Environmental Restoration — had agreed upon earlier.
After going through the new plan in some detail, Smallsreed paused for a moment, then asked, 'What do you think?'
'No problem at our end,' Rustman replied cautiously. 'But what happened to our mutual friend?'
Translation: 'Why isn't Simon Whatley making this contact, in person, the way we agreed, instead of you — which is a risky idea under the best of circumstances?'
'We don't know where he is.'
'What?'
As a highly competent and experienced combat officer long accustomed to recognizing-and reacting to — potentially hazardous situations at a moment's notice, Lt. Colonel John Rustman immediately realized that Simon Whatley's disappearance posed a significant threat to his operation… and to his men.
'I have no reason to think it's serious… yet,' Smallsreed cautioned the other man. 'There were scheduling problems with his flight to DC this morning, and he might have missed one of the connections.'
'But he hasn't called in.'
It wasn't so much a question as an accusation.
'No, he hasn't,' Smallsreed admitted.
Rustman slowly inhaled, then released a deep breath.
'We need to find him, immediately,' he insisted after a moment's reflection on the impact Whatley's defection could have on the remaining years of his life. It had already occurred to him that Smallsreed probably didn't know about the summary execution of Lou Eliot; otherwise, he wouldn't be nearly so calm about his underling's disappearance.
'Yes, we do need to find him… and we will,' the powerful congressman hastened to reassure Rustman while he continually scanned the public access area around the isolated phone booth. 'But in the meantime, we need to put the new plan into motion right away.'
Rustman hesitated.
'Are you sure that's wise right now?' he finally asked.
'Yes, I am… financially and otherwise.'
Smallsreed's insistence certainly arose from his awareness of Sam Tisbury's promise of political funding, not to mention the deadly consequences that would befall him if he failed to meet his promises to Aldridge Hammond, the shadow-dwelling chairman of the ICER committee.
However, Lt. Colonel John Rustman considered quite different consequences — such as the financial impact of the loss of Smallsreed's operational payout on his future retirement plans. While significant, however, it paled beside the thought of spending the rest of his life on the run from federal or state prosecution for the murder of Lou Eliot.
Even though they approached it from two quite different standpoints, both men realized that, in the context of the financial issues and otherwise, Simon Whatley had become a very expendable resource.
Resolving the expendable part was easy.
But they had to find him first.
'How do you intend to handle it?' Rustman finally asked.
'What?'
'The search.'
Meaning don't sic a private investigative agency — much less a federal government law-enforcement agency — on Whatley, because even if he didn't talk, someone was bound to make the connection.
'We'll handle it in-house,' Smallsreed replied evenly.
'What does that mean?'
The congressman sighed heavily.
'It means' — an audible edge crept into his gravelly voice — 'that if the members of my Washington Office staff would like to remain attached to the public tit, then they'd better find the son of a bitch before I do.'
It took Rustman another three hours to arrange a face-to-face meeting with Wintersole.
They sat sheltered in a small grove of evergreen trees and undergrowth on a low hill overlooking the Chosen Brigade's hidden training compound. The Army Ranger first sergeant listened carefully as Rustman detailed the change in plans.
'We can handle our end just fine,' he assured Rustman when the latter concluded his recitation. 'Fact is, the new plan makes everything a lot easier all the way around. Only problem is, we're still waiting for those agent profiles.'
That final remark brought Rustman's head up in surprise.
'Did you remind Whatley?'
'I sent him two separate messages through the drop box,' Wintersole reported. 'One last Thursday, then a reminder with the surveillance photos over the weekend. Haven't gotten a thing back.'
Rustman cursed, and then considered this latest revelation carefully.
'Do you really need the profiles?' he finally asked.
Wintersole shrugged. 'We do if we want to be sure about Lightstone. Based on that 'male white, medium height, medium weight' description, we can narrow it down to one out of two, but we've got a lot of bonus money riding on that videotape,' the hunter-killer team leader reminded him. 'It'd be nice to have a photo confirmation before we set something into motion we can't stop or correct.'
'I'll see what I can do,' Rustman promised.
Wintersole nodded agreeably, then stared at the narrow valley for a long moment before turning back to his trusted commander.
'What are we going to do about Whatley?'
Wintersole asked the question knowing he and Rustman would be the first ones hunted down if Whatley had lost his nerve and run to the FBI. And neither man maintained any illusions of their limited ability simply to disappear into the countryside. If Whatley talked, both of them — along with the rest of their rogue team — would immediately become the targets of nearly a million federal, state, and local lawenforcement officers, not to mention the more focused and very personal targets of the US Army Ranger MP teams, who would not take kindly to the assault on their own hard-earned reputations.
If Whatley had talked, or intended to, they needed to get out of the country… fast.
But to do that, they needed the money — which meant they needed Whatley and his access to the payoff and bonus accounts.
'Smallsreed says not to worry about it,' Rustman replied. 'He intends to find the son of a bitch himself.'
'You think he can?'
'I think a man like Regis J. Smallsreed can do damned near anything he wants to do, especially to save his own ass.'
'But does he know his ass is on the line?' Wintersole asked pointedly.
'Oh, I think the congressman understands that very clearly.' Rustman nodded his head solemnly, a deadly look narrowing his eyes. 'Very clearly, indeed.'
Wintersole waited until Rustman disappeared. Then he took the long, narrow, and winding path down to the training compound where, one by one, he contacted the members of his team and relayed the change in plans and related instructions.
Set the bait tonight, at 2100 hours.
Spring the trap tonight, at 2300 hours.
Note the important change in plans: unless absolutely unavoidable, do not kill the agents.
Withdraw all escape-route sets of explosives except one for use in the planned obliteration of the Chosen Brigade's compound.
And under no circumstances harm the female agent or either of the two medium height, medium weight, male Caucasian agents tentatively identified as Henry Lightstone. They needed them to earn the bonus.
One by one, the members of the hunter-killer recon team at the training compound withdrew to their new assignments, until finally only Wintersole and the man he knew as Henry Randolph Lee remained with his nearly exhausted — but still visibly enthusiastic — students.
Wintersole waited until the almost-too-painful-to-watch session finally ended with some futile attempts by
