to the restaurant. They bought a bottle of wine and sandwiches before leaving the restaurant through the back door and slipping into the trees. When they emerged from the trees onto the road between the Marina Restaurant and a row of beachfront homes and condos on the cliffs overlooking the cove, they were unrecognizable. They had borrowed slickers with hoods from the restaurant and were walking as if they’d just left a cocktail party. Wilson carried the bottle of wine in his hand and Emily carried the sandwiches and two wine glasses. Luckily, it was still drizzling outside.
Once inside the well-appointed yacht, they watched television until well past midnight, waiting for a special news report. But there was nothing, except for a sketchy account on a local news channel about the FBI’s involvement in an apparent gang-related shooting in Boston’s Back Bay region.
“I can’t believe they’ve kept it under wraps,” Emily said.
“Why? They’ve done it before,” Wilson said.
“Not with something this widespread,” Emily returned.
“Sure they have. We just don’t know about it.”
They laughed nervously as they turned off the television and got ready for bed. When they finally lay down in the yacht’s cozy master bedroom, they were emotionally and physically exhausted, despite the naps they’d taken in the afternoon. Clinging to each other, they quickly fell asleep.