Double blind

Chapter Five

Twenty-six hundred miles west of the practical exercise area of the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center at Glynco, Georgia, Lt. Colonel John Rustman listened patiently as First Sergeant Wintersole explained over their scrambled radio communications net why he had believed it necessary to send Simon Whatley's incredibly foolhardy — or perhaps simply incredibly stupid — aide running frantically back to the Town Car by firing a burst of 5.56mm rounds into a nearby tree.

Other than slipping in the mud twice, and undoubtedly creating a mess in his pants if not on the rented Town Car's expensive leather upholstery, they had allowed the aide to escape unharmed.

"What kind of camera?" Rustman asked when Wintersole finished his report.

"Thirty-five millimeter, long lens," the cold, metallic voice responded.

"Did he get away with any shots?"

"Negative."

"Are you certain?"

"Affirmative. We recovered the camera."

"Why did you let him go?"

"He didn't get in very far. Figured it wasn't worth letting him see a face or digging another hole."

Rustman nodded his head in satisfaction. "Good call." He glanced down at his watch. "Maintain your positions for another thirty, and then disengage. We'll link up tomorrow morning at the Windmill, civvies, 0700 hours, for a full debriefing."

"Affirmative. Debrief tomorrow morning, the Windmill, civvies, 0700 hours. Tango-one-one, out."

"One-zero, out," Rustman spoke into his collar mike. Then he turned to confront Simon Whatley, who sat ashen-faced against the far side of the boat.

"Was that your stupid idea, or his?"

If possible, Simon Whatley's face turned even whiter.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He tried to act as though he had no idea what Rustman meant, but failed completely.

Rustman didn't even bother to react. Instead, the retired military officer simply fixed his cold gaze on the senior congressional staffer's watery eyes.

"One more time, Whatley. And this time, I want you to think very carefully before answering. Was the camera your idea, or his?"

Whatley hesitated briefly, then murmured, "Mine."

Rustman shook his head when he received the expected confirmation.

"Let me guess. You thought it'd be a good idea to have pictures in case you ever had to claim that you and Smallsreed were running your own covert investigation?"

The congressional district office manager nodded his head silently.

"But I bet you came up with that brilliant idea yesterday, before you understood how completely and unalterably committed you and Smallsreed are to this operation now. And I bet you just forgot to call the kid off when you picked up the money packet, right?"

Whatley nodded again.

"What's his name?"

"Bennington," Whatley barely whispered.

"First name?"

"Uh, uh, Keith, but I can assure you…"

The military officer brought his right hand up in a cautioning manner. "Are you capable of convincing Mr. Bennington that something very unpleasant will happen to him if he tries any more of these stupid stunts on his own?"

"Of course." The congressional staffer bobbed his head up and down frantically. "I can assure you that — "

"Good." Rustman reached forward and started up the boat engine again. "Then it won't be necessary to send Wintersole."