Worst Case Scenario, page 11
“Mr. Bishop.” The words whispered from behind caused him to turn. Minerva reached out and touched his bicep with her cold fingers. “I’m so happy you came.”
Bishop tried to smile but felt the strangeness of the moment. She wore a strapless pink sundress. Just the proper amount of cleavage showing. She looked younger than yesterday. Her eyes had a new sparkle today, and her voice a silkier texture.
“Hello, Mrs. McFadden.”
She grabbed his arm with both hands, too familiar a gesture for someone he hardly knew. “Come, I’ll introduce you.”
Bishop always liked to gauge the tone of a strange place before meeting anyone—especially one like this with unfamiliar people. Minerva didn’t allow him that option. She dragged him across the room to a gathering of men talking—one held the group’s attention—the guy in his seventies with the athletic build that Karl had been conferring with. The man glanced their way as they approached, but he continued talking. His voice was soft but authoritative.
“The political situation has become ridiculous. Never in the history of this great nation have citizens been stripped of their rights like in the last year.” Karl and the others nodded in agreement. The older man paused, glancing again at Bishop and Minerva.
“Would you excuse me please, gentlemen?” He walked to Minerva, and she extended her hand. He took it with ease.
Minerva nudged closer to the man. “Darling, this is the good Samaritan I told you about. Mr. Bishop, this is Clark, my husband.”
The man held out his free hand to Bishop. “Thank you for rescuing my wife yesterday.” His smile was thin and forced.
Bishop shook the hand and found the grip a little too tight.
“No, problem—glad I could help.”
“My wife tells me you’re just passing through.” His eyes had a strange inquisitive look.
Bishop realized the game being played but didn’t understand the reason. “I’m on vacation—wanted to do a little hiking.”
“Are you staying local, Mr. Bishop?” Minerva asked.
Before Bishop could answer, Clark McFadden broke in. “Yes, darling, Mr. Bishop’s staying with Cora on the peak.”
Minerva cleared her throat and her forehead creased, but she quickly recovered. She smiled and, in a shaky voice, asked, “How is dear Cora?”
McFadden smirked.
Bishop understood the smirk was a challenge.
Bishop grinned. “She’s fine and sends her regards.”
McFadden’s expression soured—a flash of anger in the eyes. “If you’ll excuse me. I need to see to my other guests.”
Bishop had just confirmed what he’d thought all along. The only way McFadden could have known he stayed at Cora’s last night was from a spy. He’d been right, the shadow he saw last night was no limb swaying in the moonlight. The footprints belonged to one of McFadden’s people. Bishop glanced at the male waiters. They all wore smooth-sole Moccasins. But why bother spying on Cora? To what end?
As McFadden strolled toward another group of guests, Minerva grimaced and blushed. She retook Bishop’s arm and led him to a corner.
“Do forgive Clark; he’s been under a lot of pressure putting the reunion together. He’s not a very good host today, I’m afraid.”
“What reunion is that?” Bishop asked, taking a glance across the room at McFadden.
A confused expression crossed Minerva’s face before she tilted her head, giggled, and motioned with her hand. “This is the reunion, here. Oh, silly me, you’ve not been to one before.” She brushed her hair back and leaned closer, whispering. “Every year, Clark gives a reunion for honored graduates of the McFadden Academy.”
Bishop looked around the room at the hundred-plus people. “You mean all these folks are graduates of the school?”
“Well, mostly the men. Many of their wives didn’t attend the academy. It’s a nationally recognized school. Won every academic excellence award the state and country offers,” she said with a prideful tone.
“Is that so?” Bishop took another look around as he sipped his drink. Regardless of the accolades from Minerva, something still felt a little off. There was a missing piece, but Bishop couldn’t figure it out. Cora told him McFadden had built the school for children of Apache parents who worked on the ranch. There were all mixed-blood men in the crowd—no full-blood Native Americans except the waiters and waitresses.
“Yes, and all of them have achieved excellence in their careers,” Minerva said.
Bishop raised his glass in a mock toast, “Well, I’m honored to be among such a distinguished group.” He scanned the room again, looking for McFadden.
She tightened her grip on his arm and pulled him closer. “It’s remarkable what Clark’s achieved in the past four decades. You see those three talking by the window?” she pointed to a group of middle-aged men in conversation. “The tall one is the county commissioner, the one to his left is our county judge, and the one with his back to us is the congressman for this district.”
“They’re all graduates?”
“Well, the commissioner and county judge are. The congressman is a guest. Clark almost single-handedly funded his last two campaigns. Clark likes supporting conservative candidates.”
“Interesting.” Bishop eyed McFadden again on the opposite side of the room. He watched Bishop and Minerva intently while talking to another group of guests. She didn’t notice the stare from her husband.
“So, what do the other graduates do? They all can’t be in politics,” Bishop asked.
“Oh, no, many are in business, and some with the military and government. See the man talking to the woman in the black dress by the bar?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s a Major in the Air Force, works for the national something or other—has to do with our military spy satellites.”
“The National Reconnaissance Office?”
“Yes, that’s it,” Minerva smiled and playfully tapped his arm, “aren’t you the smart one.”
“Lucky guess.” Bishop continued watching McFadden. He stood beside a short, lanky, gray-haired man with foxlike features. They both looked his way and spoke in quiet conversation.
Minerva continued talking and pointed to a different guy. “The man over by the fireplace, the one in the white shirt and gray slacks,” she nodded. “He’s with the Air Force, works for Space Command in Colorado, inside a mountain.”
Bishop took in a slow breath before asking, “Cheyenne Mountain?”
She waved the question away. “Yes, some Indian name like that.”
McFadden’s eyes stayed fixed on Bishop as Minerva kept talking.
“Mr. McFadden must have quite a school to have these kinds of successful graduates.”
“We’re very proud of the school and all the boys who’ve done so well.” She gave an approving motherly look at the group of men in their late thirties and fourties.
McFadden had his cell phone out and began pushing buttons.
Minerva let out a sigh. “Too bad some couldn’t make it this year. We’re especially proud of one graduate—he’s a director of something at Sandia National Laboratory. Couldn’t be here today—some emergency. Dear, Monk. Such a nice man and so brilliant.”
Bishop hung on her every word. She was utterly oblivious to the significance of the intel she was sharing. Pieces of the puzzle began falling into place, but not the final piece.
At that moment, her cell rang. “Hello.”
She looked across the room at McFadden—he was on his cell and glared at her with a hateful expression.
“Yes, I’ll be right there.” She turned to Bishop with an excited smile. “Oh, please excuse me—be right back.”
Bishop was glad she left. Gave him a chance to explore. He strolled around the room toward a hallway. He lingered and casually sipped his drink. The hum of conversation continued as the guests mingled. He’d been there long enough for the novelty of his newness to wear off. He waited his chance. McFadden and Minerva were in a heated conversation in the far corner, and no one appeared to be paying Bishop any mind. When no one was looking, he hurried around the corner into the back hall. It was a long, brightly lit corridor leading to a massive wooden door at the end. Along the length of the twenty-foot passage was a glass display case to the right. He meandered toward it. It was built into the rock wall. The display sat behind thick glass and showed the technique of mining uranium ore by using tiny toy-like buildings, vehicles, and human workers to illustrate the process. It started with an open-cut uranium mine and followed the ore through various methods until it completed its journey as purified yellow cake—milled uranium oxide. The toy dump trucks, digging machinery, and piles of dirt reminded Bishop of a kid’s playset. Bishop’s mind drifted back to his training. Yellowcake was the first step toward enriched uranium, but it was a long way from being weapons-grade.
Further down the hall, the display continued. Bishop looked back over his shoulder to the hall entrance before proceeding deeper. The process of converting the purified yellowcake from uranium tetrafluoride to uranium hexafluoride was explained through green, yellow, and purple information cards posted inside the glass enclosure. The enrichment process of uranium 235 was depicted. At that point, the display ended. The last items in the case were two glass vials mounted inside Plexiglas containers, one with what appeared to be black uranium fuel pellets. The note below indicated it was low enriched uranium dioxide—“for nuclear reactors (simulate).” Beside it, the other glass vile had several ounces of a coarse, off-white powder. The note below read “highly enriched uranium (simulate).”
The short man with foxlike features that had been talking to McFadden earlier turned the corner and walked toward Bishop. He had his hands in his pockets and showed a half-smile like he knew a secret. His expression changed into something of a scowl before approaching Bishop.
“Do you find it interesting?” the man asked. “I’m Newman Smith, Mr. McFadden’s attorney.”
The guy didn’t offer his hand, and neither did Bishop. Figured they must have lost track of him at the gathering and sent the lawyer to locate him. Bishop motioned toward the display case and nodded.
“Yes, very interesting, but a strange thing found outside of a museum, don’t you think?”
Smith stood beside Bishop and again smiled. Smith clasped his hands behind his back, smiled and nodded toward the exhibition case. “Not strange at all considering this is Mr. McFadden’s business—uranium mining.”
“Is that so?” Bishop took a sip of his drink and studied the man.
Smith’s smile vanished, and his eyes narrowed. “Yes, and this is his private corridor leading to his office.” In a condescending voice, Newman Smith pointed toward the wooden door at the end of the hall and said, “Off-limits to visitors.”
The man had a cunning look as if that was his way of making some implied threat. Uneasiness swept over Bishop. This would be a great time to make excuses and leave. The lawyer must have had the same idea.
Smith faced him. “The bus is waiting to take you back to your car, and I trust you had a pleasant visit. Goodbye.”
Before Bishop could answer, around the corner walked two large men dressed in black Guayabera shirts and black slacks. Party’s over.
Smith reached out and took Bishop’s glass. “They’ll show you out.” He led the way as they walk back down the hall toward the main room. When Bishop’s left arm was inches from the display case, his nuclear watch vibrated. Smith didn’t notice Bishop push the button on the wristwatch. The face blinked once—dark blue. Smith slowly walked across the main room with Bishop in tow and the two goons close behind.
Bishop stared above the front door at the engraved quote in the stone wall. He’d not noticed it until then. Deeply etched into the rock in old English script were the words: “Every generation needs a new revolution”- Thomas Jefferson.
Smith opened the door and stepped aside. Bishop turned back before walking out. Minerva stood across the room beside McFadden—she waved a small, sad goodbye. McFadden just stared, a frown pinned to his lips.
Stepping outside, the hot, dry air greeted Bishop. The bus waited with the motor idling in the driveway where it had dropped him off. Smith closed the door to the house, but not before letting the black shirts out. They guarded the entrance, arms crossed. Bishop fished for his sunglasses. Not the first party he’d been thrown out of. There was that time with the team in the Nanyang Ward of Singapore. Turning his back on this bunch while walking to the bus caused an uneasy sensation in his stomach. He looked down at his wristwatch and pushed the bottom button again just to be sure. The face blinked dark blue—U-235, weapons-grade.
The doors to the shuttle opened, and Bishop stepped in. It was empty except for the driver and one man—Ochoa. Bishop sat down across from him and ignored the beast. It had been a good decision to leave the pistol in his SUV. Shooting a guy as big as Ochoa would probably just make him mad.
The ride seemed to take forever, with the giant non-human-looking creature staring at him. The man never blinked. Not sure he ever breathed. When the bus arrived at the parking area, Bishop hopped off and walked the short distance to his car. Ochoa stood at the door of the shuttle, watching him until he drove out the front gate. Bishop glanced across the road as he pulled out of the ranch. Samuel sat in the shade of his front porch rocking in the chair, almost hidden among the plants and patio furniture, watching the whole thing.
Bishop drove about a mile down the road out of sight of the ranch entrance before pulling over. He reached for his cell phone and considered what had just happened. His watch indicated a source of radioactivity inside the display case. Malfunction or false reading? No one would be stupid and or bold enough to keep a hot radiological source inside their house. Would they? Bishop scrolled through the contact list and dialed his cell. A moment later, the smoky, female voice answered.
“Hello, this is Lesa.”
Lesa was P2OG’s secret weapon. They’d stolen her three years ago from the CIA. CIA stole her two years before that from NSA. She was the best analyst in the intelligence community. Her databases covered all intel and law enforcement agencies to include Interpol. She had the world of criminals, spies, and terrorists at her fingertips. She was also the smartest and saltiest woman Bishop ever met.
“Why are you at work on Saturday?” he asked.
“Is that you, Bishop? I thought you were still out of country?”
He leaned back in the seat and grinned before saying, “How do you know I’m not?”
“Ha! Don’t get cute with me, buster. The phone you’re calling from isn’t cleared for overseas use—I can read your number on my caller ID.”
No fooling her. He again asked, “No really, why are you there? I thought I’d get one of the weekend analysts?”
She released a tired sigh. “Director’s orders—he wants the A Team on duty until this New Mexico business is cleared up. Think he wants us to sleep here,” she chuckled.
“That’s what I’m calling about; I’m in New Mexico.”
“Figures,” she mumbled.
The sound of her taking a long sip of something filtered through the phone. Probably the hot, spiced tea she was addicted to. Her office smelled like an incense shop.
Bishop adjusted the air conditioner vents before saying, “Do me a work up on Clark McFadden. He carries a Corona, New Mexico address. Older guy—in his seventies.”
The sound of sipping was replaced with the clicking of computer keys.
“Sure thing, I’ll get right on it. Anything else?”
“Yeah, connect me with Andy. Is he in?”
“Like I said, Bishop. All the A Team’s working today.”
A couple of seconds later, Andy answered. “What is it, Bishop? Have you broken something again?”
“Shut up and listen. Is there any possible way this crazy nuclear watch you gave me would react to yellow cake, you know, milled uranium oxide, or spent reactor fuel pellets?”
Andy let out an exasperated breath. “No, as I said, you’ll only get a reading on uranium if it’s highly enriched—as in 85% pure U-235.”
“That’s what I thought, thanks.”
Bishop hung up without bothering to say goodbye. He had to think. How did McFadden get his hands on highly enriched uranium? Better question, why was he so arrogant as to display it in his home? The glass and Plexiglas display cases blocked the Alpha particle decay, so there was no health risk, but it didn’t make sense even to have the stuff. Hubris had been the downfall of many a great man. Was this guy so confident that he kept contraband in the form of U-235 on display and tried to conceal it by labeling it as a simulate? Bishop pulled back on the road and headed to Gallinas Peak. He had a couple of questions for Cora. Speaking of Cora, Bishop now felt like a fool. He had considered her a delusional, troubled, paranoid young woman. She’s been right all along about McFadden. He was a bad man. Question was—how bad?
Twelve
Bishop pulled up to Cora’s house and took the pistol from the glove box. He tucked it into his back waistband as he walked to the tower steps. He’d just put his foot on the third step when the front door to her house opened—she stood there with two bottles. “Come have a beer and tell me about the party.”
He took one and followed her around the house, past the outdoor shower, to the shaded back patio. The afternoon had turned cooler from an approaching cold front, and the light breeze felt good. The tall pines swayed and filled the air with their sweet, clean fragrance—might need a jacket later. She must have read his mind.
“It’s always cooler up here, over eighty-five hundred feet,” she said before flopping into one of the cushioned chairs and gazed at the endless view. “So, how was it?” She took a long swallow.
From her expression, Bishop got the idea she already knew. He settled back in the other chair. “Afraid things didn’t go very well—I was asked to leave.”
