Double blind

Chapter Three

At precisely 7:20 A.M. on that beautiful Sunday morning, three camouflaged boats cautiously approached an isolated dock on the southern shore of Loggerhead Lake from three directions — one coming in straight from the north, while the other two hugged the shoreline in an easterly and westerly flanking move.

About a hundred yards out from the dock and a nearby cabin, the straight-in driver cut his engines and allowed the pressure of the water to bring the flat-bottomed jet boat to a gentle, bobbing stop.

For five long minutes, Lt. Colonel John Rustman scanned the dock, the cabin, a black Lincoln Town Car parked next to the cabin, and the surrounding trees with his binoculars.

Nothing.

"Tango-one, talk to me, by the numbers," he ordered in a raspy whisper.

The responses from First Sergeant Aran Wintersole's hunter-killer team crackled in Rustman's ear receiver in a crisp, professional cadence:

"Tango-one-seven. In position. No targets, no movement. Out."

The east flank.

"One-six. In position. No targets, no movement. Out."

The west flank.

"One-four and one-five. In position. No targets, no movement. Out."

The cabin.

"One-two and one-three. In position. One target, driver's seat. White male, wire-framed glasses, twenty-five to thirty, brown and brown. No visible armament."

The Town Car.

"One-one. Situation is controlled. Out."

The last voice cold and metallic, even through the scrambling filters.

Wintersole.

Lt. Colonel John Rustman smiled.

"Ten-four, stand by," he ordered tersely. He set the binoculars aside and observed the trembling man sitting in the passenger seat beside him.

Congressional district office manager Simon Whatley's composure had improved dramatically over the past half hour. He no longer looked like he could throw up or have a nervous breakdown at any moment.

"I hope, for your sake, that boy is alone and knows nothing at all about what's in that trunk." Rustman spoke in a voice that conveyed absolutely nothing in the way of compassion or understanding.

Simon Whatley was furious at Rustman for placing him in such a horribly compromising position, and at himself for his cowardliness. His pants were soaked with urine, and he knew that Rustman knew the source of the pungent odor as well as he did. The realization that Rustman had been laughing at him during the entire twenty-minute boat trip infuriated the veteran political staffer even more.

Even so, another three or four seconds passed before Whatley could trust his voice to get him beyond the fury, the nausea, and the terror. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't force those horrible images out of his mind.

Lou Eliot's lifeless body disappearing beneath the water.

The dark-hooded figure.

And those eyes. Those terribly cold, strange, and frightening eyes.

Wintersole.

Just the thought of the man's name almost made Simon Whatley lose control of his bladder again.

"You don't have to worry about Bennington. As far as we're concerned, he's just a delivery boy," he finally forced out the words, desperate to put every ounce of authority he possessed into them as he turned to face his fellow conspirator. "I told him to stay in the car and wait for me, and that's exactly what he'll do. He knows nothing about the money, and, in any case, he doesn't have the code to open the briefcase." Whatley hesitated, then went on. "But I want an explanation, Rustman. Right now. No, let me put it more clearly. I demand an explanation. What could you possibly have been thinking of, killing one of your own men like that?"

Rustman gazed dispassionately into the terrified eyes of a man who now represented a potential threat to his freedom, if not his life. For a brief moment, Simon Whatley feared that he might have pushed it too far.

But finally the military officer shrugged.

"I had no choice. Eliot compromised the operation."

Simon Whatley recoiled in shock.

"What do you mean, compromised?"

"He knew exactly where that federal wildlife agent got caught in the nets — along the southeastern shoreline, at the four o'clock position," Rustman replied in an unnervingly calm and emotionless voice.

"So?"

"So I was the only one in the blind who heard the vector heading on Boggs from the sentry, and I deliberately faced north the entire time I took the call. Yet as soon as I told everyone in the blind that Boggs was in the area, Eliot immediately put his glasses on the four-o'clock vector. He knew right where to look."

"But…"

"He knew exactly where Boggs would be because he'd made arrangements to meet the bastard along the southeast shoreline while the congressman was shooting," Rustman explained patiently. "Which is precisely what he would have done if I hadn't changed his schedule at the last minute."

Simon Whatley shook his head in confusion.

"You lost me, Rustman. Why would Lou Eliot want to meet with a federal agent, much less somebody like Boggs? He hated Boggs. Hell, he hated the entire federal government, for that matter. Everybody knew that."

"True, but not everybody knew why," the retired military officer responded. "I'd be willing to bet even you don't know that a little over twenty years ago, Eliot's father was forced to sell this land — in fact, this entire shoreline we're looking at right now — to my father when he couldn't come up with the money to comply with some very specific cleanup regs enacted by our very favorite congressman."

Simon Whatley gasped.

"Smallsreed didn't tell you about that, did he?" Rustman smiled. "Ever stop to wonder what else he might not be telling you?"

Whatley ignored the baiting comment.

"Cleanup regs? Twenty years ago?" he countered skeptically. "You're kidding."

"Afraid not. Check your historical files. Assuming that Smallsreed was stupid enough to keep files on something like that, which I seriously doubt."

"You're damned right I'll check," the congressional district office manager muttered threateningly, but Rustman ignored him.

"Anyway, the place was going to hell. The blinds were falling apart, the wheat fields and cornfields hadn't been planted in years, the shoreline was turning into a dump, and the lake was one big oil slick… which meant hunting got progressively worse each year, because all the clucks went somewhere else."

Rustman's eyes swept the clean waters and lush shores of Loggerhead Lake.

"Back then, my family owned half the shoreline. With the help of Smallsreed and a few of his helpful contributors who liked to shoot on weekends, my father… acquired the rest, and began to turn it around. When Eliot's father finally drank himself to death, I talked my father into hiring Lou to help us bring the ducks back. When my father died ten years ago, I made Lou my foreman."

"To make up for what your father did?"

Rustman shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so. I needed somebody I could trust to keep an eye on the place until I put in my twenty and got transferred to the reserves. Lou and I grew up on this lake together. We used to play soldier around that old cabin" — Rustman gestured toward the cabin near where the black Town Car sat parked, waiting — "so it seemed like the right thing to do. But as it turned out, he thought I was rubbing his nose in it."

"So you think he intended to get back at you and your father — and the congressman — ?"

"By leading Boggs in through the nets, right about the time Smallsreed cut into that second batch of cans." Rustman nodded his head slowly. "Think about it. It would have been one hell of a pinch. Probably the biggest violation notice Boggs ever wrote in his entire damned career. And you can bet it would have made headlines in every paper in the country within forty-eight hours. Over the limit on a threatened species, illegal lead shot, and an unplugged gun, a sixteen-term congressman… and an election year to boot."

Rustman stared straight into Simon Whatley's eyes.

"As the landowner, I'd have been prosecuted, too — probably end up losing my reserve commission, and definitely losing Smallsreed and his industry lobbyist pals as clients — which would've meant trying to fend off those county zoning commission bastards without a shred of political cover." Rustman paused. "You want to take a wild guess who's been seen out drinking and fishing with three of the zoning commissioners over the last few months?"

"Lou Eliot?"

Rustman nodded.

"But even so, did you have to kill him? Couldn't you just have.. " But even as he spoke, the words "election year" set off alarms in the back of Simon Whatley's head.

"What did you want me to do instead? Pat him on the cheek? Ship him out of the country? Offer him a bribe? Threaten him with some sort of crippling injury if he talked to the feds about our VIP hunts.. or worse yet, connects us to Tisbury?" Rustman added meaningfully.

Whatley remained silent. Rumors that Smallsreed would likely find himself facing a serious challenger this election had already caused him and the congressman to hit the money circuit heavy the last couple of weeks. Not the local circuit, the big show — the major donors who really didn't give a damn what happened in Jasper County, Oregon, as long as they got the votes they needed for their national and international projects.

The ones who'd pull their support back in a second at even the slightest hint of scandal.

Leaving the congressman to dangle in the wind while the opposing team's investigators, sensing blood, started homing in on Regis J. Smallsreed's other extralegal activities… like seducing very young women, or helping some of his extremely wealthy backers resolve very touchy personal problems.

Backers like Sam Tisbury, for example.

Simon Whatley suddenly remembered Regis J. Smallsreed's half-spoken comment. The one he'd interrupted and Lou Eliot had almost certainly heard.

Oh, you mean the Tisbury — ?

Jesus.

Simon Whatley's eyes widened in horror at the sudden realization.

"He had us, Whatley," Rustman stated flatly. "He had us cold. Even if we managed to find and burn all the evidence, including those pants of his that he rubbed blood on from every goddamned can carcass the dogs pulled out of the water, he still had us. Trip records to snatch up the cans and reds, names of VIP hunters, dates, times. Hell, maybe even photographs of Tisbury out here hunting, for all I know," he added ominously.

The congressional staffer's head snapped up.

"Don't worry, we made a complete search of his house, garage, yard, and vehicles. He wasn't that organized."

"But what if he's already talked to Boggs?"

"What makes you think he hasn't?" Rustman asked. "And even if he has, so what? Eliot didn't know Tisbury by his real name. And if Boggs had had anything useful in the way of evidence, he'd have been on us with a helicopter and a support team of agents the minute Wintersole dropped that last duck. But he was working alone when he got his prop caught, and that tells me he didn't trust Eliot or his information yet. Which means we've still got time to make everything go away."

"But what about the… body?" Whatley whispered. "How are you going to make that go away?"

"Body? What body?"

The congressional district office manager blinked in confusion.

"Lou Eliot does a lot of traveling on my behalf," Rustman explained. "Matter of fact, now that you mention it, I believe he took off early this morning, right after the congressman's hunt, on a trip to Mexico. I asked him to check things out in the southern part of the flyway. Not sure when he'll be back. Left it up to him."

"Do you really expect a federal investigator to fall for a story like that?"

Rustman shrugged. "As far as I know, right now Lou Eliot is heading somewhere south of US jurisdiction with an up-to-date passport and a wallet full of cash, fully intending to check out the bars, senoritas, and hunting clubs on my dime. He's a childhood friend and a damned good employee, so I'm not going to kick too much if he stretches things out into a full-blown vacation. Man works hard. Makes me lots of money. He deserves some time off.

"And," Rustman went on, "if the man in possession of Lou Eliot's passport happens to closely resemble that photograph and he's willing to share a big chunk of that cash with the locals, I really don't think anybody down there is really going to worry about him too much, do you? Especially if that passport happens to get lost, and the man with the wallet keeps on traveling with his own passport."

It took Whatley several minutes to digest what Rustman had told him.

"You've thought this all out, haven't you?" he finally asked in an effort to reassure himself.

The military officer nodded his head.

"And what if he had given Boggs useful information, and the agents had shown up in a helicopter, what would you have done then?" Simon Whatley demanded.

"Jammed their radio frequencies, shot them down, killed every last one of them as quickly as possible, and then headed straight for Mexico with a couple of passports and a suitcase full of money myself," Rustman replied casually.

Simon Whatley's face turned deathly pale. He felt as if he were about to faint.

"How could you even think about doing something like that?" he whispered hoarsely.

"What the hell's the difference?"

"What's the difference?" Whatley's head came up sharply, his eyes practically bulging in disbelief. "Are you serious?"

Lt. Colonel John Rustman smiled pleasantly, but his eyes never lost their coldness. "Whatley, think about what you and Smallsreed and Tisbury want us to do for you. Then tell me what difference five or even ten more deaths would make?"

"But that's not the same — I mean I'm not — " The chief of staff shook his head frantically.

"No, of course not. You're just the bagman. I'm sure the federal prosecutors would take that into account when they divvy up the charges," he reminded his companion sarcastically.

Simon Whatley kept shaking his head and trying to speak, but the words refused to come out.

"Listen to me, Whatley" — Rustman's eyes glittered with cold, purposeful amusement — "the only real difference between yesterday and this morning is that now you and the congressman are directly linked to the murder of a federal witness. I don't feel at all bad about that because my team was fully committed to the job before Eliot made his move. Now you and Smallsreed are, too.

"In military terms," Rustman added with a malicious smile, "that's what we call a controlled situation."

Before the congressional district office manager could find his voice, Rustman glanced down at his watch and spoke into his collar mike.

"Tango-one-one, give me a sit-rep."

"One-one," came the metallic reply. "Situation is still controlled."

That's right, Wintersole. It certainly is.

Rustman smiled sardonically as he reached forward and turned the ignition key.

He momentarily listened to the throbbing of the exposed engine, then edged the throttle forward, accelerating the powerful boat over the smooth surface of the water. Moments later, judging distance and wind with practiced skill, he drew the throttle back to the neutral position and allowed the sharply curved bow of the boat to nudge the outermost pillar of the low-lying dock located at the far southern corner of his Loggerhead Lake property.

As his eyes swept the shoreline, searching for movement, Rustman pressed his left elbow against his waist, confirming the positioning of the cross-draw-holstered. 45-caliber semiautomatic pistol concealed under his jacket. Then he took a slow, deep, steadying breath.

This is the crucial juncture, he reminded himself. If Smallsreed and his ass-kissing chief of staff had lost their nerve at the last minute and called in the FBI, this was the logical time and place for a team of federal agents to try for a photograph… or a takedown.

During the initial exchange. Which was why he'd insisted that Whatley bring the money with him on Smallsreed's hunting trip. So that they could make the exchange at a location where effective surveillance would be extremely difficult, if not impossible.

Wintersole's terse words echoed in Lt. Colonel John Rustman's mind.

Situation is still controlled.

Not "Clear." Controlled.

Translation: Wintersole's team hadn't yet searched the cabin, the car, or the surrounding woods. They had simply placed themselves in position to detect, monitor, capture, or kill any individuals who suddenly appeared in any of those locations. That would, if necessary, include all members of any surveillance or raid team, because Lt. Colonel John Rustman and his people were completely committed now, and he was a realist.

The federal prosecutors wouldn't bargain with him over the death of a federal agent, and he had no intention of spending the remainder of his life in a federal or military prison.

Better to go down fighting than rot in a cell, he thought as he watched Simon Whatley grab a weather-bleached plank with one gloved hand, hold the boat snugly against the thick wooden pillar, and quickly secure the bowline to the dock cleat.

The congressional district office manager turned and started to say something, but Rustman shook his head firmly.

"Go get it," he ordered. "Now. And then tell him to go home. We'll send you back in the Cessna."

The shaken political hack scrambled onto the dock and hurried across the road to the rear of the parked Town Car.

Less than two minutes later — immediately after Whatley closed the trunk and headed back to the dock with a briefcase in his hand — the vehicle started up, made a quick U-turn onto the dirt road, and headed back the way it had come while Whatley awkwardly worked himself back down into the boat one-handed. He hastily untied the craft, then almost catapulted into the water when Rustman slammed the throttle into reverse, backed the boat away from the pier, spun it in a tight turn, and accelerated toward the open water.

Once back at their original surveillance position, Rustman cut the engine and waited for Whatley to open the briefcase and hand over the thick sealed envelope.

"Is this everything?" The colonel automatically turned his back to the shore before slipping the envelope into his jacket pocket.

"Except for the personal information on the agents," Whatley reported, still shaken but determined to carry through his crucial part of the project. "You'll get that soon."

"What does 'soon' mean?"

"Tuesday, at the latest," the congressional district office manager promised.

"Including where to find them, I assume."

"We'll get to that in a moment. First, I want you to understand the money situation. There's five thousand in cash, small bills, for miscellaneous expenses. In addition, there are four separate account books. You've got a total of 2.3 million in one account to equip and fund the operation, which is not to exceed a one-year duration, regardless of what happens. There's eight hundred thousand for basic salaries in the second. Two hundred for Wintersole and a hundred apiece for the others. You have immediate access to both of those accounts with the IDs, linked credit cards, security codes, and other documents in the packet."

"And the bonus money?"

"There's 2.4 million in the bonus account. It's not accessible yet, but it will be — "

"— when the operation is successfully completed," Rustman finished.

"Correct. That money will be authorized for distribution to the survivors, or their designated beneficiaries, if and when the operation is successfully completed," Simon Whatley replied. "We added the beneficiary clause, and the necessary signature cards, based on what I… uh, I mean we think is a reasonable assumption that you could suffer a few casualties in an operation of this nature, because we don't want any dependents making a fuss."

"We'll expect authorization when the operation's completed, not if," Lt. Colonel John Rustman calmly corrected his companion. "We'll cover any dependents, regardless, but I wouldn't worry too much about casualties if I were you. This is going to be a professional operation. In hard and out fast. I don't anticipate anything more serious than a few minor wounds, at most. You did say four accounts?"

"Your account is separate, of course," Simon Whatley rushed to clarify that particular point. "Four and a half million dollars in designated amounts. Same conditions. One-third down, the remaining two-thirds on completion of the mission. You have to succeed completely, or there's no final payoff. Our client will accept nothing less."

"Complete success defined as the complete destruction of a small covert team of federal wildlife agents?"

"As well as the completion of the aforementioned diversions," Whatley reminded the lieutenant colonel. "Yes, that's correct."

Rustman smiled thinly.

"Just out of curiosity, what exactly did these agents do to piss off Smallsreed and Tisbury? Interfere with their deer poaching?"

"This project has absolutely nothing to do with the congressman!" Simon Whatley forced an indignant edge into his voice. "I… we're simply functioning as a go-between to assist a mutual friend. That's all you need to know."

"Ten million dollars is a hell of a lot of money, Whatley." Rustman ignored the other man's ridiculous effort to intimidate him. "I think it's reasonable to assume that these federal agents seriously pissed off somebody. And somewhere down the line, it might be helpful if we knew who… and why."

"You can assume whatever you please," Simon Whatley responded curtly, "but you must understand one thing very clearly. There have been two previous attempts to eliminate these agents. Both attempts failed. As far as our client is concerned, failure is no longer an acceptable option."

"You know, it amazes me that you've survived this long." John Rustman shook his head slowly.

"I'll have you know I'm perfectly capable of covering my own bases!" the senior congressional staffer retorted hotly.

"Yeah, I'm sure you are." The military officer dismissed Whatley's comment disdainfully. "But let's just make sure I understand all this correctly. We're only talking about five agents, correct? Not soldiers. Not spies. Federal wildlife agents. Basically game wardens with federal badges."

"That's right."

"So tell me something about them."

"Like I said, you'll get the complete dossiers later." Whatley mentally sifted through the briefing data he'd been compiling over the last several weeks. "But in summary, they range in age from twenty-four to thirty-nine. They've worked together as a covert team on two major operations to date."

The congressional district office manager hesitated long enough to organize his thoughts before going on.

"The team's Special Agent in Charge is a black male named Larry Paxton. He's described as well educated, highly intelligent, habitually sarcastic, and occasionally insubordinate. But he gets high marks for motivation and leadership as a team leader. He's also a qualified single-engine pilot, but suffered some fairly serious injuries on the two previous operations. The government pulled his pilot's license, and he may be offered an early-out on a medical disability."

Rustman nodded. "Go on."

"They have a second agent/pilot, a native American Eskimo named Thomas Woeshack, whose skills as a pilot are described as questionable at best. He's been involved in at least two crashes of government planes that I'm aware of. He also barely qualified with his assigned duty weapon — which, I believe, is a nine or ten millimeter auto-loading pistol of some sort — at the last agent in-service training session.

"The team's technical agent is an Asian male, Mike Takahara. Extremely intelligent according to the test scores, top marks on computers and electronic communications, no better than average scores in firearms qualifications, and minimally qualifying scores on tactical exercises, including hand-to-hand.

"Agent Dwight Stoner is an ex-offensive tackle for the Oakland Raiders. He's described as six-foot-eight, 320 pounds, and incredibly strong. He has apparently managed to stay in decent shape, but during the two previous investigations suffered serious bullet wounds to both knees, which required extensive surgery and significantly affected his mobility. He's also being considered for early medical retirement, but …"

"Is this some kind of joke?" Lt. Colonel John Rustman interrupted.

Simon Whatley blinked and shook his head in confusion. "I'm sorry, I…"

"The people you're describing sound like they need to be put out to pasture while they can still stagger up to the podium to pick up their retirement checks. If this is the team of agents you're hiring us to deal with, your client's wasting his money. From what you're saying, he could probably handle the job himself, or hire a couple of muggers out of New York to do the job a whole lot cheaper."

"I understand your skepticism," Simon Whatley conceded, "but keep in mind that not too long ago these same agents successfully took on a team of fifteen European counterterrorist experts, as well as a professional assassin with an international reputation. They sustained losses, certainly, but they also succeeded — which, as I'm sure you understand all too well, is precisely what concerns our client.

"And then, too," Whatley continued, observing the skeptical look on Rustman's face, "there's one other individual I haven't mentioned yet. An agent named Lightstone who, among other things, is quite proficient in tactics, martial arts, and firearms."

"Lightstone? What's that, an Indian name?"

"I have no idea," the senior congressional staffer admitted, "but I can tell you that at least two of his supervisors have described him as a loner and a 'wild card' — whatever that means."

"It means he's unpredictable, difficult to supervise, and not a team player," Rustman explained. "From a military point of view, that can be good or bad, depending on the operation, but it's usually bad. What's his background?"

"Uh, as I recall, he was a police officer in San Diego before joining the federal government."

"What rank?"

"I believe he was a detective in homicide."

"No military background?"

"No. None of these agents has any military experience."

"Then you can tell your client to stop worrying." Rustman smiled calmly. "I'm providing you with First Sergeant Aran Wintersole and a military recon hunter-killer team, one of the most highly trained and lethal units in the US military. Any one of them could easily handle this mission by himself without working up a sweat. As a team, they simply aren't stoppable by anything less than a similarly trained and equipped hunter-killer team… although given their tactical advantage of surprise and terrain, I personally wouldn't use anything less than a full Ranger company with air support to hunt them down.

"In other words," the military officer concluded casually, "you can assure your client that those five agents don't stand a chance."

"Actually, we may be talking about six," Whatley added tentatively.

"Oh?"

"As I understand it, an additional agent may be assigned to the team in the very near future."

"Any particular reason?"

"A normal Fish and Wildlife Service Special Operations team consists of four Special Agents, one technical agent, and one or two supervising agents," Whatley explained, "which means Bravo Team is currently short at least one Special Agent. The most likely candidate to fill that slot is a female agent named Natasha Marashenko."

"Russian?"

"In a manner of speaking. Her parents immigrated from Kazakhstan when she was a small child. She received high marks in Criminal Investigator School and Special Agent basic classes. She's a relatively new agent, and normally wouldn't be assigned to a covert operations team until she had several more years of experience. However, I'm told that she asked for and was given an assignment to Special Operations because of her high marks, and the fact that the Fish and Wildlife Service has relatively few female agents in their Law Enforcement program.

"That being the case," the congressional district office manager continued, "we suspect that Special Agent Marashenko could add a very interesting dimension to our project."

"How so?"

"My client has no personal interest in this particular agent, and certainly no desire to see her harmed. However, we do think she would make an excellent subject for the distraction scenario we discussed earlier."

Lt. Colonel John Rustman thought about that for a few moments.

"You don't think they'd sacrifice her?"

"Would you in their position?"

Rustman's eyes took on a distant look. Then he pressed his lips together in a thin smile. "No. In their position, I suppose I wouldn't. Is there anything you can do to encourage her selection?"

"We're trying, but we have to be careful. The last thing we want to do right now is create suspicion or, worse, a link that can be tracked back to the congressman's office."

"That would be an extremely unfortunate situation, for everyone concerned." The malice in Rustman's voice sent a chill up Simon Whatley's spine.

"Yes, of course. Uh, now then," the congressional district office manager went on hurriedly, "there's just a couple more things you need to know. First of all, we want to get an informant situated in close contact with their operation. If we succeed, that person will provide us with some extremely useful real-time intelligence information — which we'll immediately process and pass on to you."

"Anybody I know?" Rustman inquired.

"I sincerely hope not. Because someone could easily tie this informant back to both the congressman and our client, we need to keep that person's identity a closely guarded secret."

"Makes sense." Rustman shrugged indifferently.

"However," Whatley went on, "in the event that it ever does become necessary to link up with Wintersole and his team, the informant will use the code word 'canvasback,' repeated twice, as an identifier."

"Canvasback, repeated twice." Rustman nodded. "Okay, I'll notify Wintersole. What else?"

"Our client has a special interest in one of the targets."

"And which one might that be?"

"Lightstone."

"The ex-homicide investigator."

"Yes. To put it bluntly, it would please our client a great deal if Special Agent Lightstone experienced, shall we say, a heightened degree of suffering during the course of the project."

Rustman raised an eyebrow.

"An interesting phrase, 'heightened degree of suffering,'" the military officer noted wryly. "Just what, exactly, did you have in mind?"

"Our client would be especially pleased if Agent Lightstone were acutely aware of the unfortunate status of his fellow agents before he meets a similar fate."

"In other words, you'd like him to remain conscious, aware of the situation, and, one way or another, in a position to outlive the others by at least a day or two."

"Oh, I don't know about days." Simon Whatley blanched at the thought. "I'm fairly certain our client isn't quite that vindictive. I think a few hours would suffice."

"What does Lightstone look like?"

"As I recall, he's a white male, average height and weight. In any case, he's sufficiently distinct from the other members of Bravo Team that you shouldn't have any problem in identifying him. And you'll be receiving a complete set of photos in the briefing materials," Whatley reminded him.

"You do realize that guaranteeing even a couple of hours might be difficult." A thoughtful expression crossed Rustman's face. "Once you engage the enemy in a fluid tactical situation — "

"My client fully understands that such a stipulation would add a significant degree of complexity and difficulty to the mission," Whatley interrupted, gaining confidence when he sensed that his knowledge of the financial arrangements gave him a certain amount of control. "That's why he's authorized me to offer a $50,000 bonus per man, with an additional hundred thousand to you, of course… payment based upon the submission of appropriate evidence."

"What kind of appropriate evidence?"

"A videotape of sufficient clarity would be more than adequate."

Lt. Colonel John Rustman stared at Whatley in disbelief.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"We would expect you to edit the tape in an appropriate manner," Whatley continued hurriedly. "I can assure you that our client has absolutely no interest in the identities of your team, and, for obvious reasons, he's the last person who would want such a tape to fall in the hands of a federal agent or prosecutor. He did, however, anticipate that you might object to this provision and asked me to convey his assurances that once he receives the tape, he will review and destroy it immediately.

"I realize we're adding a number of frustrating restrictions to your plan," Whatley added when Rustman remained silent, "but I can assure you that all of this is very important to our client."

The military officer eventually shrugged indifferently. "I'm not that concerned about your restrictions," he informed Whatley gruffly. "They're minor, and civilian interference is a fact of life for any military operation these days. And as it happens, the communications specialist on the team is fully qualified in photo and video surveillance. We'll see to it that she's fully equipped with all the necessary photo and video gear. All I need to know now is how we go about finding these agents."

"I think you'll like that part the best." A smug smile appeared on Whatley's face. "You don't need to find them. We're going to bring them to you."

"And just how…" Rustman started to ask, when a barrage of gunfire suddenly erupted across the water.