The chief agent made a face in his direction, glanced down at the papers that filled his desk. "At your respective individual debriefings and question sessions the specific charges against each of you will be read." As he finished saying this he looked up at Conroy and Vandorm. "The charges will vary."
Luther leaned over to whisper to his buddy. "Don't tell 'em nuthin', BJ. We're screwed as it is."
"No talking in line," said an agent standing nearby. "You'll have plenty of time to talk in a few minutes."
"Yeah, how long's this gonna take?" said one of the other men from the back of the line. "I got cows to milk in a couple of hours. If the milking ain't done it's gonna cost me and somebody's gonna pay for damages for sure."
The chief agent shook his head and muttered to the younger man standing next to him. "Can you believe this bunch?"
Luther saw someone put a hand on BJ's arm. He looked over and saw that it was the black agent BJ had confronted back in the woods.
"Well, well." The agent was smiling humorlessly. "Lookie who I get to interview. You come with me nice and quiet-like, country boy. We wouldn't want you to have an accident or anything between here and the debriefing room, would we?"
Angrily, BJ shook the hand off. "Keep your hands off me. Just show me where you want me to go."
"Oh, I'll let you know where to go, all right." The agent's artificial smile disappeared quickly. "You just give me a chance, just the slightest excuse, and I'll help you get there."
"Don't tell 'em nuthin', BJ!" Conroy and Vandorm shouted in tandem as their simpleminded friend was led off down a side corridor.
"You show 'em, BJ!" yelled another. A number of the fainthearted drew inspiration from the courage of the least man among them.
"It's all right, guys!" BJ waved back to them as he was led off between the black agent and one another. "Y'all be good and I'll see you around."
"Don't count on it, cracker." The agent's grin had returned. "You're under arrest—or have you forgotten?"
"Shoot," said BJ, loud enough for his friends to hear as they turned a corner, "you ain't got nuthin' on me and my friends. We'll be out of here by lunch."
Conroy stared as the janitor was led roughly out of sight by the two FBI men. Good man, that BJ. Stronger than most of 'em if not too bright. Should've kept his mouth shut out there in the forest. Conroy hoped the janitor would be able to hold up under the pressure they were likely to put on him. They probably couldn't break him down physically, assuming such things still went on in law enforcement, but they might be able to trick him. Yes sir, they just might trick poor slow good-natured BJ into spilling all the beans between here and Hattiesburg.
Not that it made much difference. The chapter was pretty well dead no matter what anyone said because it would take a blind man to miss the machine guns hidden in his pickup.
Who could he blame those on? He had to have someone or there'd be nothing to tell them. Suppose he said he'd bought the Uzis for a gag? Sure, that was it. He and a couple of the boys were going to go out and do some varmint shootin', easy style. Just for fun. That would do for the automatic weapons. Play it dumb. Didn't matter whether they believed the story or not. It sounded just like the sort of thing a bunch of good ol' country boys would do. A federal judge would give it more credibility than a local one, who'd know better.
Explaining away the detailed plans for blowing up the ACLU office in Jackson was going to be a damn sight tougher. That would depend on Sutherlin and the excuses he made for the explosives in his car. Conroy worried about that. What use did a certified public accountant have for fifty pounds of dynamite?
Conroy might have saved himself the mental torment. Down the central hallway, behind the privacy of soundproof doors, the rest of his friends were already spilling their guts to their respective interrogators in hopes of getting off as lightly as possible. Jimmy Cousins in particular was willing to do anything to keep his name out of the paper, up to and including swearing in court that Sutherlin and Conroy and all the other senior chapter members were child molesters, murderers, and commie agents. As the Bureau knew, two fanatics of any political ilk constituted a potential army. Taken alone, most of them were frightened, ineffectual wrecks. Except for the true fanatics like the anarchists, who instead of being against something were against everything. That's not a condition of politics but of sanity.
It was a long way to the room which BJ was herded into, far away from any of the others and well out of earshot. The interior of the room was also different from any of the other debriefing cubicles.
Seated behind the single desk and looking exhausted was a man with curly brown hair and a tall athletic build. The physique was not fake. The agent had played professional basketball for three years before banging up a knee and joining the Bureau. Several other men stood near the far side of the office.
The agent who'd walked the prisoner in carefully shut the door behind him. The man behind the desk rose and came around to stare down at BJ. Then he reached out and shook his hand. Immediately the room was filled with shouts and laughter.
BJ Tree, whose real name was Joshua Oak, traded in the sullen glare he'd been wearing most of the night for a relaxed smile as he shook the senior agent's hand and accepted the congratulations of his colleagues. Amidst all the backslapping and guffaws he turned to the black agent who'd escorted him down the corridor.
"I hope I didn't lay it on too thick out there, Elton."
The agent's head went back as he let out a roar of his own. "Man, are you kidding? I'd have given anything for a camera when you called me 'nigger' out back there in the woods! You should've seen some of those faces. I thought their eyeballs were going to fall out and roll around on the ground and we'd have to spend another half hour picking 'em all up. Your buddy, the guy next to you, looked like he was going to shit in his pants!" He was laughing so hard he had to pause to wipe the tears from his eyes.
"All I can say is that it was a helluva day for the Bureau, Josh, when you decided to join the undercover boys instead of going to Hollywood."
More laughter all the way around. Then the senior agent returned to his seat, put his long legs up on his desk, and gestured.
"Somebody get Laurence Olivier here a chair. You ready for a drink, Josh?"
Oak accepted the proffered chair. "No hard stuff. How about a beer?"
"Can do. Red?" One of the agents nodded, vanished into a back room. "The air conditioning in this rock pile is shot but we've still got power."
"Anything cold. Beer's fine. No, cancel that. I've smelled too much beer already tonight." He twisted around in his chair. "Make it a Pepsi or an RC or something, Red."
"Got it," the agent fumbling around in the back room replied.
Drinks and ice materialized, the other men more than willing to accept the beer that Oak had turned down. They laughed and joked for another ten minutes or so, men casting aside the tension of the past months and reveling in a job well done, before the conversation turned serious.
"We found all the stuff just where you said we would." The senior agent had a tendency to conduct the conversation with his beer. "Plans, maps, munitions, the whole business. You wouldn't think a few yokels like that could plan anything so sophisticated. If you hadn't hooked on with them they might've brought it off before we'd learned anything concrete."
"I've been doing this long enough," Oak commented dourly, "to know that it's dangerous to underestimate these kinds of people no matter how simple they seem or what their background is. A dirt farmer's just as capable of assassinating a President as any professional killer. All it takes is the right, or maybe I should say wrong, combination of fanaticism, will, and luck. This bunch of bumpkins may not look like Nobel Prize material, but they're country-smart. Never sell that short."
The agent named Elton was sitting on Oak's immediate right and looking thoughtful. "You know, we found enough dynamite and blasting powder in that Cadillac to blow up half the state capital."
"One of Suth
erlin's accounts is a big local construction company. He's been buying the stuff on the sly from low-level employees for months. But you guys know that already."
The senior agent nodded. "To read your reports you'd think you were getting your information off a teletype. I'm amazed at how you managed to keep us updated so regularly and so thoroughly without getting that bunch suspicious."
"Wasn't all that hard. Like I said, when you've been doing this as long as I have… Sutherlin and the rest don't think I'm capable of writing much more than my name."
"I've still got to hand it to you, Josh. We never could have busted this lot without your help. Oh, we could've kept them under surveillance, but there's no guarantee we could have moved on them before they'd killed some folks. As it is we can't make a whole lot stick, but you know the Bureau. Decided to move in before anybody got hurt." He considered. "Possession of automatic weapons, holding explosives for illegal purposes—and of course these wonderfully incriminating plans which everybody put their names to. Including 'BJ Tree.'" More chuckles from Oak's colleagues.
"It'll stand up in court, don't worry. Now that I've seen the principals up close, I think that a year or two in local prisons will be enough to kill any future plans of a destructive nature."
"I think so too. These boys went further than they originally intended. That's Sutherlin's doing. He dragged Vandorm and Conroy along." Oak let the ice in the glass numb his teeth. "One thing, though. I know I don't swing any weight with the prosecutors, but I've got a request anyways. You know that big kid, the one that couldn't quit whimpering? That's Jimmy Cousins. He's a local football star, comes from a broken home. His father's as worthless as anyone we hauled in tonight. Nobody knows where the mother is.
"I think he just fell in with this mob accidentally, because he was looking for a substitute family. The kid needs to belong and I don't think he should suffer because he made a stupid decision. If you can get him off quiet so he doesn't lose his scholarship, I think this'll straighten him out. He's been scared straight."
"A soft heart in your position's dangerous, Josh," said Elton.
"At least I haven't got a soft head. You know that, Laffler," Oak told the senior agent.
The tall man looked uncomfortable. "Elton?"
"If Josh thinks the boy can be made right, I think we're beholden to help him all we can."
"Huh. Josh, you know I don't have much more pull with the department than you do. It's entirely up to what Justice wants to do. But I'll give them your opinion. He didn't know about the plans for the bombing?"
Oak shook his head. "He was a fringe member of the chapter. Not inner circle. Sutherlin didn't trust that many people with the knowledge. Afraid it might reach the wrong ears."
Laffler waggled his oversized ones. "Smart. Mean and nasty. Let's see if we can't put our accountant away for a while longer than his friends."
"I think that'd be a good idea," Oak agreed. "With most of these boys it's as much a game as anything else. Party time in white sheets." Elton made a noise. "Sutherlin's different. The hate's been building up inside him for nearly forty years. He's got a vicious streak runs right through him. A real bitter pill. Don't let him out of custody."
Laffler nodded. "Don't worry. And we'll see if we can't keep the Cousins boy out of jail. Him being under age and all and not knowing about the guns and such—yeah, maybe we can do something."
That made Oak feel better than he had in several days. "Great."
"Oh, and you're going to have to go to Washington, Josh."
Oak paused with the glass of cola halfway to his lips. "Don't shit me, Frank. I'm supposed to be on vacation as of ten o'clock this morning."
Laffler looked apologetic. "Sorry. Another subcommittee wishes the benefit of your lucid explication."
"Screw that." Oak slumped back in his chair and looked disgusted. His gaze went to the ceiling. "Come on, Frank, not another subcommittee. They can read the reports. I'll do a final wrap and then I'm off to Kingston. Won't that be enough?"
"You know as well as I do that it's never enough when a few congressmen are up for re-election, Josh. You ought to know that by now. You're getting a reputation. Not only as a good agent but as good theater. The suspense, the black hood and all."
"One of these days, Frank, somebody's going to pick me out despite the disguise and the voice camouflage. That'll be the end of my undercover work."
Laffler eyes him knowingly. "Would you be all that upset with a desk job? Sitting around and pushing papers for a change until retirement time? I know training would love to have you teach a couple of classes, and students say yessir and nosir and don't shoot back."
Oak let out a grunt. "You know, that's not a half-bad idea."
"Getting tired of changing roles, Josh?" Elton grinned at him.
"I guess you could say that." He inhaled tiredly, rubbed at his eyes. "Another command performance, huh? Senate or House?"
"Senate this time. A big one, Josh, or I would've tried making excuses for you. Senator Baker's sitting in."
"Baker." The senior senator from Nebraska had presidential aspirations, everyone knew. "Good. He'll do most of the talking and I can say yup and nope a lot. He likes that." The silent star, Oak mused. The Agent With No Name. Why couldn't they just put a hood over Clint Eastwood's head for a change? He wondered if he'd be able to get his hotel deposit back. Unnecessary worry, of course. The Bureau would reimburse him.
"Why don't you do it, Frank? Or let Elton go in my place. Hell, with the hood on the committee members won't know the difference anyway."
Elton put up his hands. "Huh-uh, not me, man. I stutter if I have to speak to a crowd."
Red Coleman, who was the oldest field agent among them, came up behind Oak and put a hand on his shoulder. "You know, Josh, if you're really fed up with this undercover stuff, all you have to do is pull that hood off your head and step on the voice box and that'll be the end of it."
"Don't think I haven't thought about it, but I'm too much a company man. Wouldn't be the right time or place anyways. Be just my luck there'd be somebody watching C-SPAN on cable whose brother or drinking buddy I caused to have put away for a while and he'd recognize me as an old 'friend.' I'd never be able to sit securely behind that desk Frank promised me. I haven't been what you'd call loyal company to a lot of homicidal types these past ten years."
More laughter, and the drinking and joking resumed. Beneath the feelings of good fellowship and camaraderie in a dangerous profession there was admiration for the one man among them who'd performed by far the most dangerous job of all. While they were making wisecracks and swigging beer, Laffler and Coleman and all the others sooner or later came to the same thought.
Man, I wouldn't have Joshua Oak's job for all the laundered money in the District of Columbia and points north.
Have to get his football player off the hook somehow, Laffler thought. That's the least the Bureau owes him. Like everyone else he wondered how Oak got away with it, infiltrating one dangerous sect or cult or radical organization after another, blending in with the others, making himself inconspicuous but valuable to the fanatics he'd been assigned to watch until the proper time came to betray them. Oak shrugged off such questions with the thought that it was just good acting, but most actors worked for applause. Their lives weren't in danger every time they stepped out in front of the lights.
Ten years was a long time, a very long time, for anyone to work undercover. Joshua Oak kept playing the odds and they got a little longer with each successive assignment. Sooner or later someone was bound to recognize him or find him out, and that would be the last anyone heard of Joshua Oak.
Laffler didn't want to see that happen. The Bureau would fight him on it—Oak was the best they had at his strange specialty. No more than one more such potentially fatal assignment, no more than one. He was going to insist on it the next time he spoke to his superiors.
After all, even headquarters ought to realize that a live Oak in the classroom was more
valuable than a dead Oak in the woods.
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5
Seattle-Tacoma International
Airport—17 June
The two women strode briskly through the terminal. Merry Sharrow had plenty of time to catch her plane. The fact that she was already checked in and had her seat assignment failed to slow her down. As punctual in her private life as on the job, she'd insisted on arriving at the airport two hours prior to takeoff time.
Amy had learned to live with her friend's chronological fanaticism and didn't complain. "You've got your camera?"
"Yes, and my tickets."
"What about a raincoat?"
"Are you kidding?" Merry checked her watch. She didn't want to miss her plane. This was her vacation, her choice. Her blood was rushing. She couldn't remember when last she'd been this excited. Wonderful things were going to happen to her in Washington. She could feel it. The city was beckoning to her. All very childish, really. Cities didn't beckon.
"How about Kotex?"
"Of course I've got—" Merry started to reply automatically. Then she saw the grin on her friend's face and stuck out her tongue at her.
"Tell me," Amy asked as they strode down the concourse toward Merry's gate, "why Washington, D.C.?"
"I don't know, really. It just kind of jumped into my head. Monuments and museums and maybe some excitement."
"Excitement? You?"
"I might surprise you. Heck, I might surprise myself."
"What did Donald have to say?"
"I didn't ask him. I left a message on his answering machine."
Amy gaped at her. "My, but we have taken charge all of a sudden, haven't we? What prompted this sudden outburst of independence?"
"Seemed like the time was ripe. Besides, I need a vacation." She stopped suddenly. People surged around her like water around a rock. "Amy, I hit a dog a couple of days ago. It really tore me up."