Point Of Impact

quarry.

“Go ahead, Mr. Fencl,” he said stonily.

“These shot-up Salvadorans, they tell a strange goddamned story. It was guys from this Panther Battalion outfit, you remember, all that stuff about that atrocity last year that the CIA denied any knowledge of. But they say this time they were working CIA, going after a big communist agent for the CIA. And they ran into Superman, or Rambo, or whatever. They got their booties kicked. And that’s all they say, and brother, is the Agency keeping mum on this one.”

“Umm,” said Howard.

“Was CIA involved with Panther Battalion?” somebody asked.

“Hard to say,” another agent said. “Our files indicate it was a contract thing with an outfit called RamDyne, which handles a lot of Agency funny business without involving the Agency directly. But there’s not much about RamDyne. You ask and all you get is a reference to Lancer Committee, which is our liaison committee with CIA. You can’t tell about some of these outfits who pick up and deliver the Agency’s garbage for them. Sometimes they get so far out there they lose their bearings. Or maybe they never had any bearings to begin with.”

“So anyway,” said Hap, “we got these Central American commandos thinking they’re after some commie and running into Bob the Nailer at the top of his game on somebody named James Thomas Albright’s farm and nobody has seen hide nor hair of James Albright and there is zero, I mean like, no paper on Albright. No records, no nothing. Guy was handicapped, too. DEA swears there isn’t a direct drug connection. But boy, it sounds druggie to me. So what’s Bob doing making war on a bunch of greasers? Or what are they doing making war on him? Who told them he was a commie? Who wants Bob dead? Who knew he was alive? We sure didn’t. The Agency? Could the Agency have been – ”

“Gentlemen,” said Howard, working swiftly to cut off the apostasy, “I don’t think pursuing the Central Intelligence Agency or its affiliates is going to get us anywhere. Our first priority is the capture of Bob Lee Swagger before the news gets out that he’s alive. It would be humiliating to us if this became widely known; when we take him, that’s when we can go public with it. Is that understood?”

“Howard, if the Agency – ” began Hap.

“Mr. Fencl, please,” said Howard.

Some murmurs, noddings, grumbles.

“Now, suggestions?”

“Sir,” one of the men said, “the last time Bob was in a jam, he went back to Blue Eye and the Ouachitas. Most men would have the sense not to try it a second time. But this guy, he believes in things. He believes in home and knowing the territory. If he’s going to play a game, don’t you think he’d play it on his territory?”

“Yes,” said Utey. “He would.”

He paused.

“All right,” he said, “I’m ordering the relocation of Task Force Swagger to Mena, Arkansas. We’ll set it up as before. Mr. Fencl, I want you to handle liaisons with Sheriff Tell of Polk County and the Arkansas State Police. Mr. Bryson, you establish contact with Milt Sillito over at DEA because we’ll need all the information from their loop. And Mr. Nelson, I want you to supervise the SWAT equipment and locate air support through the forestry department.”

“Poor Nick,” said Hap. “I hope he hasn’t bitten off more than he can chew. The only thing he ever wanted to be was an FBI agent.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Nick sat at Gate 24 in the New Orleans International Airport at 10:38 A.M. on a Tuesday. Delta Flight 554 was arriving from Mexico City. As the passengers began to emerge and disperse into the terminal, he stood up and joined them, trying to see with another man’s eyes.

What would he think? What would he notice? How would his mind work?

Eduardo Lanzman, if you were Eduardo Lanzman, you got off this flight six months ago. You saw what I am seeing now. You were a pro, your eyes scanned left and right, up the hall and down the hall. You were scared, you had something in your possession that could kill you, and you knew you were being hunted.

This was it. This was your break for freedom and your desperate attempt to save the life of Archbishop Jorge Roberto Lopez. And why? Even if you are a secret policeman, you were raised a Catholic. This killing of an archbishop, is it going too far? Or perhaps you lost somebody on the Sampul River that day, cut down by Panther Battalion in the red-running water.

No matter. What would you see?

Nick walked with the passengers through the terminal. Then another question hit him.

Why wouldn’t you call me from here? Why wait until you get to that motel?

As he thought about it, an answer formed. Because Lanzman thought he was safe. He hadn’t been made. He was all right. He read the crowd and he read the signs, and he thought everything was fine, it was a straight shot, it was no problem.

Nick let his imaginary trip through the head of Eduardo Lanzman carry him across the main concourse and out to the taxi stand by the street. It was not particularly busy.

You want to get this over with. You’ll just take a cab straight into the Federal Building, right? You’ll ask to see me. If you have to wait, you’ll have to wait, that’s all.

Nick hailed a cab.

“Yeah?”

“Uh, you know where the Federal Building is? Seven-oh-one Loyola Street, downtown.”

“Sure, man. Hop in.”

Nick climbed in, the cab sped away.

“New to the Big Easy?” the guy asked.

“No,” said Nick, trying to concentrate.

He watched as they left the airport, sped along the access road toward I-10, the big strip of federal highway that transects the shelf of land between the big river and Lake Pontchartrain upon which the city is built. Along the road there was nothing. It was featureless, nondescript, a little parcel of anonymous America.

As they took the ramp and began to sweep toward a merge on the rush of I-10, Nick could see the gaudy parade of motels over on the right, down Veterans Memorial Boulevard.

“Stop!” he hollered.

“Huh?”

“Stop, dammit! I said pull over.”

“What the – ” The cabby, a bald black guy with a gold tooth, fumed, but he obeyed. His name, Nick could tell from the hack license pinned to the right sunshade, was JERRY NILES.

“Now what?”

“Just shut up for a second.”

Nick sat there. The cab had slewed onto the shoulder and cars whirled by toward the city ahead.

No, he thought. He didn’t get this far. Because if he’s going to the Palm Court Motel, you can’t get there once you get onto I-70. You’ve got to make your mind up before you take the ramp.

“Buddy?”

“Shut up,” said Nick.

What does that tell you?

That tells you he made his pursuers on the access road, was afraid they’d nail him on the road, and made a snap decision to hunker down before they could do so.

It also meant he knew exactly how desperate they were – that they would be willing to risk some kind of terrible public scene to stop him. Pros prefer to work in private; they only go public with wet business if they have no other choice, unless they’re Colombian drug scum.

“Back up and head down Veterans Boulevard.”

“Hey, mister, I can’t back up and – ”