“Wait. You say the fire was on track number three? Didn’t the computer train run on the track by the wall?”
“Yep, track number four.”
“So it wasn’t the computer train that burned?”
“No, not at all. It was a manual consist.”
“Then why did they cancel the automated train after the fire?”
“The TA never really wanted it. The fire gave management an excuse to shut it down. And we in the union, well, you know how we felt about it.”
“So this was a non-event!”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. They had to cut open 42nd Street just to get the burned car out.”
“Yeah, but what you’re telling me is that the fire was in no way the first case of industrial sabotage committed by the Sabot Society.”
“Nah, it was a stupid track fire that got out of hand ’cause of crummy maintenance. I, of course, would never say that in public so as not to taint the work practices of my brother union members.”
Bill sighed. “Pop, I can’t tell you what a load off my mind that is.”
“Does this help you in your work, Billy?”
“It makes the FBI’s case against me tougher, but I’m learning a lot about politics and how the truth or facts seldom enter into it.”
“See? And you thought you were finished with school, son.” The man actually tousled Bill’s hair.
“Boys, the coffee’s getting cold,” his mother called out.
“Coming, Ma,” Hiccock said as if he were sixteen again. When you go home, you are always sixteen again. He touched his father’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t have a copy of that NTSB report, would ya?”
“As a matter of fact …”
The follow-up from Bufford’s farm and the investigating agents across the country was aggravating Director Tate’s ulcer this morning. They were all having trouble making hard connects on anything but the Long Island and New Jersey truck bombings. There were a few isolated connections but no more than there would have been by opening any phone book and making a circumstantial case against any person you randomly picked. To his chagrin, Tate had heard that some of the agents had started calling the operation “Homegroan” amongst themselves. Director Tate’s peptic level was not about to get any lower when he answered his phone.
“NTSB 20-4-64-00234,” Reynolds called out over the phone.
“What’s that?”
“It’s the NTSB report you left out of your premature Hiccock obituary. It’s real boring reading on how it was not an act of sabotage. You should read it soon.”
“Is that all you called for?”
“The daily briefing’s been moved up because of the stock market crash. I’m going in to the boss in thirty minutes. Should I slot you in so you can fill him in on the bust?”
“Ray, I’m still getting a handle on just what we have. Maybe in the afternoon.”
“What do I tell him when he asks?”
“That the investigation is proceeding and the FBI is …”
“Hold it. Every enemy of this country can read that in the Times. What do we tell the President of the United States of America, Tate?”
“It’s slow going. They’re deeper and more covert than we thought. I’ll have more once the West Coast reports in.”
“Okay, duly noted. If anything changes in the half hour, call me.”
Hanging up the phone, the director’s conscience started nagging him. Holding back information from the administration was technically a violation of the law. Countering that was the guideline that afforded him, as the head of the FBI, the sole discretion as to what was conjecture and what was fact. There were no regulations mandating that he convey speculation. Tate chose to regard the negative reports he’d received from his trusted underlings in the field as opinion and not fact. At least until their written reports were on his desk.
All that logic aside, for the first time in his long public career he felt vulnerable. He opened his desk drawer and fished out the business card of a New York attorney he met at a cocktail party a few years ago. He fingered the edge of the card. Unfortunately, the current political situation had placed more emphasis on this operation than he would have liked, forcing him to operate more out in the open. The terrorist attacks were so high profile, and the assault on the farm so massive, that it now could not be contained or explained as an expeditionary tactic to gather information.
Furthermore, that Hiccock creep hadn’t helped matters any by undermining his authority and limiting his more reasonable response options. Looking back down at the gold-leafed engraved card, he decided to call the Park Avenue lawyer and cash in the chit the man owed him. What he couldn’t decide was if he was going to ask the lawyer to represent him in the congressional probe that would surely follow, or ask him for a cushy, private-sector job.
Two hours after Tate left a message for the lawyer to get back to him, he found himself in the Oval Office.
“Mr. President, we always operated with the understanding that Hiccock’s investigation and our own was one and the same. Different methodologies working toward the same end and sharing the same resources.”
The president cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Forty-eight hours ago, you depicted Hiccock as a mole planted in my administration in order to disinform and misdirect me away from your investigative path. I fired the man and ruined his career because of that. Now all of the sudden, Bill’s the guy who uncovered the missing part of your theory — the online recruitment of the homegrown terrorist. Can you see why I’m getting so agitated over this, Tate?”
Tate took a deep breath, the color draining from his salon-tanned face. “Sir, we may have been premature on the tie-in with Hiccock’s father.”
The president just stared. It didn’t take much imagination to envision what was going on in his head.
Reynolds broke the uneasy silence. “Sir, actually Hiccock is on a leave of absence.”
“We grant leaves of absence?”
“Not usually, Sir, but this is an unusual situation and it was his idea.”
“What was Bill’s reasoning in asking for a leave when we agreed to fire him, Ray?”
“In case this sort of thing happened, Sir. To save you the embarrassment if you needed him back.”
This was almost more than Tate could handle. Hiccock was out-pointing him at every turn.
“Ray, get Hiccock back in the house.”
“He cleaned out his desk yesterday and went back to New York. His father’s place, I think.”
Mitchell swiveled in his chair to Reynolds. It was as though he’d forgotten that Tate was in the room, though Tate knew he couldn’t be that lucky. “Do you think we can convince him that his leave just ended?”
“It’s the tension on the line and the tension in your body that scare away the fish. Just ease it in, keep it lax, and wait … wait … ’til your opponent there feels relaxed enough and decides to have a leisurely snack.” Harry Hiccock’s soft tones skimmed over the water as he stood fifteen feet into the stream in wading boots, the very poster boy for “relaxed.” His son, Billy, was trying, but was still broadcasting enough tension to keep the fish at bay.
Bill could sense his biorhythms changing with the next deep breath he took. It was like on the first days of spring when he was a kid in the Bronx and it felt so good it hurt as your lungs expanded. He knew it was his imagination, but the colors became more vivid and the air smelled sweeter. This wouldn’t be such a bad lifestyle.