Double Blind (6 page)

"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.

Chapter Four

The confrontation had been going on for a good three minutes — a flow of events highlighted by an unexpected kiss, a vicious roundhouse left, a countering hip throw, a lunging dive for a discarded pistol, the sharp crack of partially sawed-through support beams suddenly giving way, the muffled pop of an activated tear-gas canister, and an impressive variety of grunts, shouts, splashing, and cursing — when a bloodcurdling scream of terror suddenly and irrevocably destroyed the remnants of what had begun as a calm and peaceful Sunday morning.

For a brief moment, all eyes turned in the direction of the scream.