“Yeah. What, did one of them go sour on you?”
“Boy, did he go sour. Somebody whacked him, but good. He looks like that Panther Battalion got hold of him.” He was referring to the Salvadoran Ranger Unit that had shot up a village and killed almost two hundred women and children, a story that was all over the news a month or so ago when the investigation drew so much attention. “I figure couple of guys worked him over with fire axes. Whacked his action like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Oh, Jesus. He must have crossed the Colombians. Those guys are barbarians. You mess with them and they mess with you right back.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“So which of my bad boys was it?”
“Guy named Eduardo. He tried to call me, but I was out. By the time I tracked him down, they’d totaled him in a sleazoid motel out by the airport. I’m there now.”
“Eduardo?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, yeah, Eduardo,” Wally said unconvincingly.
“I made him to be about fifty-five, maybe sixty, kind of an aristocratic-looking guy. Ring any bells?”
“Yeah. Eduardo Lanzman. But guess what? He’s not a Colombian, he’s a Salvadoran. And the news gets worse. Here’s the punch line. He’s a spook.”
“A spook?”
“Yeah. I met him down there, you remember when Bush had the drug summit in Cartagena? Lots of DEA guys went down, mixed with their opposite numbers as part of the deal. He had it in Colombia, of course, but there were guys there from all over Central-A. So I meet this guy. He was in their National Police Intelligence Section from Salvo. Seemed like a decent guy. So, you know cops, we exchange cards, I tell him if he gets anything hot headed my way, he gives me a call. But someone later said he was an Asset. You know, Agency pork. Agency not as in DEAgency but as in CIAgency.”
“Hey, if he had something, why wouldn’t he call his own team?”
“You never know, Nick, in that world. Maybe it
“You did give him my name? I was right on that?”
“If it’s the same guy, maybe. Just before I left, I went through my Rolodex and sent out a form letter. To all my snitches and contacts.”
“Great. And one more thing. You got any idea what ‘ROM DO’ might mean? His last message. Maybe what he was trying to lay on me. Any idea at all?”
“Doesn’t mean a thing to me, Nick.”
“Okay, thanks, Wally.”
He put the phone down, turning the information over in his head.
“Nick, we got something. His passport.” It was Fencl, calling him from room 58.
“Guy’s name is Eduardo Lachine, of Panama City, Panama. He had a ticket stub from a flight in from Panama this A.M. Plane stopped in Mexico City. As we make it, he came straight here, probably by taxi. According to the hotel, he made one call – ”
“To me.”
“Yeah. I guess. And that was it.”
“Are we going through his luggage?”
“That’s just it. There isn’t any luggage. The room clerk said there wasn’t any luggage either. This wasn’t a trip. He came here to see just one person. You.”
“And it killed him,” said Nick.
CHAPTER SIX
The colonel had attitude, that was for certain.
Not a twitch of regret touched his tough face, not a shred of self-doubt. What he got from Bob – furious rectitude, and the concealed threat of violence – he paid back in spades.
“All right, Swagger,” he said. “You’ve seen through us. What do you expect, congratulations? You were supposed to. It’s time to put the cards on the table.”
“Why’d you do that to me? Why’d you set me up to take that shot on myself and poor Donny?”
“They say you don’t trophy-hunt anymore, Swagger. I wanted to let you know that there were still trophies worth hunting.”
They were now in a small, crummy conference room in the trailer that wore the Accutech sign near the three- hundred-yard range. The colonel glared at Bob; the others were some kind of bearded sissy Bob had seen at the range, and the suckass Hatcher. Weirdly, dominating the conference table on which it sat was a large Sony TV with VCR. Were they going to watch a show?
“What is your name, sir?” said Bob.
“It isn’t William Bruce,” said the colonel. “Though there is a Colonel William Bruce and he did win the Congressional and he was supervisor of the Arizona State Police. A fine man. I’m not a fine man. I’m a man who gets things done and I usually don’t have the time to be anything except an asshole, and this is one of those times.”
“I don’t like being lied to. You’d best come clean, or I’m on my way out of here.”
“You’ll sit there until I say so,” said the colonel, fixing those hard, level eyes on him, asserting the weight of rank.
It was a sense of command that he’d seen in some of the best officers, the men who pushed the hardest. It wasn’t inspirational, except by deflection; it was instead a gathering of will, a fury to win or die. It was a gift, too, and without it in battle an army was lost. But Bob had seen its ugliness too – that rigidity that could conceive of no other way but its own, that willingness to spend other men’s lives that came from holding one’s own cheaply but the mission dearly. This guy stunk of duty, and that’s what made him so fucking dangerous.
“We’re after a man,” the colonel said. “He’s a very special man, a very sly man. We think we’re going to get a shot at him. We’re after the Soviet sniper who has hit many great shots in his time, among them the fourteen- hundred-yard job that blew out your hip and the spine shot on Donny Fenn.”
It was amazing, Dr. Dobbler was thinking. His self-control was astonishing. No gasp, no double take, as if it didn’t matter. Swagger simply took it in, and went on, his concentration unmodified, his glare unblinking. No signs of excitation as were common to the species in moments of conflict. No rapid breathing, no facial coloration, no lip- licking, muscular tension.
Dobbler wondered how rare this was. Was it as rare, say, as the ability to hit a major league fastball, a gift given to about a hundred babies a year? Or was it extraordinarily rare, such as the ability to hit a major league fastball for an average of.350 or better, which arrives to a baby once in a generation or so? Dobbler knew he’d come across something rare and it gave him a thrill. It scared him, too.
Bob was leaning forward.
“You don’t give a shit about Donny Fenn. There’s only two of us left in the world that remember that young man. And you don’t give a shit about my bad pin.”
“You know what, Swagger? You’re right. I don’t give a shit about Donny Fenn. And I don’t care about your hip. But I care about this Russian. Because he’s back. He’s hunting again.”
Nick put fifty cents in and after a bit, somewhere inside the machine there was a shifting and a clunking, and after another bit, a can of diet Coke rolled down a chute and banged into the bin. He pulled it out, peeled the pop top back and took a long, bracing swig.
“Damn,” said Hap Fencl, “fifty cents. In our building the goddamn things cost seventy-five.”
