The Vulture by Frederick Ramsay Page B

accumulated over two decades. He thought a moment and then called Ike.
    â€œMarvin Gottlieb, hello.”
    â€œMarvin,” Charlie said. “How are you and June settling in? Not too much mountain air for you, I hope. Listen, you know that bit of real estate we talked about out there?”
    â€œGood to hear from you too, Chuck. Are you speaking of the ranch house itself or the structure that may be connected to it?”
    â€œVery good, you haven’t lost your touch, Marv. The latter. Renovating it will be a tiny bit more complicated than we thought at first. I was wondering if we should send Sammy out to help with the deal. She knows more about the particular construction than any of us and also has access to the assets needed to untangle it.”
    â€œYou think? Did you check with the spouse? Everybody okay with this?”
    â€œAbsolutely. Sammy’ll be on the next plane. Say hello to June for me. I’m sending you an e-mail.”
    Charlie hung up. “He called me Chuck. Nobody calls me Chuck.”
    ***
    New Star Ranch spread across four hundred acres of pricy Idaho landscape. The entrance to it, as with nearly every other ranch in the West, seemed innocuous enough—two upright eight-by-ten-inch creosoted beams with a one-by-two-by-fifteen-foot crossbeam spanning the distance between them set at the Department of Transportation-recommended sixteen feet of vertical clearance. The word NEW and a large star had been burned into the crossbeam. They were the only indicators of what or who might lie beyond. Unseen but very much a part of the gateway was an array of surveillance equipment which would be triggered when the simple plank-and-truss gate opened. A car stop consisting of tire-puncturing spikes and hidden in the parallel pipes of a cattle guard could be deployed if the person or persons attempting to enter were deemed by the owner or his agent to be presenting threat. A quarter mile beyond the gate a copse of eucalyptus hid a large ranch house and a plethora of outbuildings. Persons seeking to enter this area by any means other than the driveway would find themselves confronted by at least two armed men with questions. The ranch owner was particular about who visited it.
    Among the trees a second array of antennae fed a sophisticated communications room to one of the outbuildings. It enabled the ranch’s residents to reach nearly any location in the world. Martin Pangborn did not like to be left in the dark on matters he felt to be important. Most, but not all, of the incoming signals were scrambled or encrypted in some way. He felt certain that the federal government was monitoring him. In a way, he was correct. Anyone with the connections he had with certain political and television figures would raise a few eyebrows in the Office of Homeland Security. So far, they had not done anything beyond placing his name on a watch list. The political connections were sufficiently important to maintain a “look but don’t touch” stance. A change in the Administration could alter that, but for the moment, he was off-limits.
    Another part of his surveillance network kept tabs on the arrivals and departures at the local airports and hotels. The arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Marvin Gottlieb had been noted and the routine Google search done. There was precious little to be found about the Gottleibs. Their brief bio stated only that they were recent entrants to the real estate investment business. Prior to that, they had a moderately successful beer-distributing business in the Raleigh area and another interest in two gas stations and a McDonald’s. There didn’t seem enough to launch a more complete background check beyond putting a general watch of their movements if and when they made inquiries about acreage in the immediate area. A wiretap was rejected for the moment. The arrival the next day of their red-haired assistant with an inordinate amount of baggage was also noted.
    On