“Ah—” Robert was distinctly uncomfortable, which was strange, for what had recommended Robert was his complete passivity. Robert had no personality whatsoever. Howard liked that in a man.
“Go on, Robert.”
“You’ll recall that strange shootout in North Carolina yesterday?”
“Yes.” Who could not recall it? Some drug war thing, forty-odd men killed, wounded Latinos babbling of ambush and slaughter, a DEA task force down there trying to shake it all out.
“Well, sir, they found over fifty-five 7.62mm shells atop that mountain.”
“Yes?”
“We just got the lab report. Latent prints got seven good completes and four partiais. The computer spat them out a few minutes ago. Sir, I thought you should know immediately.”
Howard still didn’t see where this was headed. At his level, he was no longer responsible for on-site investigations. Wasn’t that Bob Mattingly over on the Bureau/DEA liaison committee?
“Sir. Uh, the prints check out positively.”
“Check out how?”
“Yes, sir. They’re Bob Lee Swagger’s.”
Howard looked at him. He let nothing show on his face. He felt a little something rise in his stomach.
“There must be some mistake. Swagger is dead and buried, we ID’d the corpse through forensics, everything was all—”
“Sir, I’m only telling you what the computer said.”
“I see.”
“And sir, there was a rental automobile recovered at the site.”
“Yes?”
More bad news?
“Go on.”
“It was rented by Nick Memphis.”
Oh, Christ, thought Howard.
Nick came awake in the cab of the truck when Bob nudged him. He’d been dreaming about Sally Ellion, of all things. Sally was laughing at a joke he’d told her. There was something about Sally he really liked. It was—
But he blinked awake, somewhat chilly, aware of the jounce of the truck, the gray air of dawn. He wasn’t even sure when he’d fallen asleep.
“Time to get up, Nick,” said Bob.
“Yeah,” he said. “You want me to drive. No sweat.”
“No,” said Bob. “We’re almost there and it’s almost time.”
Nick looked around. He saw that they were headed up the access road toward an airport terminal. In the gray distance, a small jet was getting ready to take off.
“What—”
“You got a job to do.”
“What are—”
“In twenty minutes you’ll be on a United flight to New Orleans. Be in by seven-thirty.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Annex B. You been explaining it to me for a month and a half. Now it’s time to find the goddamn thing.”
“But—”
“But nothing. These birds have someone. A woman who helped me once. Goddamned wonderful woman, the best. They got her and there’s nothing I can do but stew and they know it and they like it. It gives them all the goddamned leverage. But when it comes to meeting time, I got to have some leverage or she’s dead. They’ll use her to get at me and they’ll blow me away and then they’ll blow her away and then they go on with the rest of their lives, happy as pigs in a bath of shit. You got to get me some leverage, Nick. That’s all there is to it.”
Nick swallowed.
“I—I don’t know if—It’s hard. Maybe it’s there or maybe it’s in Washington or maybe it’s—”
“Nick, you’ve been explaining to me how I was doing this all wrong. I’m man enough to say you’re right, I was a fool, all I managed to do was get some people killed. Now it’s time to let a professional work. I’ll step aside. You go get this Annex B.”
Nick looked at him.
He tried to think.
“But it’s probably in Washington. It’s buried in some computer file in Washington that only people on Lancer Committee can get to with special performance and—”
He stopped himself.
The words ROM DO formed in his mind.
It all came back to ROM DO. The message that Eduardo Lanzman had left him all those months ago, on the day that his wife died.
Eduardo Lanzman had come to see him.
But think about it, he told himself. He wouldn’t have just come. That’s what’s been haunting me. He wouldn’t have just come with some crazy story. He was a pro, pro enough to know he’d been made, pro enough to try and protect himself from electronic eavesdropping as per the latest Agency hot tips. And pro enough to know he’d have to bring something along, something I could use to go to higher people and stop the assassination.
He must have—I don’t know, but we didn’t find anything on his body.
Maybe his killers took it.
No. Why’d they chop him? To get him to talk. But he was a tough bastard, who believed in one thing, Nick Memphis of the FBI. Whatever he had, he hid it. Between the plane and the motel room, he hid it. And he told me where—he left me a message. ROM DO—Romeo Dog. R-D. RamDyne.
“Nick?”
“Huh?”
“Nick, we’re here.”
The truck had stopped. He looked and yes, they were there.
“Remember,” said Bob. “You be back by the first Sunday in November. You meet me at the cabin in the mountains. The day before hunting season.”
The most absurd document in the world, Shreck thought.
He looked at Dobbler’s report on his desk. A glance had told him that it was self-serving bullshit. Dobbler was hopeless.
Shreck was waiting for the doctor to show up. There was work to do and not much time left. His session with Hugh had not gone well. Hugh was capable of being extremely uncivil and in this episode he hadn’t disappointed Shreck. He was a vindictive, bitter old man, who raved about legacy, about heritage, about responsibility. He was enraged that the colonel had endangered poor Lon, after all Lon had suffered. And now Lon had to give up so much. When the colonel told him that Lon seemed happy, even excited about the whole thing and was treating it like some mad adventure, and was quite happily nailing silhouette targets at a thousand yards in central Virginia, it still didn’t sit well with Hugh.
You two Yale boys certainly go back a long way, the colonel had thought. I wonder to what?
Hugh finally wondered, frankly, if he could do a damned thing for the colonel anymore.
Shreck had told him he didn’t want anything, the situation had resolved itself to a three- or four-man play in Arkansas some two weeks hence, and that he would prevail or die, and that would be the end of it.
Nothing would come out. There’d be no embarrassment. Lon Scott could go back to obscurity. The colonel held the trump card, the woman; with the woman, he’d be able to manipulate Bob in ways previously impossible. They could chopper Lon Scott into any point in the mountain range and set him up to handle any long-distance shooting chores, and Payne, probably the best small unit man the Special Forces ever turned out, would be along for the close stuff. He himself had two wars’ worth of taking frontals, as well as twenty years running outfit ops and hits. Then they had the devious Dobbler masterminding things; he’d proven his worth. They needed only one thing—first-class topographic surveys of the Ouachitas, satellite-quality layout of the mountains.
Hugh fumed, but in the end, he saw how little of him was required and how protected he still was. When he realized he knew just who to call, he relented.
Now there was little to do except wait. Lon would be prepping the shot he’d have to take, Payne watching the girl, and he and Dobbler working on the tactical and psychological maneuvers. It was just a period of waiting, staying calm, bringing it off.
“Colonel Shreck?” came the voice over the intercom, one of the Operations people who hadn’t died in the chopper crash.
“Yeah?” said Shreck.
“I can’t get any answer from Dr. Dobbler. And I’ve called three times. No one has seen him since he logged out two nights ago at midni
ght.”
“Thank you.”
Shreck looked at the document before him. It was some time before it occurred to him that it meant that Dobbler had been in his office, but only thirty seconds after that when he discovered that the videotape was missing from his safe.
“Now what have we got?” Utey asked his assembled people.
Getting himself appointed the head of the Bob Lee Swagger Task Force had not been an easy job, but somehow, demanding returns on favors granted and offering still more favors, uncounted favors, in the future, and working fast off the tip, he’d managed it, and gotten his old team in place and was now staffing the first meeting in New Orleans.
“Sir,” said Hap Fencl, “here’s how it shakes down. They found fifteen discarded cartons of Lake City M852 7.62mm Match ammunition atop that mountain, Lot 543-101B. They managed to track it by that number to a surplus outfit called Survival, Inc., in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, August fifteenth. I went over there myself yesterday morning. They sold a thousand-round case of the stuff to two men. Tall, rangy guy, mid-forties, very quiet. And heavyset blond guy, crew cut, who did all the talking. They couldn’t positively ID Bob but the salesman gave me an absolute total yes on Nick Memphis.”
“Nick, Nick, Nick,” said Utey.
“Howard,” said Hap, “is there any possibility Nick is working very deep cover for someone on a higher level? I can’t believe Nick would go renegade on us. Nick’s a good Bureau guy, Bureau to his bones and even deeper.”
Howard considered carefully.
“You never can tell,” he said. “He loved it more than it could love him, based on his performance. And that’s where the trouble starts. Love can turn to hate, just like that.”
“I can’t believe anything bad about old Nick. He was true blue, a square shooter.”
This disturbed Howard. Couldn’t have men on the team who’d made an emotional connection to the quarry.
“Go ahead, Mr. Fencl,” he said stonily.
“These shot-up Salvadorans, they tell a strange goddamned story. It was guys from this Panther Battalion outfit, you remember, all that stuff about that atrocity last year that the CIA denied any knowledge of. But they say this time they were working CIA, going after a big communist agent for the CIA. And they ran into Superman, or Rambo, or whatever. They got their booties kicked. And that’s all they say, and brother, is the Agency keeping mum on this one.”
“Umm,” said Howard.
“Was CIA involved with Panther Battalion?” somebody asked.
“Hard to say,” another agent said. “Our files indicate it was a contract thing with an outfit called RamDyne, which handles a lot of Agency funny business without involving the Agency directly. But there’s not much about RamDyne. You ask and all you get is a reference to Lancer Committee, which is our liaison committee with CIA. You can’t tell about some of these outfits who pick up and deliver the Agency’s garbage for them. Sometimes they get so far out there they lose their bearings. Or maybe they never had any bearings to begin with.”
“So anyway,” said Hap, “we got these Central American commandos thinking they’re after some commie and running into Bob the Nailer at the top of his game on somebody named James Thomas Albright’s farm and nobody has seen hide nor hair of James Albright and there is zero, I mean like, no paper on Albright. No records, no nothing. Guy was handicapped, too. DEA swears there isn’t a direct drug connection. But boy, it sounds druggie to me. So what’s Bob doing making war on a bunch of greasers? Or what are they doing making war on him? Who told them he was a commie? Who wants Bob dead? Who knew he was alive? We sure didn’t. The Agency? Could the Agency have been—”
“Gentlemen,” said Howard, working swiftly to cut off the apostasy, “I don’t think pursuing the Central Intelligence Agency or its affiliates is going to get us anywhere. Our first priority is the capture of Bob Lee Swagger before the news gets out that he’s alive. It would be humiliating to us if this became widely known; when we take him, that’s when we can go public with it. Is that understood?”
“Howard, if the Agency—” began Hap.
“Mr. Fencl, please,” said Howard.
Some murmurs, noddings, grumbles.
“Now, suggestions?”
“Sir,” one of the men said, “the last time Bob was in a jam, he went back to Blue Eye and the Ouachitas. Most men would have the sense not to try it a second time. But this guy, he believes in things. He believes in home and knowing the territory. If he’s going to play a game, don’t you think he’d play it on his territory?”
“Yes,” said Utey. “He would.”
He paused.
“All right,” he said, “I’m ordering the relocation of Task Force Swagger to Mena, Arkansas. We’ll set it up as before. Mr. Fencl, I want you to handle liaisons with Sheriff Tell of Polk County and the Arkansas State Police. Mr. Bryson, you establish contact with Milt Sillito over at DEA because we’ll need all the information from their loop. And Mr. Nelson, I want you to supervise the SWAT equipment and locate air support through the forestry department.”
“Poor Nick,” said Hap. “I hope he hasn’t bitten off more than he can chew. The only thing he ever wanted to be was an FBI agent.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Nick sat at Gate 24 in the New Orleans International Airport at 10:38 A.M. on a Tuesday. Delta Flight 554 was arriving from Mexico City. As the passengers began to emerge and disperse into the terminal, he stood up and joined them, trying to see with another man’s eyes.
What would he think? What would he notice? How would his mind work?
Eduardo Lanzman, if you were Eduardo Lanzman, you got off this flight six months ago. You saw what I am seeing now. You were a pro, your eyes scanned left and right, up the hall and down the hall. You were scared, you had something in your possession that could kill you, and you knew you were being hunted.
This was it. This was your break for freedom and your desperate attempt to save the life of Archbishop Jorge Roberto Lopez. And why? Even if you are a secret policeman, you were raised a Catholic. This killing of an archbishop, is it going too far? Or perhaps you lost somebody on the Sampul River that day, cut down by Panther Battalion in the red-running water.
No matter. What would you see?
Nick walked with the passengers through the terminal. Then another question hit him.
Why wouldn’t you call me from here? Why wait until you get to that motel?
As he thought about it, an answer formed. Because Lanzman thought he was safe. He hadn’t been made. He was all right. He read the crowd and he read the signs, and he thought everything was fine, it was a straight shot, it was no problem.
Nick let his imaginary trip through the head of Eduardo Lanzman carry him across the main concourse and out to the taxi stand by the street. It was not particularly busy.
You want to get this over with. You’ll just take a cab straight into the Federal Building, right? You’ll ask to see me. If you have to wait, you’ll have to wait, that’s all.
Nick hailed a cab.
“Yeah?”
“Uh, you know where the Federal Building is? Seven-oh-one Loyola Street, downtown.”
“Sure, man. Hop in.”
Nick climbed in, the cab sped away.
“New to the Big Easy?” the guy asked.
“No,” said Nick, trying to concentrate.
He watched as they left the airport, sped along the access road toward I-10, the big strip of federal highway that transects the shelf of land between the big river and Lake Pontchartrain upon which the city is built. Along the road there was nothing. It was featureless, nondescript, a little parcel of anonymous America.
As they took the ramp and began to sweep toward a merge on the rush of I-10, Nick could see the gaudy parade of motels over on the right, down Veterans Memorial Boulevard.
“Stop!” he hollered.
“Huh?”
“Stop, dammit! I said pull over.”
“What the—” The cabby, a
bald black guy with a gold tooth, fumed, but he obeyed. His name, Nick could tell from the hack license pinned to the right sunshade, was JERRY NILES.
“Now what?”
“Just shut up for a second.”
Nick sat there. The cab had slewed onto the shoulder and cars whirled by toward the city ahead.
No, he thought. He didn’t get this far. Because if he’s going to the Palm Court Motel, you can’t get there once you get onto I-70. You’ve got to make your mind up before you take the ramp.
“Buddy?”
“Shut up,” said Nick.
What does that tell you?
That tells you he made his pursuers on the access road, was afraid they’d nail him on the road, and made a snap decision to hunker down before they could do so.
It also meant he knew exactly how desperate they were—that they would be willing to risk some kind of terrible public scene to stop him. Pros prefer to work in private; they only go public with wet business if they have no other choice, unless they’re Colombian drug scum.
“Back up and head down Veterans Boulevard.”
“Hey, mister, I can’t back up and—”
“There’s a fifty in it for you.”
“Okay, but if a cop comes—”
“I am a cop,” said Nick, reflexively, then wished it were still true.
The driver backed up the ramp, executed a Kamikaze-like 240 and managed to get them, after some honking and screeching, headed down Veterans. The Palm Court was the third motel past the turnoff.
“Pull in here,” said Nick.
The driver obeyed.
“You want me to—”
“Just wait a minute.”
Nick sat, thinking.
He’s been made. He knows they’re close. Whatever he’s got—documents, a microchip, photos, whatever—he’s got to dump in some place that he can recover.
Dump it. Go into the motel before they spot him. Get a room near the Coke machines in case they’ve got electronic penetration capacity, call Nick Memphis, and then wait.
He doesn’t know they’ve got an Electrotek 5400. He doesn’t know they’ll hear his call. He doesn’t know that when the knock on the door comes, and he says who’s there, and the answer comes “Nick Memphis,” he’s letting his own death squad in.