militant group tried to infiltrate the Chosen Brigade posing as federal wildlife agents? What the hell kind of sense does that make? I mean, how did they… hey, wait a minute, didn't you say three?'
Wintersole nodded his head solemnly.
'According to our sources, the old fart in the far chair was supposed to infiltrate another couple into the Chosen Brigade during our exercise this evening. The woman next to him — the one you captured — and presumably one of these other two supposed federal wildlife agents' — Wintersole smiled again — 'who happens to be named Lightstone.'
Henry Lightstone felt a cold chill run down his spine, but he forced himself to remain calm and unresponsive.
'For what I assume are obvious reasons, the Brigade leadership would like to identify this third infiltrator,' Wintersole went on. 'We have a rough ID — male, white, six foot, one-eighty- which both of these guys more or less fit, but nobody here wants to cooperate. And then, as luck would have it, who pops in at just the right moment but you.'
'Me?' Lightstone cocked his head curiously, already judging the relative positions of Wintersole and his already-injured young martial-arts instructor, whose right hand had been converted into what was now, unfortunately, a fairly handy club.
Wintersole nodded. 'Whoever comes up with a positive identification of Lightstone gets a five-thousand-dollar bonus. We've been interrogating these two for the last couple of hours on a fairly casual basis and getting nowhere. We were getting ready to try a more serious form of persuasion when you showed up.'
A decidedly cold look passed through Wintersole's eyes. 'However,' he went on, staring directly at Lightstone now as if trying to gage his reaction, 'before we do, and taking into consideration the amount of damage you took to your ribs from this little hellion a couple of hours ago, I thought you might like a shot at that bonus money first.'
'Five grand, just to find out which one of those other yahoos out there is named Lightstone?' A contemplative look appeared on Henry Lightstone's face as he continued to stare down at the four captive agents — all of whom, for very different reasons, continued to glare right back at him.
'That's right.'
Henry Lightstone shrugged. 'Tell you the truth, I'm kind of tired of listening to this one screaming in my ear.' He nodded his head toward Natasha Marashenko. 'And those other two don't look like the cooperative types, but if I can have this old fart to myself for an hour or so,' he added as he walked over and removed the gag from Wilbur Boggs's mouth, 'I think I can make him talk.'
A fierce bloody smile formed on the federal wildlife agent's lips as he looked up at Lightstone and said in a nearly exhausted but clearly unimpressed voice:
'I don't think so, asshole.'
Chapter Fifty
At precisely 5:44 East Coast time that Tuesday morning, Simon Whatley's call was finally routed through to Regis J. Smallsreed's Georgetown apartment.
Less than an hour and a half later, Whatley found himself transported upward in an elevator and wheeled into a large, dimly illuminated private room in a very secure and restricted area of Fairfax County Hospital reserved for persons of wealth and influence recovering from their socially acceptable or unacceptable ailments in a manner more befitting their station in life.
From Whatley's prone position, he could see the concerned faces of Congressman Smallsreed and Sam Tisbury.
'Hello, Simon, how do you feel?' Tisbury asked solicitously.
Whatley tried to mumble something through his swollen lips while Smallsreed spoke to the white-coated orderly.
'Those are Mr. Whatley's personal effects,' the young orderly explained, handing the congressman a large plastic bag.
'Thank you. We'll take care of everything.' Smallsreed ushered the hospital employee toward the door as he spoke.
'And please, don't let anyone disturb us for the next hour,' the congressman ordered as he began to shut the door. 'But…'
'We'll call if Simon needs anything,' Smallsreed smiled reassuringly, then firmly shut and bolted the door in the orderly's face. He then drew all the curtains and turned off all the lights, leaving only the overhead night lights as a dim source of illumination in the serenely wallpapered room, while Sam Tisbury spread the contents of the bag on the foot of Whatley's bed.
Moments later, the door to the adjoining bathroom opened and a tall, gracefully moving figure emerged.
'Does he have the drop-box messages?'
Whatley immediately recognized the voice as that of the ominous shadow-dwelling presence in Smallsreed's office, and sucked in his breath.
'Right here.' Tisbury held up the three envelopes.
'I tried…' Simon Whatley mumbled, but the three men in the room ignored him.
'What do they say?'
'Just a second.' Tisbury tore open the first envelope, unfolded the piece of paper and read out loud: ''What's the game? Blindman's bluff?''
'Blindman's bluff? What kind of message is that?' Aldridge Hammond demanded irritably.
'Must be some kind of code,' Smallsreed suggested.
'If it is, nobody gave us the key. And there's no signature either,' Tisbury added as he ripped open the second envelope. 'This one's from Wintersole.' He quickly scanned the contents, then read out loud, ''Please send us the agent profiles ASAP. We need them to positively identify Lightstone.' '
Smallsreed looked down at Simon Whatley as though seeing him for the first time that morning.
'I thought you said you delivered those profiles to the drop box last Wednesday,' he accused the injured man.
'I did… I mean, we did… I had one of my aides…' Simon Whatley mumbled frantically, but the congressman turned back to Tisbury.
'What's the date on that second letter?' he asked.
The revenge-seeking industrial executive examined the letter again.
'Last Thursday. Five days ago.'
'What about the first one?'
Tisbury examined the first envelope and letter again. 'No date, no postmark,' he reported.
'How the hell does that happen?' Confusion dimmed Regis J. Smalls reed's ruddy features. 'If it went through the post office, it has to have a postmark, doesn't it?'
'Maybe they didn't pick up their mail that next morning for some reason. I mean, I know we…' Simon Whatley continued protesting his innocence from his prone position on the hospital bed, but Smallsreed silenced him with a fierce glare while Tisbury opened the third envelope.
'What the hell…' the wealthy industrialist whispered as his eyes quickly scanned the letter.
'What does it say? Read it out loud,' the ICER chairman ordered from the back of the room.
'It says 'Better yet, would the congressman and the bagman like to play, too?' '
'WHAT?' Regis J. Smallsreed almost screamed in outrage as he ripped the letter out of Sam Tisbury's hand.
'No date on it either,' Tisbury informed the other two in an amazingly calm voice as he examined the outside of the third envelope, 'but it's postmarked last Saturday… and while I'm no expert, I'd say the handwriting looks identical to that on the first one.'
But Smallsreed didn't hear him. Instead, he grabbed the front of Simon Whatley's hospital gown and was in the process of wrenching his severely injured district office manager into an upright position while roaring
