Double Blind (9 page)

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?"