As he turned away, the last few bits of Vinnie's nest egg rained down on the silent swamp.
* * *
Still wondering whether he should have answered the phone, Bartlett settled back into the car with a stack of newspapers on his lap. His driver, accustomed to a certain distraction on the part of his employer, closed the door without speaking, climbed into the driver's seat and started the car.
The highway was almost empty, and they moved easily into the right lane, where Perry set the cruise control, then let his foot sit beside the gas pedal. At sixty-five he was doing ten miles over the limit, but the car was known to the highway patrol who, in any case, were disinclined to bother anyone who wasn't weaving or behaving in some outrageous manner.
Charlie Gardner had been hot-wired on the phone, and Bartlett wasn't looking forward to their meeting. He knew it would be nothing short of a confrontation, but the gentleman in him refused to acknowledge the fact. Every paper carried the story on the front page, and Bartlett devoured each one. It struck him as odd how closely the details corresponded from paper to paper. Even though it wasn't a wire service pickup, and had been filed by separate journalists or, in some cases stringers, the details were a perfect fit, as if each reporter had spoken to the same source or sources, none of whom had been named.
That anomaly troubled him more than the substance of the stories themselves, which accused General Emiliano Rivera and unidentified CIA support personnel of having destroyed a fishing village on the Nicaraguan coast. Several lives had been lost, all fishermen or their families, and the entire commercial fishing fleet of Chenango — such as it was — now sat underwater, charred hulks beyond salvage.
Gardner had read the entire text of one story over the phone, screaming phrase after phrase into the receiver. In his mind's eye Bartlett had seen the prominent vein in Gardner's left temple writhing like a snake. That the story was a plant, a not-so-subtle piece of disinformation, seemed beyond dispute. What intrigued Bartlett was who had planted it. The why was clear. And that, of course, would narrow the field of possible candidates to a few. Gardner, as obtuse as he was, would eventually realize that. But, in the meantime, the story had already achieved one of its desired purposes: it had disrupted a delicate balance within the Agency.
Bartlett also had a sick feeling in his stomach. He wanted to believe that the entire story was a fabrication, but there were pictures. He hoped, and wanted to believe, that the pictures themselves were frauds, subtle contrivances manufactured solely to suit a perceived need for documentary support. But he knew it wasn't so. He knew that whoever had been so crude as to manufacture this seamless web wasn't subtle enough to do that.
This was a fabrication of the most basic kind. You want dead bodies? Here are your dead bodies. You want sunken fishing boats? There they are. Give them the real thing. That was the thought behind this abomination, and he feared that he had somehow helped in creating the monster behind it all.
It struck Bartlett as a kind of poetic justice that one of the Agency's own techniques had been crudely but effectively turned on its head and used against its past masters. He wished he'd been able to reach Vince Arledge, but there would be time enough for that later. For the time being, he'd have to stand into Gardner's wind and bear the brunt of the storm on his own. When it blew over, as it surely would, Gardner would owe him one. It was a good feeling.
At the next intersection Perry eased into the cloverleaf, then down into the merge lane on I-95. When he slipped into the main lane, he let the cruise control take over again. A red camper parked on the shoulder up ahead started to move out, stuttered for a moment, then pulled back onto the shoulder to let the limo by.
Perry glanced in the mirror to see if the camper needed help, but it seemed all right as it picked up speed on the shoulder, then slipped into the slow lane. The sun was almost down, and the reddish light on the hood made it difficult to see, even through the tinted glass. Perry pulled his sun visor down, which helped to block out the direct light. But the glare still bothered him, so he averted his eyes and managed to see well enough to continue in the sparse traffic.
Clicking on the stereo, Bartlett pushed the scan mode until he found a classical station. He ignored the papers for a few minutes, listening to the music with his eyes closed. It had been a long day, and he was annoyed that he couldn't place the piece. It was definitely Mozart, one of the string quartets, but he wasn't sure which one. It was one of those precise details that mattered so much to him, as if the music had no value without a name. He remembered Milton exploring the significance of Adam's role in naming the beasts of Eden. Nomenclature was power. It made control possible, categorization easy and, ultimately, made the one who controlled the names the master.
The movement ended, and Bartlett stared at the speaker as if he expected someone at the radio station to indulge him, but the next movement began and still he couldn't place the piece. Annoyed, he considered the possibility that the announcer wouldn't name the piece at its conclusion. Nothing about radio infuriated him more. He would rather endure untrammeled profanity in exchange for a requirement that all pieces be named both before and after being aired.
As the second movement came to a close, he listened harder, not sure where he had come in. The themes hadn't been familiar. But once again another movement began. He punched the button, looking for another station, one that had more respect for his need to know. He settled on the rather syrupy tones of a woman announcing a Beethoven sonata. He hated Beethoven, but at least he would know what it was he was hearing.
Picking up the Washington Post, he started the article on the atrocity at Chenango. Even the usually impeccable Post seemed somewhat sketchy on exactly what had happened. The same language was there about the "ruined hulks" of the fishing fleet and the «unprovoked» assault by dozens of soldiers.
It was interesting to note that none of the nine articles he had with him contained an allegation that Rivera himself was actually present. That seemed to demand that one ask how it was known that the attacking force, if indeed there even was such an event, was under the command of Emiliano Rivera. Did the soldiers announce it? Did they leave something behind?
It couldn't have been that an associate of Rivera had been recognized, and the witness made the leap to Rivera, because Rivera had just arrived in Nicaragua and had no associates, known or otherwise, of any prominence whatever. No, there was something rotten here, and Bartlett had to know what it was.
Then, too, there was the peculiarity of such an event having been so closely timed to Rivera's arrival, if it was a fabrication, there was a strong likelihood that the fabricator was someone who knew that Rivera had gone to Nicaragua. That fact alone narrowed the field to perhaps a dozen or two. More than half of those were in the Agency, so it shouldn't be difficult to isolate them.
The disturbing thing was that someone with a need to interfere was aware of Rivera's presence. That posed a danger, not only to Rivera himself, but to the new game plan. Reluctant to continue a war that had been officially put on hold by Congress, Bartlett had fought against the plan until he was out of objections. Gardner knew what he wanted, and he didn't give a damn whether it was legal or not.
In Gardner's view the rules didn't apply to the Agency. How could you fight in secret if you had to tell every third blabbermouth on the hill? For that matter, how could you fight against an enemy who knew no rules if you had to abide by so restrictive a set of your own? There was something to be said for that, Bartlett would be the first to admit. But the Agency had gotten into trouble in the past by waltzing blindly down that logical dead end, and the rules that fitted like a custom-tailored straitjacket were the result. They had ordered the suit; now they had to wear it.
It wouldn't hurt to give the Post a call to see if they were sitting on something more, something they weren't confident about running. It might be possible to provoke some sort of disclosure simply by complaining about the story having been run at all.
Bartlett
folded the paper into a rough square and smoothed it on his lap. It was dark now, and the sky was full of the urban haze that made stargazing all but obsolete from D.C. to Boston. At 602 the limo slowed and ducked into the last straightaway before the approach road to headquarters. Bartlett leaned back against his seat, easing the volume up a little, letting the music wash over him.
The car lurched as a van sped by on the left, its slipstream buffeting even the heavy Cadillac. And then the car seemed to hesitate. It started to rise in the air, slightly at first, and then with a deafening roar it began to cartwheel. Bartlett looked at the back of Perry's head as if to accuse him, and then the car began to roll. It split in two, spilling men, newspapers and parts of the machine itself along the highway.
But by then Winston Bartlett was already dead.
Chapter Thirty-Four
As Bolan stared at the ruined chopper, Rivera came up beside him. "How did the Sandinistas know so quickly?" Rivera asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, know that I was here and which tent I was in?"
"Come on, General, you know the answer to that as well as I do."
"Oh?"
"To begin it, it wasn't the Sandinistas."
"How do you know? The weapons are Czech."
"Look, East Bloc hardware is a staple on the arms market, and if you want to pretend you're something you're not, you buy weapons that don't connect you. It's done all the time."
"Still, the other side knows this, so why not use East Bloc weapons on the assumption that people will think you're CIA when you're not?"
"Too devious to bother with. All you really want is to obscure your own presence. But the thing that seals it isn't the assault rifles, anyway. It's this…" Bolan pointed to the still-smoking hulk of the chopper. "If this was a genuine Sandinista unit, they'd have used regulation hardware. They don't have to hide anything, because we're on their turf. Why not use a Soviet Hind?"
"So what are you saying?"
"I'm saying that whoever was behind the raid was plugged in. The chopper was probably supplied by the CIA. I'd love to know to whom, but I think I can guess."
He moved closer to the wreck. The body of the pilot was charred beyond recognition, but the gunner wasn't in the wreck. If he could find the gunner's body, it might tell him something. In the meantime he wanted to sift through the chopper as soon as it cooled down enough to let him get inside.
"We came out of this in pretty good shape," Rivera said. "We only lost four men. Some are wounded, but only one seriously. The medical evacuation team is on the way. I think he'll make it."
"What about the other side?"
"So far we've found fourteen bodies. The men are still combing the woods. We'll have to bury them quickly. In the tropics it doesn't take long for a body to become a danger."
"Tell the men no burials until I get a look at the bodies."
"Are you looking for someone in particular?"
"I don't know what I'm looking for, General."
"But you'll know when you find it, eh?"
Captain Robbins watched Bolan with interest. He edged closer, then dropped to one knee beside the big man. "You look like a rag picker, Belasko. What the hell are you doing?"
"Research, Captain."
"What the hell for?"
"I want to know what happened here."
"Hell, I can tell you that. Some Sandies got lucky. They found the camp and tried to tear us up. What more do you need to know?"
"You heard me."
"I just told you what happened."
"You didn't tell me anything other than what this is supposed to look like. That's all."
"Shit, you can have a copy of my report if you want to know the nitty-gritty."
"No, thanks. I don't read much fiction."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean? You sayin' I'm a liar?"
"Either that or you're a fool, Captain. Maybe both, for all I know."
"You better watch your mouth. I don't like being-called a liar."
"Then don't lie. It's really not that difficult."
"Look, if you know something I don't, maybe you and me should have a talk."
"What for? You already have your report. I can live with that."
"Belasko, I'm warning you. I'm in charge here. You mess with me, you'll be one sorry son of a bitch. Believe it."
Bolan shook his head. "I'm busy. Captain, if you don't mind…" He moved closer to the chopper. He could still feel the radiant heat on his bare skin, but it was possible to pick around in the outer fringes of the wreck.
In the ruined cabin he found a charred wallet. Using the stock of his assault rifle, Bolan raked the blackened leather lump toward him. Part of it flaked away from the pressure, but it remained largely intact. It was warm to the touch, and he dropped it once, trying to fold it open.
"What have you got there?" Robbins demanded.
"I don't know."
"Better let me have it."
"Like hell."
"'I'm just about at the end of my rope with you, hotshot."
Bolan straightened. "Then you better hold on and hope I don't kick the chair out from under you, Robbins."
The captain took a step forward, but Bolan was too fast for him. He ducked in with a quick left-right-left combination, the blows sounding like a drumbeat on Robbins's rib cage. The captain doubled over, then vomited loudly. Dropping to one knee, he gasped for air, then spit to rid his mouth of the residue.
"That's it, you bastard," he snarled. His men had begun to gather around. He struggled to regain his feet. "I want this son of a bitch locked up. If he gives you a problem, shoot him."
The men looked at Robbins, at Bolan, then back at Robbins.
"I mean now!" Robbins barked.
"Captain, we don't have any authority to…"
Robbins slugged the man who had started to object, wrested his rifle away as the man fell and turned it on Bolan. Rivera heard the commotion and raced over. "What's going on here?" he demanded.
"Your butler here is under arrest," Robbins said. He grinned at the general.
"On whose orders?"
"Mine."
"You're not in command here, Captain. I am."
Robbins seemed surprised. "But I…"
Rivera stepped between Bolan and the captain. He grabbed the rifle and pushed it aside. "You take your orders from me. You'd do well to remember that."
"General Rivera, this is an internal matter. This man is a U.S. citizen. I have every right to…"
"Captain, you have no right I don't want you to have. Do you understand that? None! I'm in command of this unit. This is my soil on which you stand, not yours. We're in Nicaragua and you're a guest here. This isn't a military base of the United States, and this man isn't in your army. You've got nothing to say about what he does or doesn't do. Now, can I make it any more explicit than that, or will you go on about your business and let Mr. Belasko go on about his?"
Robbins glared at Bolan. "This isn't over," he snarled.
* * *
Bolan lay on the slope, watching Rivera's tent. He felt guilty using the old man as bait, but there was no other way to do it. Somebody in Robbins's unit was a pipeline to the other side. So far they'd been able to run nothing through it, nothing that did them any good. The schedule was evaporating. There just wasn't that much time left. Subtlety hadn't worked, and they couldn't afford to wait much longer.
Who «they» were was still up for grabs, but at the moment it didn't matter. Bolan had to keep Rivera alive. They could put the pieces together later. He kept coming back to Harry Martinson, but it didn't make sense. He knew he'd seen Martinson on the riverbank when the two launches had gone after Rivera's chopper. But Rivera had Bartlett's blessing, and if anybody in Central America was certain to know that, it was Harry Martinson. So why would he deliberately run against policy? What was in it for him? Money? From whom? Power? What kind of power could anyone give him that would make any sense?
And the qu
estions just kept on coming, rolling over and over in his head, like Ping-Pong balls in a lottery basket. But what was the winning combination, and how would he know when it came up?
The advisers' tent was quiet. A small light glowed in one end, just enough to throw shadows on the canvas, but enough for them to have shape. All he could detect was motion, and so far, there was none. But there would be. He was convinced of it. There had to be, or the puzzle was even more hopeless than it seemed.
Above the camp, isolated from the few human sounds the sleeping men made, the snores and the unconscious coughs, the twisting and turning under rough blankets, the creaking of the cots, it was possible to imagine the camp was deserted. Out in the darkness, he knew, a handful of sentries had been posted, but they were invisible. Motionless shadows among other motionless shadows, they might as well have been in another jungle.
Bolan tried the handset again. "General," he whispered, "are you there?"
"Where else would I be, Mr. Belasko?"
Even in the dark it was possible to see Rivera's sardonic smile. The man seemed unflappable, as if he had some peculiar notion of fate and accepted all its implications. He seemed to feel that he was destined to win but, if not, there was nothing he could do about it. At first Rivera had been reluctant even to consider Bolan's plan. But an hour's discussion had broken his resistance. Bolan still believed Rivera agreed to go along just to humor his American bodyguard, but at least he had agreed. In Bolan's line motive was less important than result.
They were down to three days on the timetable, and seventy-two hours didn't seem like much time to change a country's history. In fact, it often happened in less time than that, as Bolan well knew. But he found the notion unsettling. It seemed to fly in the face of everything he believed in. If the good guys could topple one government and replace it with another, then so could the bad guys. In fact, the bad guys could probably do it better because they had fewer restraints. Where was the stability?
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