“Gentlemen,” said Howard, working swiftly to cut off the apostasy, “I don’t think pursuing the Central Intelligence Agency or its affiliates is going to get us anywhere. Our first priority is the capture of Bob Lee Swagger before the news gets out that he’s alive. It would be humiliating to us if this became widely known; when we take him, that’s when we can go public with it. Is that understood?”
“Howard, if the Agency – ” began Hap.
“Mr. Fencl, please,” said Howard.
Some murmurs, noddings, grumbles.
“Now, suggestions?”
“Sir,” one of the men said, “the last time Bob was in a jam, he went back to Blue Eye and the Ouachitas. Most men would have the sense not to try it a second time. But this guy, he believes in things. He believes in home and knowing the territory. If he’s going to play a game, don’t you think he’d play it on his territory?”
“Yes,” said Utey. “He would.”
He paused.
“All right,” he said, “I’m ordering the relocation of Task Force Swagger to Mena, Arkansas. We’ll set it up as before. Mr. Fencl, I want you to handle liaisons with Sheriff Tell of Polk County and the Arkansas State Police. Mr. Bryson, you establish contact with Milt Sillito over at DEA because we’ll need all the information from their loop. And Mr. Nelson, I want you to supervise the SWAT equipment and locate air support through the forestry department.”
“Poor Nick,” said Hap. “I hope he hasn’t bitten off more than he can chew. The only thing he ever wanted to be was an FBI agent.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Nick sat at Gate 24 in the New Orleans International Airport at 10:38 A.M. on a Tuesday. Delta Flight 554 was arriving from Mexico City. As the passengers began to emerge and disperse into the terminal, he stood up and joined them, trying to see with another man’s eyes.
What would he think? What would he notice? How would his mind work?
Eduardo Lanzman, if you were Eduardo Lanzman, you got off this flight six months ago. You saw what I am seeing now. You were a pro, your eyes scanned left and right, up the hall and down the hall. You were scared, you had something in your possession that could kill you, and you knew you were being hunted.
This was it. This was your break for freedom and your desperate attempt to save the life of Archbishop Jorge Roberto Lopez. And why? Even if you are a secret policeman, you were raised a Catholic. This killing of an archbishop, is it going too far? Or perhaps you lost somebody on the Sampul River that day, cut down by Panther Battalion in the red-running water.
No matter. What would you see?
Nick walked with the passengers through the terminal. Then another question hit him.
Why wouldn’t you call me from here? Why wait until you get to that motel?
As he thought about it, an answer formed. Because Lanzman thought he was safe. He hadn’t been made. He was all right. He read the crowd and he read the signs, and he thought everything was fine, it was a straight shot, it was no problem.
Nick let his imaginary trip through the head of Eduardo Lanzman carry him across the main concourse and out to the taxi stand by the street. It was not particularly busy.
You want to get this over with. You’ll just take a cab straight into the Federal Building, right? You’ll ask to see me. If you have to wait, you’ll have to wait, that’s all.
Nick hailed a cab.
“Yeah?”
“Uh, you know where the Federal Building is? Seven-oh-one Loyola Street, downtown.”
“Sure, man. Hop in.”
Nick climbed in, the cab sped away.
“New to the Big Easy?” the guy asked.
“No,” said Nick, trying to concentrate.
He watched as they left the airport, sped along the access road toward I-10, the big strip of federal highway that transects the shelf of land between the big river and Lake Pontchartrain upon which the city is built. Along the road there was nothing. It was featureless, nondescript, a little parcel of anonymous America.
As they took the ramp and began to sweep toward a merge on the rush of I-10, Nick could see the gaudy parade of motels over on the right, down Veterans Memorial Boulevard.
“Stop!” he hollered.
“Huh?”
“Stop, dammit! I said pull over.”
“What the – ” The cabby, a bald black guy with a gold tooth, fumed, but he obeyed. His name, Nick could tell from the hack license pinned to the right sunshade, was JERRY NILES.
“Now what?”
“Just shut up for a second.”
Nick sat there. The cab had slewed onto the shoulder and cars whirled by toward the city ahead.
No, he thought. He didn’t get this far. Because if he’s going to the Palm Court Motel, you can’t get there once you get onto I-70. You’ve got to make your mind up before you take the ramp.
“Buddy?”
“Shut up,” said Nick.
What does that tell you?
That tells you he made his pursuers on the access road, was afraid they’d nail him on the road, and made a snap decision to hunker down before they could do so.
It also meant he knew exactly how desperate they were – that they would be willing to risk some kind of terrible public scene to stop him. Pros prefer to work in private; they only go public with wet business if they have no other choice, unless they’re Colombian drug scum.
“Back up and head down Veterans Boulevard.”
“Hey, mister, I can’t back up and – ”
“There’s a fifty in it for you.”
“Okay, but if a cop comes – ”
“I am a cop,” said Nick, reflexively, then wished it were still true.
The driver backed up the ramp, executed a Kamikaze-like 240 and managed to get them, after some honking and screeching, headed down Veterans. The Palm Court was the third motel past the turnoff.
“Pull in here,” said Nick.
The driver obeyed.
“You want me to – ”
“Just wait a minute.”
Nick sat, thinking.
He’s been made. He knows they’re close. Whatever he’s got – documents, a microchip, photos, whatever – he’s got to dump in some place that he can recover.
Dump it. Go into the motel before they spot him. Get a room near the Coke machines in case they’ve got electronic penetration capacity, call Nick Memphis, and then wait.
He doesn’t know they’ve got an Electrotek 5400. He doesn’t know they’ll hear his call. He doesn’t know that when the knock on the door comes, and he says who’s there, and the answer comes “Nick Memphis,” he’s letting his own death squad in.
No matter, Nick thought.
The key thing is, he’s got to hide his package.
Something else came to Nick.
Eduardo, you’ve been hit now, you’ve been whacked by guys with axes, they’ve cut your fucking heart out. But somehow – Jesus, man, you had a set of balls on you – somehow you crawl into the bathroom and on the linoleum you write a message in your own blood. No, not the name of your killers, but something else.
You write – ROM DO.
What’s it mean? What’s the message?
ROM DO.
“I want you to go back to the airport where you picked me up, and then repeat this journey.”
“You kidding?”
“I am not.”
“Okay, pal. Hope you got a big expense account.”
The cabby swirled the vehicle around and returned to the terminal.
“Don’t stop. Just follow the same route.”
Nick watched the scenery roll by.
Along here you were made, he thought. You looked up, you saw a car following you that wasn’t a taxi, you hit the panic button. You saw them, maybe reading their profiles through the windshield or maybe recognizing the vehicle. But it had to be here, along this dull, limited access road, with no escape, no place to hide, not even a place to stop.