“I’ll stay with Hilde,” Lonnie said, massaging her abdomen. “I don’t feel up to any driving right now.”
Marcus and Mike walked out of the office. Caufield led the women to an empty office a few doors down.
“You can do your research here,” Caufield motioned toward the computer on the desk. “Just log in with your normal FBI credentials and the network should pull up your profile from your home office computer.”
Hilde turned to Caufield. “Is there any other way to get hold of Agents Roberts and Warner?”
“Down in those tunnels, there’s no cell phone reception, so you’re going have to wait until they surface for lunch.”
Lonnie turned to look out the window and saw Marcus’ F250 rumble east on 6th, heading out of downtown toward the south side of Anchorage. The dent in the tailgate darkened with the shadow cast by the southern sun. As his truck turned the corner, the baby jumped in her womb.
Chapter 13
The house at the end of the winding driveway would have been called a log cabin by folks who weren’t familiar with real Alaskan log cabins. Real log cabins like the type inhabited by homesteaders and people in remote areas of Alaska and Northern Canada’s Yukon Territory seldom measured more than four or five hundred square feet in size and were made of eight-inch logs, the largest that could be found in mass quantities in the Arctic. They often had dirt floors, sometimes covered with rough-hewn boards or slats laid right on the surface of the ground. Few had electricity or running water, and were typically heated by a single potbellied wood-burning iron stove, or, if the owners couldn't afford that convenience, by a fifty-gallon drum converted into a barrel stove. The barrel stoves were not very pretty, but they definitely could put out some serious heat on a cold winter night.
This house, on the other hand, was more of a log fortress than a cabin. Constructed of massive sixteen-inch spruce logs imported from British Columbia, it was practically impervious to anything less than armor-piercing artillery shells. At over four thousand square feet, the mini-mansion looked like a rich man’s fantasy of what rustic frontier life should be.
Steven Farrah jogged up to the house. Sweat soaked through his gray cotton running clothes, forming dark triangular patches on his chest and back and seeping in a pattern beneath his armpits. He slowed and, breathing heavily, walked over to the Audi parked in the large open area in front of the standalone garage built of the same logs as the house. The two buildings were connected by a ten-foot-long breezeway. He reached into his pocket and pressed a button on the key fob to unlock the vehicle, reached in and clicked the garage door opener attached to the sun visor, then closed and locked the car.
The panels of the two-car-wide door rose slowly like the eyelid of a giant Cyclops. Blinded by the bright summer sun, he barely caught the man-shaped shadow inside the garage as he drew near. His heart lurched and he instinctively reached into his waistband for the Sig Sauer P232 he always kept there. The shadow moved toward him from deep within the dark room. The scuff of a shoe on the cement floor hastened his draw. Just as he pulled the weapon to full height, a voice called out.
“Mr. Farrah. You should be less paranoid and more cautious.”
“Wha…?” Farrah started. He gritted his teeth and squeezed his lips into a snarl. Recognizing the voice he lowered the pistol.
“Really,” said the figure emerging from the shadowy space, “one never knows who one’s friends are, does one.”
Farrah slid the Sig back into a fitted holster set in a wide, flesh-colored elastic belt wrapped about his midsection. The setup held the small, flat weapon firm against his body, rendering it invisible beneath most clothing.
“You very nearly ceased to be my or anyone’s friend.”
Kharzai stepped into the blazing daylight, shielding his eyes with his hand. The dog from the attempted robbery trotted beside him, tail wagging, then sat on his haunches beside Kharzai, sweeping a shallow cloud of dust up behind itself with every motion of its tail. It opened its mouth and let its tongue droop as the bright, hot sun almost instantly heated its furry body.
“Who would ever have thought that Alaska could possibly get this hot?” Kharzai wiped tiny beads of sweat from his forehead. “It feels almost like Sevastopol.”
Farrah squinted up at the blue sky, then dropped his eyes toward the tall mountains that seemed to be immediately behind the house. The house itself actually stood partway up the base of the mountain range, the peaks of which were indeed only a few miles to the east. From the second story of the house, one could see the northern limits of the Pacific Ocean lazily reflecting the summer sun.
“It looks more like Yalta,” he said
“I didn’t say looks,” Kharzai replied. “I said feels.”
The two walked into the garage. The dog followed them, staying close to his new friend Kharzai. Farrah stopped at the door leading toward the house. “That beast is not coming inside.”
“Ah, c'mon, Steven. I've gotten rather attached to the little guy.” Kharzai leaned down and scratched the dog behind the ears. “Haven't I, Deano?”
“Deano?” Farrah said. “What on earth prompted that name?”
“It was on his tag,” Kharzai replied, “and he seems to answer to it, so Deano must be his name.”
“Named or not,” Farrah said, “he's not allowed in the house. I don't want dog hair on everything.”
“Whatever you say,” Kharzai said resignedly. “You're the boss on this one.”
He walked Deano to the space in front of the garage and picked up a gnarled dry stick one end of which was pocked with teeth marks suggesting the dog had probably dragged it out of the woods to chew on. Deano jumped and spun excitedly upon seeing the stick in his new master's hand.
“Ready, boy? Ready?” Kharzai taunted. Deano went wild with enthusiastic yipping. Kharzai leaned back, stretched his arm, and flung the stick like a missile launched from a trebuchet. It flew long and high, and Deano fired off after it with such speed that he must have thought his life depended upon him returning with that stick. Kharzai watched the dog sprint across the dusty driveway, kicking spouts of dust beneath his paws with every bounding step. He smiled, pleasure seeping through his expression. The momentary peace was abruptly split apart by the sound of Farrah's voice.
“Are you coming in or what?”
“Huh? Oh, yes, yes, of course.”
He turned and crossed into the garage. Farrah hit the remote control button by the door to the house and the motor on the ceiling lowered the large bay door with a whirring hum. They moved inside and crossed through the breezeway and into the house itself.
“What about it feels like Sevastopol?” Farrah asked.
The moment of happiness with Deano had evaporated, and Kharzai was back in character.
“The fact that you nearly blew the whole operation by getting exposed,” he said.
Kharzai stopped in the middle of the stone-tiled mudroom entry and gave Farrah an accusing stare. Farrah spun back toward him, his face scrunched at the accusation and his lips tightened into thin-stretched lines.
“What are you talking about?” he hissed.
“Did you know you were followed last night?”
“Oh, really?” Farrah’s expression changed to a look of indignation. “By whom, the local police? The Albanian Mafia? The CIA?”
“Nope, nope, and nope.” Kharzai wagged a finger at him. “It was the FBI.”