Double blind

Chapter Seven

At ten-fifteen that Sunday morning, while the uniformly bruised, muddy, and exhausted federal wildlife agents of Bravo and Charlie Teams worked to dismantle the practical exercise props and untangle their emotions, Deputy Special Ops Chief Freddy Moore entered the building assigned to the Fish and Wildlife Service at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, walked down the long hallway, and stood in the doorway to the conference room.

"Well?" David Halahan looked up inquisitively.

Freddy Moore handed his boss the instructor evaluation sheets.

"Pretty much what we expected on the individual batteries," Moore reported as Halahan scanned the pencil-marked pages, "which isn't that surprising seeing as how we handpicked Charlie Team from the last two agent classes. Youthful enthusiasm coupled with superior endurance, speed, hand-eye skills, reaction times, education, and training. You can see the effects all through the combined event scores. The only agent on Bravo Team who even came close to keeping up with these kids on the skill events was Lightstone on the Hogan's Alley and hand-to-hand drills. And he was damned lucky Wu didn't put him into the infirmary with one of those flying-kick combinations," Moore concluded reflectively.

"What about the rest of them?"

Freddy Moore glanced at his notes. "Let's see. Stoner and Riley maxed out on the bench weights as usual, but Stoner lost a lot of time on the agility phase. They both have the upper bodies of a couple of damned gorillas, but Stoner's eyes are getting worse and his lateral mobility's near zero — I think his knees are basically held together with pins and wire. And, speaking of limited movement, Paxton's got so much scar tissue on both arms now, he can't even pass the flight physical to maintain his pilot's license. Fact is, it's about all he can do to hold a pistol steady enough to qualify. Probably ought to retire or deactivate both of them on medicals for their own good. And Takahara's at least six months behind on the latest electronic surveillance and security techniques. He tripped two sensors on one of the entries and never did spot the phone tap in the kitchen."

Halahan raised an eyebrow.

"How'd that happen?"

His deputy shrugged. "Not necessarily his fault. The transmitter was molded into the base receiver with its own shielded power source, so there wasn't any line drop. One of our electronic engineers at the forensics lab put it together for us. Takahara had never seen anything like it before — mostly because he missed the last tech-agent in-service class — and there was no way he could've detected it with the gear he had with him during the exercise."

"Even so, I would've expected him to know about the new technology, and be prepared for the unexpected," Halahan commented.

"That's pretty much what he said, too, although he wasn't that polite," Moore agreed. "And as for Woeshack… well, I'm still of the opinion that he shouldn't be allowed anywhere near any federal government motorized vehicle, much less a goddamned airplane. All things considered, I find it truly amazing that he's still alive."

"He claims he comes from a long line of Eskimo shamans who provide the necessary spiritual guidance when he flies," Halahan explained. "OAS just recertified him, so maybe there's something to it."

"You mean like Paxton's poor black sharecropper ancestors who used to practice voodoo on the plantation?"

"No, that's pure Paxton bullshit." Halahan smiled for the first time that morning. "So what's your take on what happened out there?"

"You mean why does older, slower, half-crippled, and otherwise handicapped Bravo Team take the flag every time, no matter how we stack the deck?" Moore shrugged. "The obvious, I suppose. They watch out for each other. Play off their obvious strengths. Cover their known weaknesses. Continually adapt to the situation at hand. Refuse to give up. And, of course, they cheat."

"You mean the septic tank?"

"One of many examples, as I recall." Moore resisted the urge to chuckle. "In fact, looking back over the past week, I think the only thing they haven't cheated on is the restriction on live ammo."

"I thought you said you were going to compensate for the cheating — put more emphasis on the fundamentals?" Halahan reminded him.

"I thought I had." Moore grinned apologetically. "Hell, I even designed this last exercise myself, based on some input I got from Boggs."

"Wilbur Boggs?"

"Yeah. He called a few days ago to bullshit and bat around a couple of ideas for a project. He didn't say so directly, but I got the feeling he's hoping to borrow one of the teams for something he's got going out in Oregon."

Halahan's eyebrows rose as he recalled the details of the training scenario he'd just witnessed. "Something involving a congressman?"

"That's the way I read it," Moore acknowledged. "Don't you?"

"What did you tell him?" Halahan stopped leafing through the evaluations and observed his deputy expectantly.

"That I'd get back to him later after we finished in-service."

"Good answer." Halahan nodded his head approvingly. "So tell me more about this exercise that Boggs helped you design."

"Yeah, well, the basic idea was that Lightstone and Paxton would make the contact at the campsite, recognize the congressman and his girlfriend, spot the payoff situation and the illegal dough, then handle the situation in a diplomatic manner that might actually result in a decent case with admissible evidence and a minimum number of follow-up Congressionals."

"And presumably without getting themselves or their partners killed in the process," Halahan suggested wryly.

"That was the general idea." Freddy Moore smiled. "According to the script, backup agents are available, but radio communications are out. The girlfriend is unpredictable and may be armed and dangerous — Marashenko, by any definition. Donato and LiBrandi were born to the roles of sleazy congressman and lobbyist/bagman. Wu steps onstage as the ever-faithful congressional aide who doubles as a bodyguard, and LiBrandi brings along his own street-smart baby-sitter — a role played to perfection by our genuine Harlem street kid Antone Green — to keep an eye on the money. I figured all that just might make our boys sweat a little for a change."

"You think Bravo Team came up with a legitimate solution to the problem?"

Moore shrugged. "Depends on how you look at it. Starting out by poisoning the opposing team leader's lunch isn't exactly what I'd call a textbook solution."

"They actually poisoned Riley?" Halahan interrupted, blinking in surprise.

"Depends on your definition." Freddy Moore failed miserably in his attempt not to grin. "The base nurse suspects a massive dose of a fast-acting purgative, most likely self-administered by the victim through an unfortunate double helping of refried beans and hot sauce. The cafeteria staff claims complete ignorance, and I understand the medical staff declined to investigate the matter any further."

"In other words, you're suggesting it was Riley's own fault?"

"For going about his business in a predictable manner and leaving himself open to a very effective countermove?" Moore shrugged. "I suppose you could look at it that way."

"And as far as the congressional contact issue goes," the Special Ops chief raised the potentially explosive issue calmly, "I guess there's not much point in being overly concerned with diplomatic nuances when your congressman/suspect manages to get himself handcuffed to his lobbyist/bagman buddy, and then ends up getting dragged headfirst into a functioning septic tank when said buddy dives for a loose gun." Halahan shook his head at the memory. "Probably a good moral in there somewhere."

"No doubt."

"Am I being reasonable in assuming that Bravo Team also bribed at least one of the groundskeepers to lay a new pathway to the cabin last night?" Halahan continued, in his methodical manner, to nail down the details of the debacle.

"Yep. Got them to run it right over the nearby septic tank, the top of which the grounds crew and a couple of as-yet-unidentified assistants thoughtfully replaced with a bunch of mostly sawed-through crossbeams and some real thin bender-board, and then covered with gravel." Moore chuckled. "That seems to have been Woeshack's contribution to the overall plan. He claims his ancestors used to hunt mammoths on the Arctic slopes using the same technique."

"Agent Woeshack lacks a firm grip on reality," Halahan reminded his deputy dryly. "He's also believes he's a halfway decent pilot."

"True, but I understand he also came up with the dish-detergent-on-the-roof ploy to supplement Takahara's snake-in-the-box surprise, which you have to admit was a nice touch."

"Effective, if nothing else," Halahan conceded. "Continue."

"Well, with Riley out of the picture, that freed up Stoner in terms of size and muscle. But my guess is that after watching the individual exercises, Paxton figured that Lightstone would have trouble with Wu and those flying kicks of his, no matter how things worked out," Moore postulated. "I imagine he and Takahara did a little research and discovered something in Wu's and Green's backgrounds suggesting that they might be effectively distracted by the sudden and unexpected appearance of a twelve-foot reticulated python."

"Who the hell wouldn't be?"

"Exactly. Which only left one major problem."

"How to deal with Marashenko?"

Freddy Moore nodded.

"Bravo Team knew she could be a significant problem, no matter how they rigged the game," he easily surmised. "They saw her shoot in the simulator courses, and I gather they were suitably impressed. They had to assume she'd either be armed, or have access to a weapon. That meant that if they let her get to her gun — or anyone's gun for that matter — she could take out the entire team."

"Thus the distraction." Halahan sighed.

"Yep." Freddy Moore tried to suppress another grin.

"Think she'll file an EEO complaint against Lightstone?"

"For what," Moore asked reasonably. "The hug and kiss, or the choke-hold?"

"I'm not sure one was any more legal than the other."

The deputy chief considered this possibility for a long moment before answering.

"I don't think so," he finally concluded. "Marashenko's a tough gal and a damn good rookie agent. My guess is that she's more embarrassed than anything because she let Lightstone catch her off guard. In retrospect, she should've kissed him right back, smiled, stepped back, drawn her Smith, and threatened to double-tap him — heart and head — if he so much as twitched. Instead, she lost her temper… and her gun."

"Not to mention the object of the exercise when LiBrandi dived for the damn thing and dragged Donato into the septic tank with him." Halahan shook his head, still not quite believing what he had seen.

"One of life's finer moments." Freddy Moore smiled cheerfully. "The stuff of which legends are born."

"Legends?"

Moore shrugged. "Pretty much guaranteed in this case. Word is that Takahara set up two concealed video cameras to record the entire exercise. I don't think Charlie Team's going to live this one down for quite a while."

Halahan sighed deeply. "No, I suppose not."

The chief of Special Ops treated his subordinate supervisor to another long silence.

"So what do we do about them?" he finally asked.

"Bravo or Charlie?"

"Charlie."

"They're good young agents, but they got their confidence pretty badly shaken today," Moore replied frankly. "I wouldn't recommend sending them out on their own on anything really serious just yet."

"What about that Oregon deal?"

"What Oregon deal?" Freddy Moore's expression darkened in confusion. "You mean Boggs?"

Halahan shook his head. "Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of that character who's supposedly selling Bigfoot souvenirs. The one who claims to be a direct descendent of Cochise, and therefore immune from federal prosecution."

"I vaguely remember reading the report." Moore's features slowly cleared. "Didn't he turn out to be just some crazy-old-fart white guy, Jim Star or Starrs or something like that, whose great-great-grandmother may have had a part-Indian boyfriend who might have been an Apache, but nobody knew for sure… or cared, for that matter?"

"That's our boy." Halahan smiled. "Calls himself the Sage now."

"As in prophet?"

"Or dried-up weed, take your pick."

"Well" — Moore pondered Halahan's remarks thoughtfully — "since we both agree that even the federal government would be a little reluctant to prosecute a certifiably crazy person for selling souvenirs made out of a creature that doesn't exist, am I to assume that the Sage has gone out and done something even more stupid than usual?"

"How would you rate selling genuine Apache battle charms to California tourists?"

"Serves them right for thinking they escaped into God's country," the Special Ops deputy chief commented. "Personally, I happen to be a firm believer in the concept of 'buyer beware'… But, by the way, what the hell's an Apache battle charm?"

"Beats me." Halahan smiled. "And I doubt our friend the Sage knows either. But according to the lab, at least one of his offerings included a bald eagle feather."

"Christ, he probably found it on the ground somewhere." Moore snorted disgustedly. "You're telling me you want to put a whole goddamned Special Ops team on a guy like this when we've got a whole shit-pot-full of serious killers and dealers waiting in line to be worked?"

Halahan shrugged. "Like you said, Charlie Team's probably not up to anything too serious right now. Besides, as I recall from the report, our Sage claims to sell bear-claw jewelry, too, and maybe a couple of bear gallbladders that'll probably turn out to be pig or cow. If nothing else, it'll be good practice… build up their confidence a little."

"Or destroy it completely if this guy scams them, too," Freddy Moore reminded his boss. "But what the hell, I'm game." He paused for a moment, then looked at Halahan expectantly. "So what about Bravo?"

"That's a little more of a problem."

"There's always those Mexican Mafia types down in Nogales supposedly dealing in hot snakes and red-kneed tarantulas."

"I did give that project some serious consideration, out of pure vindictiveness if nothing else, even before I saw that python stunt," Halahan admitted with a slightly wistful grin. "But then something a bit more interesting popped up on the horizon."

"Really?" The deputy Special Ops chiefs eyebrows rose in anticipation. "This ought to be good."

"Oh, it is," Halahan replied emphatically. "I got a call from the Washington Office earlier this morning. Seems they just received a high-priority congressional inquiry asking Special Ops to look into a group called the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal — supposedly one of our friendly antigovernment, outer-fringe, dug-into-the-hillside-crackpot type militant groups based in the Northwest. Washington wants us to find out if there's anything going on there that the congressional delegation should be concerned about."

"Anti-government militants?" Freddy Moore winced. "Christ, that's just what we need right now. So what did you tell them?"

"The truth. That we have several high-priority projects already in the hopper, and that an inquiry like that really ought to be handled by the local resident agent first. If it turns out that there's something worth digging into, we can always add it to our list."

"Sounds like a perfectly reasonable solution to me."

"That's what I thought, too, but they didn't buy it. They also mentioned that the inquiring congressman — who, they emphasized, is very concerned about militant activity in his district, and would like an answer as soon as possible — happens to be a senior member of the House Interior Appropriations Subcommittee."

"Ah." The Special Ops deputy chief considered his superior's remark for a brief moment, then took it to its logical conclusion. "So you bit your tongue, said 'yes sir,' and assured them we'd put our best team on it right away."

"Very intuitive." Halahan smiled.

"Which, at the moment — at least according to all of the scores and assorted paperwork I just handed you — happens to be Bravo."

"That's right."

Freddy Moore closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

"Setting aside the minor issue of budgetary politics, which I do realize is impossible — or at least impractical — just what the hell does a local dug-in, antigovernment militant group have to do with us

… other than the fact that we are, I suppose, part of the government?" He opened his eyes and stared hopefully at his boss. "I mean, shouldn't something like that get handed over to the FBI as a matter of course?"

"Normally, I'd say yes," Halahan agreed. "Except in this case, apparently there's reason to believe that the members of this cheerful little group make ends meet by running canned hunts in an adjoining national wildlife refuge."

That remark captured Freddy Moore's attention immediately.

"Oh, yeah? Which one?"

"Windgate."

"Windgate National Wildlife Refuge?" Confusion darkened Moore's usually cheerful features. "Don't think I ever heard of it. Where's it located?"

"Jasper County, Oregon."

Freddy Moore blinked in surprise.

"Wait a minute, isn't that Wilbur Boggs's district?" he asked hesitantly.

"That's right."

Then, suddenly, the light dawned.

"Oh Christ, no… the congressman and the bagman?"

Halahan nodded his head glumly, and both men sat quietly.

"I don't suppose you happen to know the name of the local congressman representing that district?" Moore finally broke the silence.

"Regis J. Smallsreed."

"Smallsreed? Why do I know that name?"

"Probably because we've got twenty-seven supplemental reports in our files from eight different agents listing him as a possible suspect in several dozen VIP hunt club violations?" Halahan suggested.

"Yeah, that would do it."

Freddy Moore's distinctly unhappy expression made it very clear this news didn't please him at all.

"So what we seem to have here," Halahan continued, "is a high-priority request for an inquiry into supposedly illegal hunting activities by an anti-government militant group, direct from the offices of Regis J. Smallsreed, Esquire, senior member of the House Interior Appropriations Subcommittee, and suspected killer of anything that runs, swims, or flies, in or out of season, as I believe one of those reports put it… who also happens to represent the district where one of the more bullheaded and persistent agents in our outfit — who seems perfectly willing to spend at least some of his free time dreaming up innovative ways for one of our Special Ops teams to go after crooked congressmen — has been assigned for the past three years."

"That is one hell of a frightening coincidence," Freddy Moore whispered.

"Exactly what I was thinking — assuming Boggs's input was a coincidence, which I seriously doubt."

"You talk to him yet?"

Halahan shook his head. "According to his secretary, he's out in the field."

"What about his radio?"

"One of the first things she tried. Apparently he shut it off. Probably out on a surveillance."

"She try him on his beeper?"

"She says not to quote her, but she's almost positive Boggs threw it away at least six months ago. She's pretty much given up on trying to get a hold of him out in the field. I guess he checks in often enough, stops by the office every now and then to drop off tapes and sign reports, so nobody worries about it too much."

Freddy Moore sighed. "You think we're ever going be able to drag some of these guys into the twenty-first century?"

"I'm not necessarily sure we want to," Halahan replied thoughtfully. "We need a few of the old-time duck cops in this organization… if nothing else, just to maintain our perspective on what we're supposed to be doing out there."

"True, but agents like Wilbur Boggs sometimes forget the nuances of a federal investigation — little things like probable cause," Moore reminded his superior. "And they take shortcuts instead, simply because they know they're right."

"Which they usually are… but it is a problem," Halahan conceded.

"So you really think Boggs is trying to suck us into one of those fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants deals?"

Halahan nodded his head. "Wilbur's had a bug up his ass about wealthy or influential people who think they're above the law ever since he was a young agent assigned to the Chesapeake Bay. My take on him is that he's an honest man, stubborn as hell, and a damned good investigator when he puts his mind to it. But I don't think he'd hesitate for a second to use any weapon he could get his hands on to take a guy like Smallsreed down, especially if he was absolutely convinced the guy was dirty."

"And you think he'd view us as one of those weapons?"

"If one of our teams were available and properly motivated?" Halahan nodded affirmatively. "I'm absolutely certain he'd try to use us for whatever advantage he could gain."

"And thanks to me," Freddy Moore sighed glumly, "he just arranged for a couple of our teams to be properly motivated."

"That's right."

"But even so, you and I both know that the Washington Office would never give an agent like Boggs free rein on a sensitive investigation like that," Moore argued. "For one thing, they'd never be able to control him — or the investigation — once he got started."

The Special Ops deputy chief paused long enough to organize his thoughts, before continuing.

"And they're not about to turn us loose on a player like Smallsreed either, unless they're reasonably sure, number one, that he really is guilty, and two, that we'll be able to nail him clean. Because if we don't, the shit is seriously going to hit the fan, and they're not going to want to be anywhere near the blades when it does."

"A little loose on the analogies, but otherwise a fairly decent summary of the situation." Halahan chuckled approvingly.

"Thanks, but only being the deputy around here, I'm still a little confused about how an official inquiry from the office of Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed regarding some loony-tune group of anti-government militants fits into all of this. If Smallsreed really is dirty, wouldn't we be the last people in the world he'd want poking around his district?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Halahan confessed. "The obvious answer is that he doesn't crap in his own nest. But that doesn't make much sense if Wilbur's hounding his ass. But then," the Special Ops chief added, "there's always the interesting possibility that we're being handed a fake congressional."

Freddy Moore stared at his boss incredulously.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I can think of at least a couple reasons why a few of our more politically oriented bosses might want us to do a little digging into the situation and see what we stir up. Especially if they weren't going to be held accountable if something went wrong."

"Christ" — Moore shook his head slowly in amazement — "how many years have you spent in the Washington Office?"

"Too many," Halahan acknowledged. "It's called occupational paranoia. And if it's all the same to you, I'd just as soon not dwell on that right now. Let's get back to Bravo Team."

"Hold on a minute," Freddy Moore protested, "You're losing me again. What about Bravo Team? I thought you said you committed them to working the congressional?"

"Think about that for a moment. Do you really want a team that dreams up rerouted gravel paths and bender-board septic-tank covers working a covert investigation on a congressman… and especially on a congressman like Smallsreed, somebody they could easily develop a serious disliking for if he's anything at all like Boggs suspects? Keeping in mind," Halahan added meaningfully, "that you and I both have at least two years to go before we're eligible for full retirement."

"No, I guess not," Moore reluctantly agreed with his superior.

"Precisely how I feel." Halahan met his deputy's gaze for a brief moment. "But I think we might have an interesting option. When you said that you didn't think Charlie Team should be assigned to something really serious — I believe those were the words you used — did you mean really serious in terms of complexity… or in terms of danger?"

Freddy Moore responded immediately.

"Danger, of course. Charlie Team can handle complex situations just fine, but — "

"I checked into this quasi-militant group while you compiled the scores," Halahan interrupted gently. "From what I can tell so far, the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal consists of a bunch of middle-aged, overweight, underachieving, self-righteous scripture-spouting wanna-bes who came to the brilliant conclusion that if they dug themselves into some godforsaken mountainside unlikely to be a nuclear target, and stayed there long enough, they'd get to repopulate the world after everyone else got fried in a nuclear war."

"Charming idea," Moore commented. "How long have they been at it?"

"According to my informant — a state wildlife officer who's had a number of contacts with them over the years, primarily for shooting deer out of season — they've been tucked away in a little three-hundred-acre canyon that one of their members donated to the cause, in Jasper County, Oregon, for something like twenty years."

"Twenty years?" Moore stared at his superior in disbelief. "My God." And then as an afterthought, "How do they make a living?"

"Apparently through a little illegal guiding, hunting, and trapping to supplement their monthly accumulation of food stamps and welfare checks."

"Tell me you're kidding."

Halahan shook his head, a look of disgust appearing on his face. "I get the impression that some of the tax-conscious locals aren't too thrilled about the food stamp and welfare check business, and there seems to be a general sense of uneasiness about what kind of wife- and girlfriend-swapping might be going on in what everybody figures is just an ultra-conservative whacko version of a hippie commune; but other than that, no one seems to pay them much attention. You know the Oregon motto: live and let live."

"Speaking about wives or girlfriends? Have any of them actually stayed around that long?"

"According to the state officer, most of the wives and girlfriends have stayed with the group, although not necessarily with the same husband or boyfriend. Interestingly enough, he thinks the women are starting to get a little disgruntled with the whole program. Probably because they end up doing most of the work while the guys mostly sit around and talk."

"Sounds like your standard, self-serving, lazy-guy scam to me." Moore nodded in amusement. "What about kids?"

"Evidently they take off as soon as they get old enough to make it on their own."

"Good for them. What about weapons?"

"Mostly shotguns, scoped hunting rifles, a few, 38s and military surplus, 45s. Their ammo is pretty much all reloads now — the state guy said most of the brass he saw looked pretty torn up — but he suspects they haven't been doing all that much shooting anyway the last few years. Oh, and one other thing," Halahan added. "They used to talk a lot about putting the federal government on trial, but they haven't mentioned that much lately, either."

"Cold War came and went, and nobody got around to telling them?" Moore smiled ruefully.

"More likely they didn't want to hear about it." Halahan shrugged. "Probably stuck in a rut and just got used to it. The more relevant question from our point of view is, are these guys likely to be any more dangerous than the average group of hunters our agents run across every day?"

"Anybody with a few screws loose can be dangerous," Moore reminded his chief. "But I don't see these characters as being anything that Charlie Team couldn't handle. If they turn out to be white supremacists, too, which wouldn't surprise me, then they're not going to be real thrilled when they see the team's ethnic diversity. But it would be the same situation if we sent Bravo Team. Personally, I think the kids could handle this one just fine."

Halahan nodded thoughtfully. "We'll hook them up with Boggs, which gives them an experienced agent for moral support, and ideally keeps him too preoccupied baby-sitting to worry much about his congressman. One thing we can be pretty sure about is that Wilbur Boggs isn't about to let a bunch of young agents get into trouble in his district, no matter how badly he wants to use them for something else."

"And even if Boggs does talk them into helping him out a little bit on the side, Charlie Team's going to be a hell of a lot more circumspect in dealing with a congressman as a suspect than Bravo," Moore added with a smile. "Among other things, they'd probably follow procedure and ask permission first. I like it."

"So do I," Halahan agreed. "One last question. Do we send them out as is, or do we make the reassignments?"

"Oh, yeah. Marashenko." Freddy Moore stared out the window as he thought about that. "Damn."

"Bravo Team's got one of the open slots, and she wants it. Or at least she did," Halahan reminded his deputy. "But maybe after that incident with Lightstone this morning — ?"

Freddy Moore shook his head. "No dice. I talked with her after the exercise. She's pissed at Lightstone, no question about it, but she'd take a transfer to Bravo Team in a second if we offered."

"She say why?"

"No, but I get the impression it has something to do with status."

"Alpha and Bravo being perceived as the starting teams, and Charlie being the reserve?"

Moore nodded. "Something like that."

"You think she's ready for it?"

The Special Ops deputy chief hesitated, recalling how Marashenko let her emotions get the best of her when Lightstone foiled her plan.

"No, I really don't," he conceded finally, "but she's damned close. If we make the transfer now, the guys in Bravo would give her a bad time, but they'd also bring her along. Three months max, she'd belong there."

"Then let her earn it straight, like anybody else," Halahan decided. "We're going to start Charlie Team on this game, and she's an integral part of that team. End of discussion."

"Fair enough. But we still haven't decided what to do with Bravo."

"What do you think about putting Bravo out on the perimeter on a standby basis… without telling anyone — and especially not Boggs or anyone on Charlie Team, because this is supposed to be a confidence-building situation, not the other way around," Halahan suggested. "That way they'd be close in case Charlie Team accidentally knocks over a beehive at that Seventh Seal compound, or Boggs gets them into something a little too complicated with his duck-poaching congressman."

Freddy Moore considered the proposition for a few moments.

"Not a bad idea," he finally admitted. "But what about Bravo Team? Do we tell them what's going on?"

"No way." Halahan shook his head emphatically. "If we do, they'll just start poking around and causing all kinds of grief, especially if they link up with Boggs and he gives them an earful about Smallsreed. We're better off just putting them out there and nailing them down with a project that keeps them busy and distracted."

"So what do we tell them?" Moore asked reasonably. "Those guys will spot a bullshit story a mile off, especially if it looks like we're giving them a paid vacation."

The contemplative look on David Halahan's face suddenly gave way to a satisfied smile.

"Oh-oh," Moore groaned. "Why do I get the feeling Bravo Team's not going to like this?"

"Just off the top of your head," Halahan suggested cheerfully, "where's the last place our friends from the Mexican Mafia in Nogales would expect the federal government to run a sting operation on hot snakes and red-kneed tarantulas?"

The smile that blossomed on Freddy Moore's face easily eclipsed that of his boss, then quickly dissolved into a fit of helpless laughter.

"What about the snakes?" he gasped when he finally could speak again.

"What about them?"

"You think they'll be able to handle the cold okay?" Moore asked as he wiped the tears from his eyes. "I hear it gets damn chilly in Oregon in the winter."

Halahan shrugged. "I don't see why not. As long as the warehouse doesn't get too cold, I assume they — and I imagine the tarantulas, too, for that matter — would just stay kind of sluggish. Unless, of course, the agents running the operation foolishly turned up the heat for their own comfort. In that case I suspect the entire team would need to stay alert pretty much around the clock, watching out for escaping poisonous snakes and very large spiders."

"You really think that'll keep them sufficiently occupied so they don't start poking around and spot Charlie Team?"

"I certainly hope so." Halahan's smile faded, and he tapped at his desk pensively. "Between setting up the warehouse, rigging a communications system, establishing their covers, putting out some ads and feelers, making a few purchases and sales from some of the legitimate dealers, and maintaining a reasonable stock of illicit specimens — which reminds me, do we have any good sources?"

"Well, I know the guys in Newark are sitting on a bunch of hot stuff they pulled out of the back of a shipping container an Australian importer abandoned a few weeks ago. About a hundred specimens total," Moore responded. "Mostly African and South America vipers as I recall. Gaboons, Bushmasters, Puff and Mountain Adders, Fer-de-lances, some Bamboo and Russell's Vipers from China, and I think even a pair of Death Adders and a few Brown, Black, and Tiger Snakes from Australia."

"Are the Australian ones poisonous?"

"Oh yeah, definitely."

"Good. That's exactly the kind of thing these Mexican Mafia characters deal in. Exotic and deadly. How about the spiders? Can we get some of them, too?"

"Come to think of it, I heard Miami's still trying to get the Zoo Association to take that last batch of red-knees they seized off their hands."

"How many did they get?"

"Something in the neighborhood of 750 total."

Halahan blinked. "Seven hundred and fifty red-kneed tarantulas?"

"Naw, only about half of them are the genuine article. The rest are either red-legged, or plain old browns… along with a dozen baby caiman crocs as a bonus," Moore added. "You want to hear a heart-wrenching sob story, call Jennifer up and ask her what she thinks about feeding those damned things."

"What in the world do you feed 750 tarantulas and a dozen baby crocodiles?"

"Mice, crickets, and chunks of chicken, according to her. Apparently it's not so much what you feed them as how," Moore explained. "I understand that quick reflexes help tremendously… especially with the tarantulas because they fling needle-sharp little hairs into their prey-or at anything they're pissed at. I'm sure Jennifer would be more than happy to give you all the gory details, but I wouldn't call her right before lunch."

"Special Agent Jennifer Granstrom." The Special Operations branch chief's eyes began to gleam. "Don't we owe her for something?"

"The Miami Office has been nice to us occasionally in the past," Moore conceded hesitantly.

"That's what I was thinking." Halahan nodded thoughtfully. "But how in the world would you ship 750 tarantulas from a federal law enforcement office in Miami to a warehouse in Loggerhead City, Oregon, without anyone on the outside knowing what's going on?"

"Beats me." A grin of awareness began to light up Moore's face. "But I'm willing to bet you a steak dinner at the restaurant of your choice that Jennifer either knows how, right off the top of her head, or she'll figure it out in three minutes flat."

"Why don't you give her a call — after lunch," Halahan suggested with a benevolent smile on his face. "Tell her to get the whole batch ready to ship to Oregon, posthaste, along with — what? — all the necessary terrariums, heating elements, and other assorted supplies she's got on hand. Our treat."

"The crocs, too?"

"Oh, hell yes. How can we impress the Mexican Mafia if we don't go all out?"

"David," Freddy Moore's tone bordered on reverent, "remind me every now and then, if you don't mind, to never, ever, piss you off."

"Basic principles of people management." The Special Operations Branch chief shrugged modestly. "If you can't gain the attention of your employees with the standard motivational techniques, try a different approach."

"On second thought, you're not going to need to remind me." Moore shuddered as he tried to imagine several hundred snakes, tarantulas, and crocs all in one warehouse.

"Glad to hear it." David Halahan smiled pleasantly, and then went on. "So you call Jennifer, and then make arrangements with Newark for, oh, say two or three dozen miscellaneous snakes — be sure to include that death adder, and a few of those Australian brown, black, and tiger snakes — along with, say, a two-month supply of mice, crickets, chicken, freezers, holding cages, and the like. I think that should keep everybody on Bravo Team extremely busy, focused, and out of trouble, with the possible exception of — "

"Lightstone?"

Halahan nodded.

"So what are we going to do with him? Ship him down to Nogales to start working on his cover?"

"Not a chance." The Special Ops chief dismissed that option immediately. "I want him there, too, just in case we do run into some problems with Charlie Team or Boggs. Lightstone may be a little difficult to control at times, but he's also pretty damned useful when things turn to shit."

"So…?"

"So, while Charlie Team scopes out the militants and everyone else on Bravo Team tries to work out accommodations for seven hundred giant tarantulas, twelve baby crocodiles, and two or three dozen poisonous snakes" — Halahan smiled pleasantly — "I think somebody should take a serious look at our friend the Sage and his Bigfoot souvenir scam, don't you?"

"You know" — Moore paused a moment to savor the Bravo Team's wild-card agent's most likely reaction to his new assignment — "this just might teach those jokers to play fair."

"I doubt it."

"Yeah, me too." Moore nodded in agreement. "But in any case, I think we'd better get them on a plane to Oregon by tomorrow afternoon at the latest. I have a feeling Jennifer's going to have those tarantulas packed up, out the door, and on their way to a certain Loggerhead City warehouse before we have a chance to change our minds."

"Exactly. Which means you'd better get busy putting together a briefing document."

"It will be a pleasure." Freddy Moore smiled in cheerful anticipation.

"Yeah, I'll bet. And in the meantime," Halahan said as he put the stack of exercise evaluations aside, "I'm going to give my old buddy Wilbur Boggs a call. Tell him to break out his big grill and ice chest and stand by, because Special Ops is about to make his life a whole lot more miserable, too."