Greathouse Peak: A William Church Novel

By Joseph W. Michels

An advance team of armed antigovernment dissidents have been permitted by a radicalized co-owner to take over a luxury ski resort under construction near the summit of Big Snowy Mountain in central Montana. Intent on making the resort into a defensible redoubt for disparate members of the American militia movement, they have forced all resort staff and construction crews to leave, jeopardizing the scheduled grand opening of the resort and threatening the other two co-owners with financial ruin.

William Church, a freelance recovery specialist based in San Francisco and London, is persuaded by the resorts beleaguered co-owners to undertake the dangerous mission of evicting the dissidents and their radicalized sponsor. Sensitive to the fast approaching date for the grand opening, Church is under pressure to accomplish the mission quickly and to do it in a way that does not cause the resort unfavorable publicity.

Using subterfuge, misdirection, and forcible confrontation, Church shatters the groups cohesiveness and chain of command, making the dissidents vulnerable. But pushback from the more assertive of the men leads to murder, kidnapping, and other hazards that Church and the woman under his protection have to deal with.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532035920

Joseph W. Michels

JOSEPH W. MICHELS came to fiction writing after a long career as an archaeologist and cultural anthropologist. KAGNEW STATION: DATELINE 1956 is a sequel to the ALAN HARPER TRILOGY. The author became acquainted with Kagnew Station in 1974 while directing a large archaeological project in the region. The project’s headquarters was two blocks from the entrance to Kagnew Station and the project’s staff made extensive use of the base’s facilities.

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Copyright © 2017 Joseph W. Michels.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, or events is entirely coincidental.

Credit for cover art photo:

Copyright © Connor Moriarty/Shutterstock.com

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-3591-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-3592-0 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 10/26/2017

Also by

Joseph W. Michels

Historical Novels

OUTBOUND FROM VIRGINIA

BICYCLE DREAMS

Thrillers

CHURCH

THE KINGSTONE RANSOM

FRENCH DIAMONDS

POSTSTRASSE 16

ASSYRIAN GOLD

CARR’S PT.

Mystery Novels

COAL TOWN

Romance

VILLA MARCKWALD

Memoirs

GABY

DECK PASSAGE

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter One

Y ou take the helm for a while, I’ll get us a couple of beers, said Jack as he stepped away from the wheel, forcing me to make a grab for it before the fresh breeze coming off the Pacific took control.

It was my third day back in California and only two weeks since returning to London following the Assyrian gold jewelry caper. As I steadied the helm I couldn’t help thinking that although I’d only been working out of London for less than two months I was sure tempted to bag the whole experiment—Guy Sanderson be damned—as I breathed in the fresh salt air of San Francisco bay.

So you figure on sticking to your plan of returning to London next Friday? asked Jack as he handed me a beer.

Don’t see any reason not to, I replied, popping the lid. Anyway, Julia, my personal assistant in London, keeps calling to say she’s been getting feelers from local insurance companies about possible new business.

After that major payoff on the recovery of those ancient Assyrian artifacts I can’t see you worrying too much about that, said Jack. You sure your rush to get back to London doesn’t have something to do with that ex-Israeli defense force intelligence operative, Ariella, you told me about? asked Jack mischievously.

No it doesn’t, I replied somewhat defensively, Ariella still hasn’t made the move to London…she says now that the start-up she and her buddies founded has received a substantial amount of venture capital she feels committed to helping them scale up the business. I’m under no pressure to return on that score.

So…what is it? asked Jack.

I don’t know…probably it has something to do with the fact I’m obliged to live in a hotel rather than in my own condo, and Chelsea drives my sports convertible while I’m stuck using a car service.

Well, I don’t think a suite at a five-star hotel is such a hardship. And anyway, Chelsea offered to move back in with her old roommate so you could have your own place, countered Jack.

Yeah, but I couldn’t do it…she’s been great about everything; kicking her out seemed more than a little unappreciative on my part.

Well, if you’re intent on leaving why not head for Berlin rather than London…spend some time with Ariella asked Jack.

That’s a thought, I said, turning the idea over in my mind, But I guess what I’m really looking for is a new kind of recovery gig that’ll be something of a challenge.

Oh, your last assignment—chasing criminals from Lebanon to Slovenia in order to recover two million dollars worth of ancient gold jewelry—wasn’t enough of a challenge…you think that kind of action is getting too routine? asked Jack, sarcastically.

That’s not what I meant…and I’m not sure I even know what I’m talking about…it’s just a feeling…okay!

Okay…I’ll lay off, said Jack apologetically. Anyway, it probably wouldn’t hurt for us to pay a little more attention to the business of boat handling. Unless I’m mistaken you’re now a bit off course, and assuming you do manage to bring the old lady about I’m going to need to trim the sails, quipped Jack in a bantering tone.

We sailed in silence for a while, focusing our attention on making the run through Raccoon Strait, between Tiburon and Angel Island. She was a grand old thirty-six foot sailing sloop named Eagle that Jack and I had co-owned for almost ten years now. Jack Barker was an FBI Special Agent assigned to the San Francisco office and an old friend, going back to our days at the FBI when we worked the art theft detail. I’d left after three years but Jack had stayed in.

Once we were to the lee of Angel Island and protected from the westerly breezes I signaled for Jack to put the sails into a beam reach then kicked on the autopilot; it was time for lunch.

After helping Jack break out the sandwiches we’d purchased earlier that morning from a local food market I went below to get a fresh supply of beer. Once back on deck, I took a moment to look around. It was a Sunday, the second day of July, and the bay was dotted with the white sails of hundreds of boats. Hikers in brightly colored athletic gear stood out against the dried out foliage of Angel Island’s rain-starved coastal scrub. Above, the sky displayed what I liked to think of as its signature California blue, with only a scattering of cumulus clouds to soften its intensity. With the full force of the westerlies in abeyance this side of the island, only a gentle breeze passed over the boat, allowing the sun’s rays to make their presence felt and warming the air well into the low seventies. We stripped off our windbreakers and settled back on the cockpit’s cushioned seats—Jack on the port side and me to starboard—in easy reach of our plates of food resting on the teak table clamped to the wheel pedestal.

You plan on seeing Boris while you’re out here? asked Jack as they ate their lunch.

Already did…stopped by his gym yesterday for a workout, I replied. "He and Gloria are having me over for dinner tonight…I think they’re curious about Ariella…wanting to know how she’s supposed to fit in at Church Recoveries Ltd. in London."

You tell Boris there’s no indication she’s going to show up soon?

Yes, but given the fact they’re ex-Israelis themselves, and that Boris prides himself on being my go-to backup where, despite his age, he’s given free rein to apply his Russian Spetsnaz military skills, I think he’s a bit worried she’ll replace him.

For his wife, Gloria, I suspect curiosity has more to do with matters of the heart, said Jack. I’d lay money on the likelihood the dinner invitation is intended to give her a chance to ferret out your true feelings about the woman.

You’re probably right, I said with a laugh.

As our passage to the lee of Angel Island was coming to a close, wind-whipped waters visible just ahead meant the vessel would soon be facing the full force of the westerlies. We hurried to finish our lunch then Jack scrambled to sheet in the sails while I shut off the autopilot and adjusted the helm to bring the vessel into a close reach.

* * *

Jack had just dropped me off on Market Street, in front of my hotel, when I got Chelsea’s call.

What’s up Chelsea? I asked as I headed for the hotel’s entrance.

Are you in a good place to talk? she asked.

Just on my way into the hotel…Jack and I have been out sailing…give me a minute to make it to my room before we get into whatever it is you want to talk about.

Okay…so how’s it going?

Too well. I’m beginning to question my decision to give London a six-month trial run.

Are you serious?

I’m not sure…what I do know is that the West Coast draws you to it with the force of gravity—the weight of it is constantly pulling at you.

You’re just at loose ends…a new assignment will probably help…and that’s kind of why I’m calling.

Is it something Julia brought to your attention?

No, the client lives in Los Angeles. And I haven’t told Julia about it since it’s so far fetched I’m pretty certain you won’t be interested.

But you’re going to tell me about it…right?

Well, as your West Coast personal assistant I figure it’s my job to relay inquiries even those I figure you’ll turn down.

It couldn’t be that it’s because there hasn’t been much for you to do these past two months and you’re hoping this case will allow you to broker a polite refusal on my part that’ll inevitably involve my depending on your exceptional diplomatic skills.

Yes, Church, I’m bored!

I take it then, that running the concierge desk part time at my condo building and rehearsing for your next contemporary dance gig doesn’t quite bring on the same level of excitement as handling my logistics does.

You’ve noticed, have you?

Okay, I’ll stop teasing. What’s this all about…I’m in my room now…we can get down to business.

Well, I had a strange call from a Mr. David Neville of Holmby Hills, Los Angeles. He’s asked me to try and persuade you to fly down to meet with him and another gentleman named James Field. It seems they’re in need of someone who can resolve a difficult problem regarding control of some real estate in central Montana. They got your name from Henry Kingstone of Pacific Heights…you remember, the family of the boy who was kidnapped in Central America?

Yeah, I remember. So what did he say was the problem?

He refused to go into it with me…arguing that it was far too complicated to explain over the phone. That’s why he wants you to fly down.

Did you contact Mr. Kingstone…see if at least that part of the story could be corroborated?

I did…and he vouched for Mr. Neville…saying he was a very wealthy real estate developer. As for the problem that prompted Mr. Neville to contact us, Mr. Kingstone claimed not to know any of the details, but admitted giving Mr. Neville your name once it became clear to him the matter would probably require a rather unconventional approach.

Like the one I used to get his grandson back…is that it?

Yes.

Church didn’t say anything, just let the matter rest easily in his mind…letting his instincts go to work.

Church, you still there? asked Chelsea after a few moments.

Yeah…listen, I’m a bit intrigued. Why don’t you book me on a flight to LA for this afternoon…and get me a reservation at that hotel on Wilshire I like to use.

So, you’re actually going to check it out? asked Chelsea, her surprise reflected in her tone.

It might be just what I’m looking for…something a bit out of the ordinary. Call and let Mr. Neville know I’ll meet with him and Mr. Field at his home this evening…let’s say, around seven o’clock. What’s the address?

Will do! God, it’s great having you back…if only for a few days, said Chelsea as she made notes of what needed to be done.

After signing off, Church slipped his cell phone into his pocket and smiled to himself, thinking of Chelsea’s enthusiasm…irrepressible even after more than eight years of working for him. In her early thirties now, he knew he probably couldn’t expect to employ her much longer. She’d recently told him about being in a serious relationship, one she hoped would lead to marriage. She also had let him know she’d managed to earn a much coveted salaried position with her dance company. It was only part-time, she was careful to add, anxious to assure him she’d still be able to handle the work when I came back from London.

Knowing how fast Chelsea moved, I figured I needed to shower, dress and pack quickly; I probably had less than an hour before it would be time to head for the airport. But before anything, I needed to call Boris. Given the hour, I figured Boris was still at the gym he owned. My call was picked up at the gym’s reception counter. I groaned as I realized the barely intelligible greeting coming through my receiver meant I’d called while Lukas, a body builder from Vienna with a pronounced deficit in social graces, was manning the counter. Lukas, it’s me, Church, please connect me with Boris…I assume he’s upstairs in his sculpture studio.

Yeah, but he don’t want to talk with anybody.

I know that’s his rule, but he’ll make an exception for me…you know that.

I dunno…anyway you seen him yesterday.

Tell you what, Lukas, you put me through to Boris and next time I’m in the gym I’ll make myself available to spot for you during your bench press sets.

All I got was a grunt but I figured it was an affirmative grunt since the guy pushed the remote-line button on the phone, causing it to ring in Boris’ studio.

Is there a problem, Lukas? asked Boris upon answering the phone.

It’s me, Boris, I replied. Something’s come up and I won’t be able to make dinner this evening.

Whatever it is it had better be good, Church, said Boris. Gloria has her heart set on having you over.

Please make my apologies…let her know I’m hoping she’ll forgive me.

So, what’s up? asked Boris.

I’ve got to fly down to LA to meet with a couple of real estate developers who believe they’re in need of my assistance.

What’s their problem?

I hate to admit it, Boris, but I don’t really know. It has something to do with some real estate in central Montana. Why—whatever it is—involves a recovery operation is beyond me. Though I have to confess, it’s precisely the off-beat nature of the case that intrigues me.

So, you’re stiffing your old friend and his devoted wife in order to race down to LA before even learning what the job is. Couldn’t you put off the trip until tomorrow?

Probably, I replied sheepishly, but I guess I’m in a hurry to satisfy my curiosity.

Possibly, said Boris skeptically, but more likely you’re suffering a severe case of restlessness. But no matter, boychik, I frequently get those feelings myself…as you know all too well. In any case, I’ll fix it with Gloria, but you’ll have to promise to keep me in the loop and figure out a way I can get involved.

Boris, listen to yourself! First I cancel a dinner invitation at the last minute then I’m supposed to rope you in on another dangerous assignment…Gloria will kill me!

She loves you like a son, boychik. She’ll forgive you.

Well, I’m not promising anything, I said as I ended the phone call.

* * *

The hour’s flight to LAX gave me time to speculate a bit on what it was that Neville and Field had in mind. A real estate issue sounded more like something attorneys might handle, or maybe the local sheriff. My first impulse was to paint a mental picture of the state, sketching in heavily forested mountains to the west, the vast expanse of the Great Plains east of the Rockies, Yellowstone River…the troubled history of Indian wars, homesteading, mining, ranching. I knew there were a few larger towns, like Missoula, Billings, or Great Falls, but overall I didn’t believe the state’s population amounted to much…maybe a million or so residents. Given the enormous size of the state and the dearth of people it was hard for me to imagine there’d be much to argue about regarding real estate. Unless, that is, we’re talking about a particularly productive gold mine or something equivalent. But I knew that nowadays such properties tended to be in the hands of large corporate entities, not fought over by a handful of developers.

I was left shaking my head, not able to imagine what in God’s name Neville and Field could possibly be concerned about that required hiring someone like me to intervene. My specialty was the recovery of items of value that had been criminally appropriated. Usually these were works of art, precious jewels, rare artifacts…the kinds of things insurance companies would pay good money to people like me to recover. Occasionally, I’d handle a kidnapping, particularly if the victim was being held outside of the country, where the FBI had only a limited ability to intervene.

The captain’s voice came over the loudspeaker informing us the plane had begun its descent into LAX. I tried to put the whole business out of my mind and concentrate on the logistics of getting from the airport to Beverly Hills where my hotel was located. I knew I was about to be ensnared by the city’s ever-present traffic congestion and no matter how I figured it there was no way I’d be able to avoid sitting in traffic for the best part of an hour.

* * *

Having flown business class I’d been able to carry my two pieces of luggage straight on to the plane, thereby avoiding the bother of hanging around the baggage claim area upon arrival. I headed directly for the exits leading to ground transportation, thinking I’d grab a cab but knowing I’d be smarter booking a limo through an app on my cell phone if for no other reason than the comfort of the ride. But all such thoughts were interrupted when I spotted a man in a dark suit—some sort of livery uniform—holding a sign with my name on it.

Mr. Church? he asked as I approached.

Yes, that’s me, I replied…a questioning look on my face.

Mr. Neville sent me to drive you to your hotel…let me take your bags.

As we walked over to where his vehicle was parked I continued to give him a questioning look. He sensed I was somewhat perplexed and turned to me.

Mr. Neville asked that I explain that he wanted to extend you this courtesy out of his appreciation for your willingness to come so quickly, and also to let you know I’ll be at your disposal for the duration of your time in Los Angeles.

I nodded, trying to make sense of how the details of my travel arrangements became so well known to the man, then chuckled to myself as I pictured