Morrison sighed, but didn't say anything else. Ventura had a point. He
was about to go into negotiations with people who had been wise in the
ways of political and court intrigue for five thousand years. Being
ruthless was not a problem for a culture with as much practice at it as
they had. And he had hired Ventura for his expertise. As long as he
did the job, Morrison didn't care how.
'So now you put in a call to your friend the used car buyer and invite
him to drop round for a little chat. He won't like it, but he'll come,
especially if he's figured out who you are, and that you might indeed
have something worth selling.'
'And after that?'
'Well, once they know you are where they can't get to you, then we can
leave. Further communication can be relayed through here--the general
has quite an up-to-date collection of electronics--and with any luck,
we can keep them believing you are still here until the deal is
done.'
'And after the deal is done--if it is?'
'One step at a time. Dr. Morrison. We'll burn that bridge when we
have to burn it. Oh, and by the way, after we step out of the car?
Assume that everything we say is being monitored--because it probably
is. They can't hear us in here because we're protected by certain
devices, but outside, you can book it that somebody will have a shotgun
mike or even a laser reader on us at all times.'
'
'Allies,' you said?'
'Trust no one and no one can betray you. Just good tactics is all. Ah.
There's the general, come to welcome us.'
Jackson 'Bull' Smith was no more a general than Ventura was a colonel,
save to the bunch of mouth breathers who hut-hut-hut ted around his
compound in the Idaho woods.
Thirty years ago. Smith had been an Army infantryman, done some
fighting in the Middle East, and more ground-pounding in one of the
never-ending eastern European wars, but he'd never gotten past master
sergeant, and that only when he got tapped to serve in the unit
quartermasters, where he spent his last two tours. Still, he knew the
Army way as well as any decent NCO, had seen legitimate action--he had
a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star-and he was very canny. It was true
you couldn't run an army without sergeants, and Smith knew the ropes
well enough to organize a bunch of half-assed warrior-wannabes into a
fair imitation of soldierly discipline. At the very least, they were
good robbers, because that was chiefly how they raised their operating
funds. So far, they had knocked over supermarkets, banks, a theater
multiplex, an armored car, and a small Indian casino, all without being
caught or losing a man, and without killing too many bystanders.
Venture knew their M.O.' and he'd sort of halfway kept track. Smith's
boys had stolen somewhere in the range of six to seven million dollars
in the last year alone, Ventura guessed.
You could buy a lot of Idaho backwoods and MREs for seven million
dollars.
As Smith stepped forward to shake his hand, Ventura nodded crisply at
