Republican members of the House of Representatives, whereas Aldridge Hammond was singularly capable of destroying the efforts of a small country to form a democracy with an almost effortless signature at the bottom of a page. The slightest nod of Hammond's head could — by means that he need never know about — easily result in the death of a man for the simple sin of getting in the ICER chairman's way.
In effect, Aldridge Hammond wielded an incredible amount of power in a manner that was almost gentle in its subtlety. Working with him in a cooperative manner required careful and constant attention to the most imperceptible of cues.
But at the moment, Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed was being anything but careful.
'For his sake, I hope it means he's shacked up with some four-star Hollywood harlot, or shit-faced drunk, or asleep in some godforsaken airport lounge.' Smallsreed's porcine eyes gleamed dangerously. 'Because if it means anything else, at all, he's a walking dead man.'
'You think he went to the FBI?' Sam Tisbury's words conveyed all of the controlled rage of a man who had lost a father, a son, and a daughter to — in his opinion — the malicious and inexcusable actions of federal law- enforcement agents. He had absolutely no intention of losing anything to such people again.
Smallsreed shook his head.
'I don't think so. Whatley may not be the smartest fellow on the block, but he's pretty damned loyal, 'cause he's been doing my dirty work for so long, nobody else can stand having him around.' The old man chuckled. 'And he sure as hell knows what would happen to him if he ever did go sideways on us.' The congressman snapped a number two pencil between his fingers for emphasis.
'A frightened man who feels threatened and trapped can make some incredibly stupid decisions,' Aldridge Hammond reminded the politician.
'Lord knows that's the God's truth, too,' Smallsreed agreed. 'But I've got a lot of IOUs out there. If Whatley went to the FBI, I'm sure I would have heard about it by now.'
'And if you're wrong?'
'Haven't been wrong yet all these years, have I?' The Oregon congressman gave his guest a hard-edged smile.
'So where does that leave us?' Sam Tisbury interjected impatiently.
'Same place as before.' Smallsreed shrugged. 'Getting ready to make a little statement, exact a little vengeance, blow any evidence all to hell, and then maybe, if we're real lucky, take the credit for saving the day. Only difference,' the crafty veteran politician added, 'is that maybe we ought to change our plans a little bit.'
'How?' Hammond inquired in his deep, cavernous voice.
'Instead of killing them outright, I think we ought to capture all of those wildlife agents alive.'
'What?' Sam Tisbury's head came up sharply.
'Hear me out now, Sam.' Smallsreed raised a placating hand. 'Once we do that, we have the Chosen Brigade — dear misguided souls that they are — issue a news release saying they've taken several federal wildlife agents captive, and intend to put them on trial to prove to the world that all those black helicopter conspiracy theories are, by God, true as can be, and that they'll kill them — one at a time, right in front of the TV cameras-if the FBI or anyone else tries to interfere.'
'But you really don't want that to happen, do you?' the powerful shadow-man suggested. 'The trial, that is.'
'Hell no. 'Course not!' Smallsreed exclaimed. 'So we have Rustman's team rig the entire trial site with every pound of explosives they can lay their hands on. Now I'll grant you, when news media show up, our militant friends might seriously hurt one or two of those agents to keep the FBI backed off. But at the proper time, just before, or' — Smallsreed smiled thoughtfully — 'maybe just after the Chosen Brigade lets a select number of the media in to monitor the trial, we make it look like the FBI jumped the gun. Then, before you can say squat, that trial site goes up in a hundred million pieces, all the agents — FBI, Fish and Wildlife, this Lightstone fellow in particular — and all the media types die in the explosion. Rustman's team fades away in the confusion, and guess who gets blamed?'
The veteran congressman chuckled over what he considered his brilliant plan.
'I want him to see it,' Sam Tisbury insisted flatly.
'Say what?' Smallsreed blinked his beady eyes.
'I want agent Lightstone to see it happen,' the wealthy industrialist clarified. 'I want him to know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he's responsible for all those deaths.'
'Oh hell, that's easy.' Smallsreed dismissed the industrialist's primary concern with a wave. 'All Rustman's people need to do is keep him separate from the main explosion. Then, at the proper moment, they can point out the realities of life to the young fellow, let him know that his pals probably wouldn't thank him for his dedication… and then maybe blow him up all by his lonesome, a little diversion to make sure our people get out of there okay.' Smallsreed rubbed his meaty paws together as he fleshed out his plan. 'Come to think of it, we ought to add a nice little wildfire, too, just to make sure we don't leave any of that trace evidence behind.'
'Considering what he did to my daughter, that sounds like a very appropriate finale.' Sam Tisbury nodded his head in apparent satisfaction. 'One final thing though. I still want it videotaped.'
'You want what videotaped?' So many different aspects of his glorious plan filled Smallsreed's mind, he couldn't imagine what Tisbury meant. 'The fire?'
Sam Tisbury shook his head irritably.
'No, I want to see Lightstone's expression on tape when he finally comprehends the magnitude of his loss. Same conditions. I guarantee I'll destroy it once I see it.'
'Far as I know, that's already part of the game plan. But I'll verify it when I talk with Rustman,' the politician assured his old friend genially.
'Then I'm satisfied. Make it happen, and you'll never need to worry about campaign funds again,' the wealthy industrialist promised.
Smallsreed turned toward the figure sitting in the shadows, the fearsome chairman of the ICER committee, who simply nodded his head.
'All right then.' Regis J. Smallsreed opened his hands in a benevolent gesture. 'You've got yourselves a deal.'
'But how will you get word to Rustman's team about the changes if you can't find Whatley?' the shadow- man's voice echoed hollowly in the large room.
'Don't worry about that.' The veteran congressman smiled broadly. 'An old poker player like me's always got an extra ace or two up his sleeve. You just never know when you might need to fix a temporary run of bad luck.'
Chapter Forty-six
A beep from the pager on Lt. Colonel John Rustman's belt interrupted him as he methodically cleaned one of his favorite over-and-under shotguns, using a fine-wired brass brush meticulously to loosen the seared gunpowder residues that had collected under the twin extractors.
Frowning, he set the small implement aside, extracted the pager from his belt with his free hand, briefly examined the digital message, and blinked in surprise.
Approximately forty-five minutes later, at precisely twelve noon Pacific standard time, the retired military officer stepped into a phone booth at a gas station located just across the Jasper-Jackson County border, punched in a long-distance number, waited, fed the requested number of quarters into the slot from the open roll in his jacket pocket, and waited again.
'Hello?'
'I got your message,' Rustman replied in a neutral voice. 'What's up?
'We have a change in plans,' Regis J. Smallsreed announced casually.
Smallsreed surveyed the area surrounding the public phone booth located in the basement of the Longworth House Office Building one more time, making sure no one paid him any special attention. Then he outlined the new scheme that he, Sam Tisbury, and the chairman of ICER — the notoriously misnamed International Commission for
