Wild fire

Harry didn’t answer.

Mr. Madox continued, “I also see here on my desk this badge and a card that identifies you as a retired New York City police detective. Congratulations.”

“Eat shit and die.”

“But what interests me most is this other badge and ID card that say you are a Federal agent with the Anti-Terrorist Task Force. Not retired.” He stared at the photo ID, then at Harry Muller and asked, “Working today?”

Harry decided to try the cover story one more time, just in case this guy wanted a reason to cut him loose. “Okay, let me tell you again what I told your paranoid rent-a-cops. I’m up here for the weekend camping. I watch and photograph birds. I’m also a Federal agent, and by law I have to carry my credentials and my piece. You shouldn’t put two and two together and come up with five. Understand?”

Madox nodded. “I do. But put yourself in my position. And I’ll put myself in yours. I’m Federal Agent Harry Muller, and I’m listening to a man who tells me that all the circumstantial evidence I see in front of me-evidence of surveillance-can be explained as bird-watching. So, do I let you go? Or do I demand a more logical and truthful explanation? What would you do in my position?”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you over your loud shirt.”

Mr. Madox smiled, then opened the Sibley guide, put on his eyeglasses, and selected a page. He asked Harry, “Where are you most likely to encounter a loon, Mr. Muller?”

“Near a lake.”

“That was too easy.” He flipped a few pages. “What is the color of a cerulean warbler?”

“Brown.”

Mr. Madox shook his head. “No, no, Mr. Muller. Cerulean means blue. Sky blue. One more. Two out of three is passing.” He flipped through the book again. “What color is the male-?”

“Hey, take that book, put a coat of K-Y jelly on it, and shove it up your ass.”

Mr. Madox closed the guide and threw it aside. He turned to his computer screen. “Here are your digital photos. I don’t see any birds in them. I see, however, that you seem interested in one of my utility poles… and let’s see… here’s a telescopic shot of the tower behind my lodge… close-ups of my lodge… ah, there’s a bird perched on my roof. What is that?”

“A shit-seeking hawk.”

Madox picked up the Handycam, switched it to Replay, and looked through the viewfinder. “Here’s the pole again… you noticed the plastic boughs, I assume… here’s the lodge again… nice views from where you were standing… that bird is flying away. What was that? Looks like a great blue heron, but he should have migrated south by now. It’s been unusually warm this fall. Global warming, if you believe that crap.” He put down the camcorder and asked, “Do you know what the solution is to global warming? No? I’ll tell you. Nuclear winter.” He laughed. “Old joke.”

Madox sat back in his chair and lit another cigarette. He blew perfect smoke rings and watched them as they rose and dissolved. “That’s a lost art.”

Harry Muller glanced around the room as Bain Madox practiced his lost art. He could hear the breathing of the two men behind him as he shifted his gaze to a wall that was covered with framed certificates of some sort. Harry thought that if he could get a handle on who this guy was, it might be helpful.

Madox noticed Harry’s gaze and said, “The one on the top left is my certificate for the Silver Star. Next to it is the certificate for the Bronze Star, then the Purple Heart. Then there’s my commission as a second lieutenant in the United States Army. Next row are the usual service medals, including the Vietnam Campaign Medal and a Presidential Unit Citation. I served in the Seventh Cavalry Regiment of the First Air Cavalry Division. The Seventh Cav was General Custer’s old unit. That’s part of the reason for the name of this club. I might tell you the other part later, but if I do, then I’ll have to kill you.” He laughed. “Just joking. Hey, smile. Just joking.”

Harry forced a smile. Asshole.

“The last row is the Combat Infantry Badge, my Expert Rifleman Badge, my Jungle Training School diploma, and, finally, my Army discharge. I left the service after eight years with the rank of lieutenant colonel. We made rank fast in those days. Lots of dead officers opened up the promotion list. Did you serve?”

“No.” Harry decided to play along. “I was too young, then they ended the draft.”

“Right. They should bring it back.”

“Absolutely,” Harry said. “They should draft women, too. They want equal rights, they should have equal responsibilities.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

Harry was on a roll and continued, “My son still had to register for the draft in case they ever bring it back. But my daughter didn’t. What’s that all about?”

“Precisely. You have a son and daughter?”

“Yeah.”

“Married?”

“Divorced,” Harry replied.

“Ah, me, too.”

“Women will drive you crazy,” Harry said.

“Only if you let them.”

“Well, we let them.”

Madox chuckled. “We do. Anyway, you’re here on surveillance for the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force. Why?”

“How long were you in Vietnam?”

Madox looked at Harry Muller for a few seconds, then replied, “Two tours of one year each, then a third tour that was cut short by an AK-47 round that missed my heart by an inch, nicked my right lung, and broke a rib on the way out.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

“I tell myself that every day. Each day is a gift. Have you ever been shot at?”

“Five times. Never got hit.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.” Madox stared at Harry. “It changes you. You’re never the same again. But it’s not necessarily for the worse.”

“I know. I’ve got friends who’ve been hit.” He thought of John Corey, but he was fairly sure that Corey was the same wiseass both before and after getting hit. He said, “Sometimes, I think I should have volunteered. Vietnam was over, but I could have still served. Maybe I would have caught the Grenada Invasion or something.”

“Well, don’t be hard on yourself. Most American men have never served. And to tell you the truth, war is a damned scary thing. And now we’re engaged in this war on terrorism, and you, Mr. Muller, are apparently on the front lines. Correct?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“And by terrorism, we generally mean Islamic terrorists. Correct?”

“Yeah… but-”

“So, are you looking for Islamic terrorists here? Can I help?”

Harry was forming a thought, but Mr. Madox went on, “If there’s anything I can do, Mr. Muller, just let me know. There’s no one who feels more strongly about wi

“Uh… well… here’s the thing. About five years ago, I was on this case of Irish Republican Army guys-terrorists-only about fifteen miles from here. They had a training camp.” Harry filled in Madox on the case and concluded, “We sent eight guys to Federal prison for terms ranging from three to twenty years.”

“Ah, yes. I remember that because it was so close to here.”

“Right. So, this is the same thing. We’re checking a lot of private preserves to see if there’s any suspicious activity involving the IRA. We’ve had intelligence reports that-”

“So, this has nothing to do with Islamic terrorists?”

“No. Not today. We’re doing IRA.”

“Seems like a waste of time and resources in light of 9/11.”

“Well, I think so, too. But we need to keep on top of everything and everybody.”

“I suppose.” Madox thought a moment, then asked, “So, you think the Custer Hill Club is… what? A training camp for the Irish Republican Army?”

“Well, the bosses had a tip about activity in this area, so I got picked to take a peek. You know, in case people were using your property without you knowing.”

“No one can enter my property without me knowing, as you just found out.”

“Yeah, I see that. I’ll report-”

“Certainly not people engaged in paramilitary training.”