Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [42]
Jasper and his entourage stopped ten feet away.
“Mr. Jasper,” the lead agent, Warren Forrester, said.
“Hello,” Jasper said. “Here I am, just as I promised.”
“That’s good, Mr. Jasper. Ready to come with us?”
“Yes. I’m being questioned only. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir, that’s correct.”
“I’m not being arrested. I have witnesses here.”
“You don’t need them, Mr. Jasper. We keep our word.”
Jasper got in the backseat of one of the cars, and the three vehicles and six agents left the area. They drove to Bellingham, ninety miles north of Seattle, fifty-seven miles south of Vancouver, and pulled into a parking lot behind the city’s police headquarters. Jasper was led inside and down a long corridor to a general-purpose room at the east end of the one-story building.
“Hello, Zachary,” Bellingham’s police chief said as Jasper entered the room.
“Allan,” Jasper said, going directly to a table, pulling out a wooden armchair, and sitting heavily. Agents took the remaining four chairs. The two others stood. The police chief left the room and closed the door. A Sony cassette recorder sat on the table. One of the agents turned it on, saying, “We’ll be taping this, Mr. Jasper, for your sake and ours.”
Jasper laughed gently. “For my sake? I don’t think so.”
The lead agent said, “You know the chief of police, I see.”
“Allan? Sure, I do. Nice fella. We don’t bother him, he doesn’t bother us.”
It struck the agents that this bear of a man, dressed like a Hell’s Angels biker, was surprisingly well spoken. A few of them knew, however, that Jasper had been a political science professor in California before shucking that persona and taking the right-wing road that led him to form the Jasper Project, a hundred-acre ranch in a heavily wooded area outside Blaine, Washington, north of Bellingham, a busy port of entry between the United States and Canada. It was Jasper’s dream to establish a colony for white Christians, insular, secure, self-contained. Most of the people living at the ranch had come from other parts of the country, lured there by Jasper’s promotional materials promising a white, God-fearing nirvana.
“Mind if I smoke?” Jasper asked, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his vest.
“Prefer that you didn’t,” he was told.
“Go right ahead,” Forrester said, tossing a critical look at the antismoking member of his team. Another agent brought an ashtray from a table and placed it in front of Jasper.
“All right,” Jasper said, “you want to know if I shot down those three planes. Right?”
“We’d like to know if you have any information that would help us find who did, Mr. Jasper.”
Jasper ran a hand over his chin and frowned. “You’re aware I could consider this harassment,” he said, smiling. “You’ve got me here because I and my people aren’t especially fond of you and the whole damn government you represent.”
“No one’s harassing you, Mr. Jasper,” Forrester said. “You came voluntarily.”
“I’m glad you’ve taken note of that,” said Jasper. “I know nothing about those planes being shot down. I’m as appalled as anybody at what happened.”
“How many people live with you at the ranch?”
“That’s none of your business, no insult intended. I’m here to answer your questions about those planes. Nothing else.”
“Discussing weapons you have at the ranch would be fair game, wouldn’t it?” Forrester asked.
“No.”
“Weapons brought down those planes, Mr. Jasper.”
“Soviet-made SAMs, as I hear on TV.”
“Do you have any missiles at the ranch?”
A dismissive laugh this time. “Now, why would I have missiles on a working ranch? Hell of a way to shoot a deer or a rabbit. Maybe overkill.”
“You could help us, Mr. Jasper,” Forrester said. “You get around the circuit.”
“The ‘circuit’? You mean other groups that share my dislike for the government and all it stands for?”
A simple nod, and