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“What’s wrong?’ ”
“Nothing. It just started raining very hard.” O’Rourke sighted Anna Rielly’s car and asked, “Anna drives a little BMW, right?”
“Yes. Is it there?”
“Yeah. When was the last time you tried calling her?”
“Just before I called you.”
O’Rourke looked over at the small house. The sky had grown dark with the falling rain, but there were no lights on. Things didn’t look so good. “Honey, I’m going to have to get out and take a look.”
“Michael, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Liz’s voice sounded panicked. “I think you should wait right there until the police show up.”
“Take it easy. I’m just going to look in the windows. If anything happens, call the cops, and then call that other number I gave you.”
“Michael, please be careful, and don’t do anything stupid.”
O’Rourke promised he would try to do one and not the other and then made a dash for the small front porch. His hair and jacket were wet by the time he reached cover. After shaking the water from his head, he reached under his jacket and pulled out a .45-caliber Colt pistol. He couldn’t see any signs of Anna through the small window on the front door, so he pressed the doorbell with the tip of the pistol. O’Rourke waited several seconds and then pressed it again. He could hear the bell ring somewhere inside.
“What do you see?”
O’Rourke tried to look through one of the larger windows to the right of the door, but the shades were drawn. “Nothing.”
“Is there any broken glass or toppled furniture?”
O’Rourke peered through the small window. “No.” His face was inches away from the glass when he saw something move. Startled, he dropped the phone and jumped back, bringing the gun up in both hands. O’Rourke stood off to the side of the door, his heart racing, trying to decide if he should pick up the phone or find better cover. The frightened squawking of his wife’s voice won out, and he snatched the phone from the floor just as the front door swung open.
Peter Cameron was having his doubts about calling on Villaume. The man was a little too independent for his liking. He was right about Duser, though. What carpet bombing was to air strikes, Duser was to black ops. The man and his people liked to bring a lot of firepower to the party and weren’t afraid to use it. Villaume, although he was very adept at keeping a low profile, presented an entirely different problem. He lacked loyalty, and not just to his adopted country but also to his faithful employer of thirty years—the CIA.
Cameron looked out the front window of the rented van and watched the road. It was a quarter to five in the evening, and the afternoon sun was throwing long shadows off the peaks of the mountains. The van was backed into a spot near the office of the Buffalo Bill Motel. It was a quaint twelve-room motel on the outskirts
of Evergreen, Colorado. Evergreen was a beautiful town in the mountains forty minutes due west of Denver. It was surrounded on all sides by huge hills that anywhere other than the Rockies would have been referred to as mountains. A half dozen creeks sliced through the hills from all sides and met in the middle of town. In the last decade, Evergreen had fought a battle that towns just like it had fought across the nation. Multi-million-dollar homes were being thrown up and golf courses developed. The place now sported four coffee shops and one of the nicest post offices in the country. The old-time locals were torn between increased wealth, provided by all of the dollars their new neighbors threw into the town, and the loss of their serenity.
Peter Cameron could care less about any of this. He was waiting in the van as Villaume had instructed. Villaume was inside the manager’s office taking care of things, and he had told Cameron on no fewer than three occasions that he wasn’t to leave the van. Cameron was getting sick of being treated like a neophyte. He had been in the intelligence business for almost as long as the Frog. Granted, he didn’t have as much practical field experience, but it wasn’t as if this was rocket science.
Villaume had split the group into two upon arriving in Colorado Springs. A van and a Jeep Cherokee had been rented from National Car Rental with the aid of false IDs and credit cards. He and Cameron had driven up in the van, and Mario Lukas and Mary Juarez had taken the Jeep. Lukas and Juarez were up in the mountains right now scouting out the Jansens’ A-frame. If they saw anything unusual, they were to report in right away; otherwise, they were to set up the surveillance equipment and go to dinner. At no time did Villaume want anyone to see the four of them together.
The Jansens’ flight wasn’t due until nine, so they had plenty of time to get things ready. Villaume came back out to the van with keys in hand and moved the vehicle down to the far end of the motel. The two men grabbed some of the equipment and moved it into the room. Cameron dropped his stuff on one of the beds and took a look around. The floor was covered with ugly seventies orange shag carpeting, the bedspreads were a shiny rust color and looked to be made of some highly flammable fabric, and wagon wheels served as headboards for the two twin beds. The room’s art consisted of a cheap print of Buffalo Bill and an ashtray shaped like a six-shooter.
Villaume popped one of the case’s clasps and said, “It ain’t the Ritz, but it’ll do.” After taking out a detailed map of the area, he unfolded it and stuck it to the wall with four thumb tacks. Next, he popped open two metallic briefcases and readied the equipment. Mario and Mary were to set up four directional parabolic microphones and a digital camera. Mary had also come up with the idea to set up a microwave tripwire. The Jansens, like most people in their line of work, had chosen their lair carefully. It was near the top of the mountain with only one home above it. Their house sat a good hundred yards off the main road. Mary Juarez was going to set up the invisible tripwire twenty yards in on the Jansens’ driveway. If anyone decided to make a visit, they’d know.
Villaume looked back at the map after the equipment was powered up. Pointing to it, he said, “They picked this town well. There’s only one road that comes in and out of this canyon. Only one road that leads up to their place. We might be able to use it against them, but if anything goes wrong, we’re trapped.”
Cameron stood back and studied the map, his arms folded across his chest and one hand scratching his beard. “I see your point. How far is it back to Interstate Seventy?”
“About eight miles.”
“And then how far to Denver?”
“Straight down the hill for about twenty minutes, and then we should be able to get lost in the city.”
“What about heading out of town to the south?”
Villaume looked at the map. “I think it’s even worse. We might be able to find some back road to turn off on and hide out for a while, but unless you can get a helicopter to come get us, we’re trapped.”
Frowning, Cameron surveyed the map for any other options. There were none. “We can’t afford getting tangled up with any cops. Thirty minutes on two roads.” Cameron shook his head. “They’ll have us on TV before we reach Denver.”
Villaume didn’t like where he thought Cameron might be going with this, so he stayed quiet. Cameron stared at the map for a while longer and then casually announced, “If we have any run-ins with the cops, we’ll have to dispose of them.”
