Point Of Impact

Both the Secret Service agents laughed, and then Till said, “No way I’m getting hold of an Electrotek unless I go to work for RamDyne, which I just might do.”

Nick said, “RamDyne?”

“You never heard of RamDyne?”

“No.”

“It’s Fed heaven. You fuck up bad, or you get fucked bad, but you’re good, you know, really good, maybe RamDyne gives you a call one night. Then you are on easy street. And you get to do all the stuff the CIA used to do. Interesting stuff.”

“Ah,” said Sloane, “it doesn’t even exist. I hear guys talking about it now and then, but I don’t know a single guy who’s ever gotten that kind of nod.”

“But it’s nice to think of the money, isn’t it?” said Till, dreamily.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Bob came over the rise and looked down the wet tarmac to see the trailer a mile ahead, and the car parked next to it. He drew his parka tighter; the wind pushed into and through it. Next to him, Mike poised, taut, his sloppy jowls tightening, a curl of angry low sound slithering out of his throat.

“Easy, boy,” said Bob, trying to rub some softness into the animal’s tension. He stroked the hard neck and the velvety ears and after a second or so, Mike broke contact with the strangers at the trailer and cocked his head, looking at Bob, puzzlement showing in the deep lakes of his eyes.

“There, guy,” Bob said in a low mutter, “it’s all right. They’re friends,” though a sardonic tone crept into the last word.

He had wondered when they’d be in touch. It was a sleety day; the weather had rushed over the Ouachitas; low clouds rolled angrily by; pellets of ice fell diagonally, cutting the skin, collecting in puddles on the road, while the wind sliced through the trees.

Bob shivered, not quite warm, and pressed ahead.

The colonel sat in the car, reading a newspaper. Payne lounged on the fender.

“Howdy, Payne.”

“Hi ya, Bob. Nice dog.”

“Dogs aren’t nice, Payne. They’re either good or they’re bad, meaning either they stick or they cut. Mike sticks.”

Payne just looked at him, something like a smirk on his dark, blunt features. Bob felt the hostility, but it didn’t particularly bother him. Payne didn’t worry Bob a bit.

“How’s the mouth?”

“My old man hit me harder. He didn’t give me no warning either.”

Payne smiled, showing new dentures.

“All right,” said the colonel, stepping out of the car.

Payne immediately stepped back.

“Get inside, Payne. Wait for me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Payne, sliding obediently into the car.

“Hello, Swagger. How are you?”

“Fine,” said Bob.

“Nice dog,” said the colonel.

“He sure is.”

“Some kind of beagle?”

“Beagle and something.”

“Well, anyway. Can we talk?”

“Sure.”

Bob unlocked the gate and Mike ran to his hut like the obedient creature he was. Bob took the colonel inside.

They sat down at Bob’s table and the man pulled out a well-thumbed copy of Bob’s report.

“I don’t mind telling you, this is an excellent piece of work.”

Bob nodded.

“You might be interested in knowing that independently we came to many of the same conclusions. We’ve also had some further information on Solaratov. We think we have a very solid sighting outside of Huarte City in Cuba. Now why would that be significant? The reason is that it’s a swampy region whose weather and proximity to the sea and humidity tendencies almost exactly match New Orleans’s. So they may be prepping the shot down there, rather than, as you guessed, trying to put together a range up here.”

“I see.”

“But we agree that almost certainly they’re going to go for him in New Orleans.”

Bob just nodded.

Then he said, “So are you going to let me be on the rifle that day?”

The colonel looked him in the eye. Bob respected a man who gave you the bad news straight up, no bullshit, no fake sorry.

“No. No way. Forget about it.”

Bob said nothing.

“Higher people have decided. He has to be taken alive, discreetly, and debriefed; he’s a treasure chest of information. It’s more than personalities, it’s politics and policies. It’s duty.”

Bob nodded.

“I know you want a crack at him. We all do. But we have to be professional. We have to see him as an asset. It’s not about justice or anything. It’s about doing what’s necessary.”

“This johnny isn’t going to be so easy to nab clean.”

“We’ll let the FBI and the Secret Service worry about that. They’re pros.”

“So, I’m out, that what you’re saying?”

“You’ve done your part. We needed you. And now that time has passed.”

Bob grunted. It was sort of like Vietnam. Thank you and fuck you.

“There’ll be a check.”

“The money isn’t necessary. It was an honor.”

“It’s not a lot. We didn’t want to insult you. It’s a month’s pay at gunnery sergeant rate.”

“Fine. Much appreciated.”

“Swagger, when I walk out this door, that has to be it. It has to be left alone, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve taken a chance, a big chance, telling you this much. You’ve learned things no private citizen has ever learned. We have to be able to trust you.”

“Sure,” said Bob.

“Swagger, if you show up in that area with a rifle, if you do something stupid to get at this Solaratov, you could blow the whole thing. You could get yourself killed, you could mess up our whole operation, you could let this bastard get away. We expect your discipline, your best help.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And that means just sitting tight. Do you understand? Can you be professional?”

“I’ve always been a professional, sir.”

There was another curious pause in the conversation. The colonel looked away, clearly troubled. Bob just stared at him, conscious of the slow tick of time, the settling of atoms in the room. He needed a drink. First time in years, he had the extraordinary urge to open a bottle of Tennessee drinking whiskey and float away on its torrents, to drift and bob and see where he ended up next morning or next week or whatever, in whose bed, in what prison.

Shit.