London Bridges

to land at the airport itself, or nearby in the desert? Had either of them fired their weapons before, or been fired on? I found out that they hadn’t. Neither of them. Terrific.
    The pilot turned to us again. “Here we go. Airport should be coming up on our right. There.”
    Suddenly I could see a small airfield with a two-story building and what looked like two airstrips. I spotted cars, maybe half a dozen, but I didn’t see a red Bronco yet.
    Then I saw a small private plane taxiing and getting ready for takeoff.
    Shafer?
It didn’t seem likely to me, but neither did anything else so far.
    “I thought we shut down Wells?” I called to the pilot.
    “So did I. Maybe this is our boy. If it is, he’s
gone.
That’s a Learjet 55 and it moves pretty damn good.”
    From that moment on, there was very little we could do but watch. The Learjet shot down one of the runways, then it was airborne, winging away from us and making it look ridiculously easy. I could imagine Geoffrey Shafer on board, looking back at the FBI helicopter, maybe giving us the finger. Or was he giving
me
the finger? Could he know that I was there?
    A few minutes later we were on the ground at Wells. Almost immediately I got the jolting news that the Learjet was off radar.
    “What do you mean ‘off radar’?” I asked the two techies inside the tiny Wells control room.
    The older of the two answered. “What I mean is that the jet seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. It’s like it was never here.”
    But the Weasel had been there—
I’d seen him.
And I had photographs to prove it.

Chapter 15
    GEOFFREY SHAFER DROVE a dark blue Oldsmobile Cutlass full-bore through the desert. He
wasn’t
on board the jet that had flown out of Wells, Nevada. That would have been too easy. Weasels always have several escape routes planned.
    As he drove, Shafer was thinking that the oddly brilliant plan in the desert had worked well, and there had certainly been backup contingencies just in case something didn’t work right. He had also learned that Dr. Cross, now with the FBI, had shown up in Nevada.
    Is that part of the big picture, too?
Somehow, he expected that it was.
But why Cross? What does the Wolf have in mind for him?
    The Weasel eventually made a stop in Fallon, Nevada, where he was scheduled to make his next contact. He didn’t know exactly
who
he was contacting, or
why,
or
where
this whole operation was leading. He just knew his piece—and his explicit orders were to call in from Fallon and get the next set of instructions.
    So he followed his orders, registered at the Best Inn Fallon, and went straight to his room. He used a cell phone, which he’d been told to destroy after he made the call. There were no pleasantries exchanged, no unnecessary words. Just the business at hand.
    “This is the Wolf,” he heard as contact was made, and Shafer wondered if that was so. According to rumor, the real Wolf had impersonators, maybe even body doubles. All of them with their piece, right?
    Next he heard disturbing news. “You were seen, Colonel Shafer. You were spotted and photographed near Sunrise Valley. Did you know that?”
    At first, Shafer tried to deny it, but he was cut off.
    “We’re looking at copies of the pictures right now. That’s how the Bronco was followed to Wells. Which is why we told you to exchange vehicles outside town and drive to Fallon. Just in case something went wrong.”
    Shafer didn’t know what to say. How could he have been spotted out in the middle of nowhere? Why was Cross there?
    The Wolf finally laughed. “Oh, don’t worry your pretty head, Colonel. You were supposed to be spotted. The photographer works for us.
    “Now proceed to your next contact point in the morning. And have some fun tonight in Fallon. Paint the town, Colonel. I want you to go and kill somebody out in the desert. You choose a victim. Do your stuff.
That’s an order.
”

Chapter 16
    THE LEVEL OF frustration and tension I was feeling was increasing by the hour, and so was the general confusion about the case. I’d never seen so much chaos, so fast, in my entire life.
    Almost a full day after the bombing, there was nothing but a hole in the ground in the Nevada desert, and a couple of questionable leads. We had talked to the three hundred or so residents of Sunrise Valley, but none of the survivors had a clue, either. Nothing unusual had happened in the days before the bombing; no stranger had visited. We hadn’t found the