"We can pinpoint the exact region, more or less," he said. "The scientific guys at Quantico are pretty hot for a couple of particular valleys, northwest corner of Montana."
"They can be that specific?" Milosevic said.
Brogan nodded again.
"I called them," he said. "They said this sediment in the wheel arches was local to a particular type of a place. Something to do with very old rock getting scraped up by glaciers about a million years ago, lying there nearer the surface than it should be, all mixed up with the regular rock which is still pretty old, but newer than the old rock, you know what I mean? A particular type of a mixture? I asked them, how can you be so sure? They said they just recognize it, like I would recognize my mother fifty feet away on the sidewalk. They said it was from one of a couple of north-south glacial valleys, northwest corner of Montana, where the big old glaciers were rolling down from Canada. And there was some sort of crushed sandstone in there, very different, but it's what the Forest Service use on the forest tracks up there."
"OK," McGrath said. "So our guys were in Montana for a couple of years. But have they necessarily gone back there?"
Brogan held up the third of his four piles of paper. Unfolded a map. And smiled for the first time since Monday.
"You bet your ass they have," he said. "Look at the map. Direct route between Chicago and the far corner of Montana takes you through North Dakota, right? Some farmer up there was walking around this morning. And guess what he found in a ditch?"
"What?" McGrath asked.
"A dead guy," Brogan said. "In a ditch, horse country, miles from anywhere. So naturally the farmer calls the cops, the cops print the corpse, the computer comes back with a name."
"What name?" McGrath asked.
"Peter Wayne Bell," Brogan said. "The guy who drove away with Holly."
"He's dead?" McGrath said. "How?"
"Don't know how," Brogan said. "Maybe some kind of a falling out? This guy Bell kept his brains in his jockey shorts. We know that, right? Maybe he went after Holly, maybe Holly aced him. But put a ruler on the map and take a look. They were all on their way back to Montana. That's for damn sure. Has to be that way."
"In what?" McGrath said. "Not in a white truck."
"Yes in a white truck," Brogan said.
"That Econoline was the only truck missing," McGrath said.
Brogan shook his head. He held up the fourth set of papers.
"My new idea," he said. "I checked if Rubin rented a truck."
"Who?" McGrath said.
"Rubin is the dead dentist," Brogan said. "I checked if he rented a truck."
McGrath looked at him.
"Why should the damn dentist rent a truck?" he said.
"He didn't," Brogan said. "I figured maybe the guys rented the truck, with the dentist's credit cards, after they captured him. It made a lot of sense. Why risk stealing a vehicle if you can rent one with a stolen wallet full of credit cards and driver's licenses and stuff? So I called around. Sure enough, Chicago-You-Drive, some South Side outfit, they rented an Econoline to a Dr. Rubin, Monday morning, nine o'clock. I ask them, did the photo on the license match the guy? They say they never look. As long as the credit card goes through the machine, they don't care. I ask them, what color was the Econoline? They say all our trucks are white. I ask them, writing on the side? They say sure, Chicago-You-Drive, green letters, head height."
McGrath nodded.
"I'm going to call Harland Webster," he said. "I want to get sent to Montana."
"GO TO NORTH Dakota first," Webster said.
"Why?" McGrath asked him.
There was a pause on the line.
"One step at a time," Webster said. "We need to check out this Peter Wayne Bell situation. So stop off in North Dakota first, OK?"
"You sure, chief?" McGrath said.
"Patient grunt work," Webster said. "That's what's going to do it for us. Work the clues, right? It's worked so far. Your boy Brogan did some good work. I like the sound of him."
"So let's go with it, chief," McGrath said. "All the way to Montana, right?"
"No good rushing around until we know something," Webster said back. "Like who and where and why. That's what we need to know, Mack."
"We know who and where," he said. "This Beau Borken guy. In Montana. It's clear enough, right?"
There was another pause on the line.
"Maybe," Webster said. "But what about why?"
McGrath jammed the phone into his shoulder and lit up his next cigarette.
"No idea," he said, reluctantly.
"We looked at the mug shots," Webster said. "I sent them over to the Behavioral Science Unit. Shrinks looked them over."
"And?" McGrath asked.
"I don't know," Webster said. "They're a pretty smart bunch of people down there, but how much can you get from gazing at a damn photograph?"
"Any conclusions at all?" McGrath asked.
"Some," Webster said. "They felt three of the guys belonged together, and the big guy was kind of separate. The three looked the same. Did you notice that? Same kind of background, same looks, same genes maybe. They could all three be related. This guy Bell was from California. Mojave, right? Beau Borken, too. The feeling is the three of them are probably all from the same area. All West Coast types. But the big guy is different. Different clothes, different stance, different physically. The anthropologists down there in Quantico think he could be foreign, at least partly, or maybe second-generation. Fair hair and blue eyes, but there's something in his face. They say maybe he's European. And he's big. Not pumped up at the gym, just big, like naturally."
"So?" McGrath asked. "What were their conclusions?"
"Maybe he is European," Webster said. "A big tough guy, maybe from Europe, they're worried he's some kind of a terrorist. Maybe a mercenary. They're checking overseas."
"A terrorist?" McGrath said. "A mercenary? But why?"
"That's the point," Webster said. "The why part is what we need to nail down. If this guy really is a terrorist, what's his purpose? Who recruited who? Who is the motivating force here? Did Borken's militia hire him to help them out, or is it the other way around? Is this his call? Did he hire Borken's militia for local color inside the States?"
"What the hell is going on?" McGrath asked.
"I'm flying up to O'Hare," Webster said. "I'll take over day-to-day from here, Mack. Case this damn big, I've got to, right? The old guy will expect it."
"Which old guy?" McGrath asked sourly.
"Whichever, both," Webster said.
BROGAN DROVE OUT to O'Hare, middle of the evening, six hours after the debacle with the Mexicans in the truck in Arizona. McGrath sat beside him in the front seat, Milosevic in the back. Nobody spoke. Brogan parked the Bureau Ford on the military-compound tarmac, inside the wire fence. They sat in the car, waiting for the FBI Lear from Andrews. It landed after twenty minutes. They saw it taxi quickly over toward them. Saw it come to a halt, caught in the glare of the airport floodlights, engines screaming. The door opened and the steps dropped down. Harland Webster appeared in the opening and looked around. He caught sight of them and gestured them over. A sharp, urgent gesture. Repeated twice.