Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [98]
‘‘Thanks,’’ said Hester. ‘‘We’ll check that out.’’ She pushed her chair back, making a screeching sound on the old hardwood flooring. ‘‘In the meantime, how do you intend to go about getting your information? You can’t be too obvious or quick . . .’’
‘‘Hell, I know that.’’
‘‘I mean,’’ said Hester, ‘‘I know it’s a little soon, but I’d like to know what you intend . . .’’
We went over what we wanted, again. We expanded the list, not to give her more work, but more leeway. We were very clear that she was under no obligation to obtain all the information. Just suggestions and hints. We’d take the rest.
‘‘Right,’’ said Nancy. ‘‘Look, I just want to thank you for letting me have something to do with getting this bastard . . .’’
I made sure she was still sitting there when the two reserve officers came through with Nola Stritch. Our guys had given Nola a bulletproof vest to wear, which looked a little silly on her. It was for someone much larger, was white, and had the long tails on it so you could tuck it into your uniform pants and not have it pull your shirt out when you moved. Kind of looked more like a bulletproof apron, as a matter of fact. I pretended to be a bit upset when Nancy introduced herself, so Nola gave a little statement to the press.
‘‘It’s pretty bad,’’ said Nola, ‘‘when you can’t even trust the press anymore.’’ She started to walk toward the door.
‘‘What do you mean?’’ asked Nancy.
‘‘You know just what I mean,’’ hissed Nola. ‘‘You’re all in the pay of the Jews and the One World Government. You know that. Don’t try to deny it, you are. You know you are.’’ With that off her chest, she turned and just about dragged the officers out the door. It always amazes me when I hear someone I think is intelligent start ranting like that. This time was no exception.
When the door closed, Nancy sighed. ‘‘Well, so much for the sympathetic approach.’’ She grinned. ‘‘I’ll see what I can do for you,’’ she said, heading for the door. ‘‘Just give me a couple of days. I’ll be in touch.’’ And she was gone.
Hester and I exchanged looks.
‘‘I hope we’ve done the right thing here.’’
‘‘Don’t worry, Carl. You worry too much. You’re beginning to sound like George.’’ Hester smiled. ‘‘Speaking of whom . . . we’d better let him know what’s happening.’’
True. Because when it came right down to it, George had access to the resources that we only wished we had.
When we got to the back room, I greeted George with ‘‘George, you little Zionist, how the hell are you?’’
He looked up. ‘‘I knew it. Now you’re gonna want a ride in my black chopper.’’ He pushed his papers back across the desk. ‘‘So how’d it go?’’
‘‘I don’t know,’’ I said, sitting down near a stack of computer paper. ‘‘All right, I guess.’’ I picked up the first sheet. ‘‘She knew him, though. Didn’t like him.’’
‘‘She’s going to keep her eyes open for us,’’ said Hester. ‘‘We’ll see.’’
‘‘Well, while you were gone, I came up with something that may be very serious.’’
What George had found was a series of messages to an address in Idaho, and returns from the same place.
‘‘This man Stritch has some very interesting connections.’’ George indicated a handwritten list he had made. ‘‘Several of these names of organizations that are mentioned here are the same ones I heard at a very sensitive briefing about three months ago.’’
The FBI, it transpired, was working three of the mentioned groups regarding illegal weapons, Ponzi scams, bank fraud, a possible series of bombings where only very small devices were used, and planning things such as bank robberies, armored car holdups, etc. None of the planned things had happened. All of which told me that the FBI had people inside more than one group.
‘‘Small bombs?’’ asked Hester.
‘‘Really small,’’ said George. ‘‘Like they blow up mailboxes.’’
‘‘They getting these folks confused with teenagers?’’ I asked.
‘‘Oh, no,’’ said George. ‘‘Not at all. The little bombs are planted as proof that the mechanism