Washington and Martha’s Vineyard MacNairs?” Kyle asked.
The nation’s second family of American politics, Frank knew. As a MacNair, Whitney had grown up privileged and pampered and in the spotlight. Her face was better-known to him than any cover girl’s.
“The same,” Daniel agreed. “Her family was furious when the press ran with the story about her accepting gifts from her boss and they quickly yanked her out of the limelight.”
Her boss being the very married Senator Ross Weston. Frank mused, “Odd that she’s being sent here, to Weston’s home state.”
“Her father asked the Director of the Department of Public Safety for a favor, and since I needed an assistant…” Daniel ran a hand through his blond hair and shrugged. “We’ll make it work somehow. Weston’s not from these parts, anyhow, so I don’t imagine him showing up on our doorstep anytime soon. Now, gentlemen, let’s get down to business.”
“Down” being a secret room built below the study.
They followed Daniel into a room off the main living area. It appeared to be a typical if spacious office with a computer desk and seating area and a spectacular view of the mountains. The walls were lined with builtin bookshelves. Daniel went to an inner wall and reached behind a book of Montana photographs. A click and the section of bookshelf swung open.
“Gentlemen…”
Frank led the way into an elevator car, Kyle following, Daniel bringing up the rear. He slid the bookshelf unit back in place and hit the down button. The machinery no more than whispered its presence as the car descended to the secret “war” room below.
“I haven’t even had time to check out the equipment,” Daniel said. “I’m sure we’ll have to shake out some bugs in the system before we’re operating smoothly.”
Computers, fax machines and telephones awaited in the communications center. The men split up and for the next hour or so thoroughly checked out the electronics.
Frank put one of the computers through its paces. Once satisfied all was as it should be, he left the area to check out the rest of the quarters. Locked cabinets—weapons and ammunition—lined one of the lowceilinged walls. Another work area held listening devices and cameras. He noted a red warning light perched over a nearby closed door. Lab for surveillance photography, he guessed. They had everything they would need to do their jobs and then some.
Daniel and Kyle caught up with him; they took seats around a large conference table where materials were already laid out. Enough for four men, Frank noted, when only the three of them were present.
He asked, “So are we it for now?”
“For however long it is until Special Agent Court Brody arrives,” Daniel agreed.
“FBI,” Kyle muttered. “Suit-and-tie law enforcement. Yeah, he’ll blend in with the locals, all right.”
“Actually, he’ll blend better than any of us.” At the far end of the table, Daniel fiddled with what looked to be one of several dossiers spread out in front of him. “Brody grew up in this neck of the mountains—a positive for us. And he’s only on loan from the FBI until I can recruit another permanent agent.”
“As long as he doesn’t think he’s in charge and doesn’t get in our way,” Frank said.
He had no fondness for special agents, not after the Bosnia debriefing.
“Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to stay out of your way.”
As one, all three men at the table turned toward the deep voice coming from the other side of the room.
Speaking of the devil…
Court Brody had sneaked up on them all. He stood at the elevator, arms crossed over his chest, eyes hidden by sunglasses undoubtedly meant to intimidate.
Daniel cleared his throat and stood. “Come in, come in. We’re just getting to know one another.”
“So I heard.”
Frank watched the big man—tall, rather than wide—stalk them. He didn’t seem too happy.
Well, neither was Frank.
He felt flushed and outside of himself. What the hell was wrong with him? Hadn’t he learned to be on guard at all times? The elevator operated almost silently, true, but what had happened to his instincts?
Without instincts, in a combat situation, a man could be dead in the blink of an eye.
A rush of adrenaline exacerbated the pounding of Frank’s heart. It pounded so loud the sound filled his ears. Surely they could all hear it. He glanced around the table, but no one was paying him any mind.
Daniel and Kyle were focused on the FBI man, who took the end seat as far from them all as he could. Only then did he remove the sunglasses to reveal cold gray eyes. If he and Kyle didn’t welcome Brody…well, the feeling was too obviously returned.
“Welcome to Montana Confidential.”
Daniel returned to his seat and made formal introductions. “Court Brody, special agent, FBI. Frank Connolly, pilot and ex-military man. Kyle Foster, chemist and former member of the L.A. bomb squad.” He took a big breath and paused, but no one else spoke. “Well, I hope you’re all ready to get to work.”
“Horses or otherwise?”
Court drawled. Daniel smiled in the face of the man’s tightly held hostility. “This morning I received information that members of a terrorist group called the Black Order have been slipping into Montana via the Canadian border.”
Court appeared skeptical. “To what end?”
“Rumor says they want to get their hands on a new biological weapon—D-5, a water-borne virus.”
“To what end?” Court asked again.
“We don’t know yet, but if they succeed and get it into a major water supply, it could mean big trouble for a lot of folks.”
Frank jumped in before Court could hold center stage. “D-5?” He’d heard about the virus. As far as he knew, “big trouble” spelled death. “Where?”
“The Quinlan Research Institute. Scientists there are working on an antidote, so they have a quantity of the virus, of course.”
“And without the D-5 at the lab, there will be no antidote,” Kyle said. “How close are they to developing one?”
“Not even in the ballpark. That’s why we’re bringing in British scientist C. J. Birch from the National Center for Aquatic Research.” Daniel turned his gaze to Frank. “Rather, you are as soon as we’re finished here. The ranch plane is online, waiting for you at the Boulder Municipal Airport.”
“What about a first officer?” Frank asked. The plane was a twin-engine DC-3, requiring two in the cockpit.
“Rent-a-pilot by the name of John Vasquez. He’ll meet you at the field tomorrow morning. Your cover is that you’re picking up some prize quarter horse mares for the ranch’s breeding program. But your real mission is getting C. J. Birch to the Quinlan Research Institute tomorrow, safely and without drawing too much attention.”
Frank didn’t voice the opinion that flying in horses would raise more than a few eyebrows. Normally the only horses transported by air rather than truck were Thoroughbreds being ferried from Europe or Japan or the Middle East, or across country to big-money races.
But rather than a fancy jet, they would use a reconditioned pre-World War II DC-3. The old tail-draggers were workhorses—no pun intended—usually put to use these days hauling cargo that didn’t move around, hence the need to palletize the horses.
The plane itself wouldn’t draw too much attention, especially since it would land on a runway already laid out on Lonesome Pony land. Lots of the bigger ranches had their own planes, Frank knew, if normally