Double Blind (20 page)

"Do you think she's holding out for a better price?" LaGrange asked.

"I really don't think so, but I suppose that's always possible," the Sage conceded. "If you like, I can offer her more. Would you be willing to go as high as three hundred dollars?"

"For my buddy to change his luck? Hell, yes," Bobby LaGrange volunteered expansively.

"Oh." The old man blinked in surprise. "I didn't realize you intended to buy a bear charm for your friend, too . . ."

Without warning, he reached forward, took Lightstone's right wrist, pulled it toward him, and traced each of the major lines in the covert agent's palm with a wrinkled forefinger.

As Lightstone observed the process patiently, the old man's eyebrows suddenly furrowed.

Mumbling to himself, the Sage quickly retraced three of the lines. Still not satisfied, he pressed his fingertips firmly against Lightstone's knuckles and wrist, as if trying to judge strength and flexibility.

Finally, he released the agent's hand, sat back in the booth, and shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Henry," he spoke with what sounded like genuine regret while staring into Henry Lightstone's eyes through the dark lenses. "Your friend is a generous man, but the bear-claw necklace is not for you."

"Why not?" The federal wildlife agent felt his heart sink as he sensed his link to the Sage — and his miraculous last-minute escape from Halahan's malicious sense of humor — slipping from his grasp.

"You don't have a bear spirit," the old man announced with certainty.

"I don't?"

"Definitely not."

"But what —" Lightstone started to ask, but the Sage cut him off.

"When you were a child, did you have any pets?"

"Ah . . . I recall a dog or two. Tell you the truth, I really didn't pay much attention to them."

"But you have no animals now — no pets?"

Lightstone shook his head.

The Sage closed his eyes behind his dark glasses and rocked back and forth in his bench seat as he apparently digested this information. Suddenly he smiled, opened his eyes, and stared directly at Henry Lightstone.

"Did your grandmother own any animals?" the old man inquired softly.

It shocked Henry when the memory came back so quickly and vividly.

"An old black Manx used to hang around, but I wouldn't say she owned it."

"Then there's your answer." The Sage smiled in satisfaction.

"I . . . don't follow," Lightstone admitted hesitantly.

"You're a cat."

The revelation bothered Henry Lightstone far more than he thought it should.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Not literally, of course." The old man smiled understandingly. "You simply possess a cat spirit."

"I do?"

Bobby LaGrange burst into a brief fit of coughing that Lightstone thought sounded suspiciously like barely controlled laugher.

"Yes, of course you do. Didn't you know?"

"I guess I never thought much . . . about it," Lightstone confessed, starting to wonder if escaping warehouse duty for a day was worth all of the harassment he could expect to receive from his retired homicide detective buddy over the next few years.

"It's nothing you have to think about, or do anything about, for that matter," the Sage explained soothingly. "It's simply there for your use — if you choose to use it. Not everyone does."

"Well, uh, if a bear-claw necklace won't help my friend," Bobby LaGrange made an attempt to keep the conversation focused on the potential evidence, or at least what he thought might be potential evidence, "how about one of those Bigfoot artifacts you told me about?"

The old man cocked his head, stared into Henry Lightstone's eyes again for a few moments, and smiled.

"Do you know how to find the Dogsfire Inn?" he asked. "It's a small restaurant, post office, and community center at the intersection of Brandywine Road and Loggerhead Creek."

Henry Lightstone looked over at Bobby LaGrange, who shrugged, then nodded.

"We can find it," Lightstone replied.

"Not both of you. Just you," the old man insisted emphatically.

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Don't you wish to explore your cat spirit?"

"I'm not sure," Henry Lightstone responded after a particularly uneasy delay. "But I will admit you've made me curious."

"If you want to satisfy that curiosity, be at the Dogsfire Inn at four o'clock today," the Sage ordered as he pulled himself out of the booth. "There's somebody there you should meet."

Chapter Nineteen

At precisely 9:35 A.M., eastern standard time, that Wednesday morning, Simon Whatley hurried into the private sanctuary of Congressman Regis J. Smallsreed, and was surprised to encounter not one but two visitors — one of whom sat in the shadows of Smallsreed's spacious congressional office.

"About time you got here, Simon," the congressman commented dryly.

"Delayed flight," Whatley explained, deciding to save his comments about absurd red-eye flights from Medford, Oregon, through San Francisco and on to Washington Dulles with long stopovers in Chicago. He always hated such flights, especially on short notice, but he particularly hated them when all of their first-class seats were booked, and he found himself crammed in with parents traveling with small children, all of whom spent all of their time screaming, crying, or running up and down the aisles.

All in all, the congressional district office manager had had a miserable night. And given the expression on Regis J. Smallsreed's face, Whatley sensed that the morning wasn't going to be much of an improvement.

"I believe you know Sam Tisbury, Chairman and CEO of Cyanosphere VIII." The congressman waved his hand in the general direction of his two guests.

One of Smallsreed's two visitors — the younger, more visible one — nodded his head in Whatley's direction, but didn't bother to get up.

"I don't believe you know our other visitor, so let's just keep it that way." Smallsreed gestured to an empty chair in front of his expansive desk. "Sit down, my boy."

As Simon Whatley sat, he realized that someone had adjusted the lighting in the room to illuminate him fully from all sides while leaving the other three men in the shadows. In fact, now he couldn't see the other visitor at all.

"I believe you have something to report?" Smallsreed prodded.

"Oh, uh, yes, I do," Whatley replied hurriedly. "I'm pleased to tell you that everything is in place. Our team and, uh — theirs," he hesitated, suddenly realizing that he knew nothing about Smallsreed's other visitor.

"You can speak freely here," the congressman snapped impatiently. "We all know each other."

You do, but I don't
, Whatley thought uneasily, but continued on as ordered.

"We're in the process of establishing contact with the militant group. That should occur" — Whatley looked down at his watch — "about eight hours from now."

"Is this group credible?" Sam Tisbury directed his question at Smallsreed.

"Oh hell yes," the congressman responded. "I know several of these people personally, since we were kids. Some of them even kept in touch after they dug themselves into the hills — I get a letter from them every now and then, hoping I'll use my influence to help them with their agenda, I guess — and as far as I can tell, they're all still as rabid as ever."

"They may be rabid as fucking bats, but that doesn't necessarily make them credible," the wealthy industrialist pointed out.

"Sam, I can absolutely guarantee that these people hate the federal government and everything it stands for, and everybody in my district knows it, too," Smallsreed insisted emphatically. "No question about it."

"But do the people in your district consider them capable of taking on a team of federal agents?" Tisbury pressed. "I don't have to remind you, Regis, this whole exercise must be completely credible. If any one element looks the least bit suspicious, some goddamned journalist will start digging around asking questions. And if that happens, we're going to have an absolute disaster on our hands."

"Actually, we did anticipate the credibility problem," Simon Whatley offered hesitantly, uncomfortably aware that at least one of Smallsreed's guests had the power to order the deaths of a team of federal law-enforcement agents. He didn't even want to think about where he might stand if something went wrong.

"And?" Tisbury turned to face Smallsreed's underling.

"Well, after evaluating their, uh, offensive capability, we decided to provide them with better weapons."

"Oh really?" Tisbury's eyebrows rose. "Like what?"

"M-16 assault rifles. The earlier military version. Colonel Rustman, uh, 'arranged' the paperwork necessary to prove they disappeared from one of the local National Guard units several years ago. Our team will familiarize the militants with the weapons and let them get in a few practice rounds before we set the stage . . . make sure everything looks legitimate."

"Yes, very good, I like that." Sam Tisbury nodded approvingly. "And you're absolutely sure these agents are in place?"

"Well, uh . . ."

"Goddamn it!" the industrialist exploded. "You've got an informant, and it cost us a bundle to put her in place. Use her!"

"Uh, yes sir, I am — and, uh, they are. I mean, I know the agents are definitely in Jasper County," Simon Whatley stammered.

Even as he uttered the words, Whatley vaguely recalled some kind of discrepancy in the latest report from his informant. But he'd been racing around his apartment packing — in a hurry to make that damned red¬eye — and didn't listen to the recorded messages all that carefully. Something about Bravo Team not working out as planned. But they were definitely in Jasper County, Oregon. He remembered that part clearly. That's all that mattered.

"Simon's also got some of his people in a position to provide us with all of the up-to-date intelligence we need," Smallsreed added cheerfully. "They'll make damned sure everybody's where they're supposed to be. Right, Simon?"

God I hope so
, Whatley thought, feeling his stomach churn, but he said, 'Yes sir, absolutely."

"We're going to need periodic reports, so we're absolutely certain everything goes according to plan. These agents caused the deaths of my father, my son, and my daughter," Tisbury reminded everyone in the room — as only a powerful third-generation industrialist who truly believed that his immense wealth and influence gave him the right to seek out vengeance on his own terms could remind them — "and they're going to pay for that. They are going to pay dearly."

"I would also remind you all that we lost six of the founding members of ICER." The unfamiliar, deep, and very foreboding voice that rumbled from the back recesses of the room startled Simon Whatley. "Until we can reestablish the committee with individuals of equivalent power, influence, and ideology, the environmental extremists will continue to run amok. These agents caused us to suffer tremendous setbacks. That must stop, immediately!"

"And it will stop," Regis J. Smallsreed promised. "You have my word on that."

"And the reports?" Tisbury pursued his main point of interest.

"I can fax you a daily briefing, along with —" Simon Whatley began, but Tisbury quickly interrupted.

"No faxes. No written reports. And especially no phone calls," he ordered sharply. "I am not about to find myself in federal prison because of some goddamned wiretap, and I assume everyone in this room feels exactly the same way. I want comprehensive verbal reports every two days, preferably here in this office."

"That's not a problem," Smallsreed agreed affably.

"But—" Simon Whatley tried to protest, but the congressman ignored him completely.

"Simon will be here at, oh, let's say 10:00 A.M. sharp —just in case that red-eye gets delayed again," Smallsreed added with a wink, "every other day, starting this coming Friday. No notes, no reports, no phone calls. Just the four of us in this room. And I can assure you it will be a sorry day if any federal agent ever even thinks about bugging this office."

"But —" Whatley tried again, but no one in the room paid him the slightest bit of attention.

"And keep him out of first-class," Tisbury added. "Make the reservations under different names, randomized locations in the back cabin, inside seats whenever possible, pay in cash, and have somebody else pick up the tickets. I don't want some sharp-eyed stewardess or airport clerk with a good memory for faces wondering why he's making all these red¬eye flights to DC."

"No problem." Smallsreed bobbed his massive head agreeably.

"Traveling back and forth like that, will he have enough time to sleep, and still get fully briefed at the other end?" came the ominous voice from the shadows.

"Oh hell yes," Smallsreed replied confidently. "Simon's one of those people you can depend on to get the job done. He'll get all the sleep he needs on the plane."

At 11:30 A.M., eastern standard time, David Halahan, Chief of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service's Special Operations Branch, poked his head in his deputy chiefs office door.

"Any more word on Boggs?" he asked.

Freddy Moore shook his head.

"We've got everybody on Charlie Team except Donato, LiBrandi, and Marashenko combing the town. Figured we'd better hold those three back in reserve, just in case Boggs doesn't show and we need to make our own contacts with those Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal folks."

"What about his house?" Halahan asked. "Anybody look inside?"

"Not yet. I told them to hold off on that on account of the neighbors. Wilbur's got the whole damned place alarmed, and LiBrandi's the only one on Charlie Team who's been through lock school."

"What about at night?"

"LiBrandi's willing to give it a try, but if that alarm goes off, that means dealing with the local cops, any one of whom could have relatives in the militant group. There's a good chance he could badge his way out of it, especially if the locals know Wilbur, but that would still cut us down to Donato and Marashenko for the contact work."

"Okay," Halahan agreed with his deputy, "tell them to keep looking." He started to leave, then turned back.