"That's the standard procedure," Mike Takahara acknowledged. "But according to Stoner, Riley's added an interesting twist. He's got both LiBrandi and Marashenko taking pictures of each other all over town. Even using a flash for some evening shots."
"Setting the stage for either one of them to have a camera either in their hands or within reach to snap off a covert picture or two with infrared film if somebody starts nibbling at the bait." Lightstone smiled appreciatively.
"You got it. In fact, Stoner's pretty sure they're using one of the new 30–70 zooms with an extra wide setting. If they watch out for the incidental lighting and work the angles right, the bad guys will never know they've been shot."
"They'd better be careful," Lightstone muttered. "I sure wouldn't want to be in their shoes if one of those military characters got his hands on that camera and found it loaded with sneaky-type film. And speaking of that, does Marashenko know how to use infrared film?"
"She should. She monitored the photo surveillance course at FLETC on her own time, and from what LiBrandi told me, she's a pretty accomplished amateur photographer. I don't think we need to worry about her on the technical end even though LiBrandi's definitely got more training and experience, but I'm not sure that's the only reason why Riley decided to use him instead of Green."
"Why not?"
"I'm thinking that even though it makes sense to pair Marashenko up with an accomplished street actor like Green, our buddy Riley may have felt a little uneasy about an interracial couple walking around town in conservative Jasper County."
Lightstone thought about that for a moment.
"I guess that could be a problem, depending on the circumstances. But it could also work to their advantage… if they played it right."
"Sure it could," Mike Takahara agreed. "But Green came to us straight out of the Refuge program — basically a uniformed, public image type of law enforcement — so he's still pretty new to covert investigative tactics. And Marashenko's still a little unsure of herself, which makes her a wild card as far as her temper is concerned — which, as I recall, you got to experience firsthand, so to speak," the tech agent reminded Lightstone with a smile.
"Yeah, that is a point," Lightstone conceded.
"Anyway," Mike Takahara went on, "knowing Riley, I bet he thought the whole thing out and decided it'd be a lot easier for Charlie Team to make contact with these militant assholes if they didn't piss them off first."
Henry Lightstone blinked.
"Hey, wait a minute. That's the second time you used the word 'militant' instead of 'military,'" he pointed out his friend's critical change in terminology.
"About time you started paying attention." The tech agent smiled as he handed Lightstone a piece of paper. "Take a look at this."
"What is it?"
"E-mail message from Freddy Moore. Came in a few minutes ago."
Henry Lightstone scanned the paper quickly.
"'Charlie Team was assigned to observe and infiltrate a local militia group known as the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal in Jasper County, Oregon,'" he read out loud. "'That being the case, it's not surprising that members of the Brigade might monitor their movements; however, the group as a whole is believed to represent a minimal threat. Accordingly, Bravo Team will continue with its assigned project, and shall avoid contact with Special Agents assigned to Charlie Team unless so directed.'"
Lightstone looked up at the team's tech agent in disbelief. "Minimal threat? What the hell's he talking about?"
"You got me," Mike Takahara confessed. "The way I read that message, we're dealing with one of two likely situations. Either this whole thing really is a game, like Larry said — which probably means your tripping across that spooky sergeant spoiled some aspect of the surprise, but Halahan still wants to keep the scam going — or there's something going on here that's a lot more serious than either Halahan, Moore, or Charlie Team understands. Which reminds me," the tech agent added, "what did you find out about Boggs?"
"Nothing that makes me feel any better about option number two," Henry Lightstone said as he tossed the paper down on the couch.
"How so?"
"As best I can put it together, sometime before five A.M. last Monday, Boggs got into some kind of accident with his boat — his personal boat, not the government one," he clarified — "that probably involved getting the motor caught in some fishing nets. I'm not positive about the net angle, but what happened almost certainly occurred at a fairly high speed, because he managed to knock a couple of his front teeth out on the steering wheel and left a lot of his blood all over the instrument panel, windshield, and deck."
Mike Takahara's eyes widened. "You sure it was Boggs who got hurt?"
"Oh yeah, I don't think there's much doubt about that."
"Why not?"
"Well, mostly because at five A.M. last Monday, a neighbor found him unconscious in the cab of his truck, wearing only a pair of jeans and a down jacket — no socks, shoes, underwear, or shirt — after Boggs backed that very same boat into the neighbor's mailbox directly across the street, again at a fairly high rate of speed."
"What the hell was Boggs doing dressed like that and driving crazy at five in the morning?" the tech agent demanded. "Drunk?"
"Possibly." Lightstone shrugged. "At least that might explain the driving and clothing parts. But from then on, things get a little more complicated."
"How so?"
"Well, first of all, the paramedics who responded to the scene transported Boggs to the local emergency room here in Loggerhead City. But the attending physician immediately medevacked him to Providence Hospital in Medford, where they're better equipped to treat head injuries."
"Makes sense." Mike Takahara shrugged. "So?"
"So Boggs gets checked in to Providence as a John Doe," Lightstone went on, "because he wasn't carrying any identification, and the paperwork from the traffic-accident investigation — assuming there even was one — never caught up with him. He regains consciousness at least once, starts mumbling to the floor nurse and on-duty resident about being a federal agent, and then goes out on them again before they can get a name. In the meantime, the resident continues to treat Boggs for a concussion, broken nose, broken hand, loosened teeth, assorted cuts and scrapes and bruises on his hands and feet — including one really good bruise on his right shin — and exposure."
"Exposure? So whatever happened with his boat occurred real close to the time of his truck accident."
"That's how I read it. But it also implies that Boggs was running his boat at high speeds in the middle of the night, which doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense for a guy who's spent the better part of his life on the water," Lightstone reminded the tech agent.
"No, it doesn't," Mike Takahara agreed.
"But according to the emergency-room physician's notes," Lightstone went on, "Boggs's overall condition — which specifically included reduced mean body temperature, bluish fingernails, severely wrinkled skin, weed and algae fragments in his hair, etc. — was consistent with a person who had been exposed to very cold lake water for several hours."
"Several hours?"
"Right. But then," Lightstone went on, "before anyone at Providence Hospital can put all of this together and get a few answers out of their John Doe patient, he regains consciousness when no one's around — as best anyone can tell, sometime after the floor nurse made her rounds at about two o'clock yesterday afternoon. Shortly thereafter, he — the hospital staff is assuming Boggs did this all on his own, because no one saw him with anyone else — shut off his monitor, removed his IV and a set of electronic sensors, exchanged his hospital gown for a pair of hospital pajamas, slippers, and robe, walked out of his room using the IV rack as a prop, and managed to get all the way out the front entrance of the hospital without anyone asking who, what, or why. Then, in some as-yet-undetermined manner, he effectively disappeared."