Authors: Ken Goddard
"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?"