Backlash

by Don Pendleton

"But that isn't necessary."

  "But I want it that way. You think you own me because you send me your pitiful money, money Congress can cut off any time some pansy congressman hears about a beating? What good is your money?"

  "It's not about control, Willie, and you know that. It's about restoring some semblance of order to Nicaragua."

  "Non-Communist order, don't you mean?"

  "Well, that goes without saying."

  "Nothing goes without saying. Nothing."

  "So what do you want me to tell Gardner?"

  "Tell him whatever you like. I don't care."

  "He won't like that. How am I supposed to explain what happened to McDonough? That was a stupid thing to do. Don't you know better than to use an easily traceable asset for something like that?"

  "It is of no consequence. Besides, you handled it."

  "He can stop you, you know."

  "Let him try."

  "I'm warning you, Willie. Don't do something you're going to regret."

  "I already have, Mr. Arledge. I listened to your Mr. Gardner once too often. Now it's time to do it my way."

  "Look, Bartlett is already pissed. He's trying to convince Gardner to cut you off."

  "Let him. Maybe I cut him off first."

  "I didn't hear that."

  "Of course not. And I didn't say it."

  "Look, I think I should warn you. You're not exactly the fairhaired boy at the Agency anymore."

  "I can live with that."

  "But can you live with Rivera?"

  Pagan laughed. He collapsed into his chair, his head thrown back, and tears came to his eyes. "That old man? He's a buffoon. If Gardner prefers him to me, he deserves to lose his job."

  Arledge was quiet. "I'm perfectly serious, Willie. They've already floated a trial balloon with the State Department. If it flies over there, Bartlett's going to suggest we go with Rivera. We want somebody up front, somebody we can get behind."

  "The old man will never go along. He has no heart. All he wants to do is play tennis and watch the little girls. You think a man like that can conquer a country? Overthrow a government?"

  "He can if we help him. Besides, all we have to do is give him a boost in the election. He can win with our help. Hell, almost anybody can beat Ortega right now."

  "If the election is held. If it's held and if it's fair. Maybe. But don't count on that. And, anyway, you never know what might happen. Maybe Ortega will die before then. Who knows?"

  "That option's been squashed."

  "By who?"

  "By Bartlett, who else?"

  "Then unsquash it, damn it. What the hell do I pay you for?"

  "I'm working on it."

  "What does Gardner say?"

  "He's thinking about it."

  "Fuck it. It doesn't matter what he thinks, anyway. I can handle it. And leave Rivera to me. I know him like the inside of my own head. I know how he thinks, and I know what makes him weep in the night. He won't be a problem."

  "If Bartlett pushes for him, I won't be able to stop it."

  "Bartlett is a fool. He, too, is an old man. I met him four years ago. He came to Tegucigalpa with an entourage. It was like a king's progress. All the ceremony, the attendants, the stupid questions. He doesn't have any understanding of what's happening in Nicaragua."

  "Don't underestimate him. He's DDO now, and he's a quick study. He's also a bit of an idealist. Anticommunism is fine, but not at any price. He has limits, and as far as he's concerned, you've already transgressed them."

  "And I will continue to do so. Nicaragua is my country, not his, and not Gardner's. Mine. I was born there, and I intend to be buried there."

  "You have to die first."

  "I will, my friend, but not for a long, long time. There is too much to do. And Rivera can't do it. Only I can. Pastora, Bermudez, rank amateurs. Boys playing at politics. But politics is a man's game. It's not for the faint of heart. Not in Central America. You should understand that, Vincenzo."

  "Will you at least promise me you'll exercise a little discretion in the meantime?"

  "Ah, I understand. You still worry about the newspapers. That was unfortunate, but it can be handled. And I'll make sure it doesn't happen again. But you have to keep your own house in order."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about the threats to my life and to my property. I'm talking about your Mr. Hoffman. He seems to have disappeared altogether. I don't think that's good news, do you? If Hoffman's been captured by the piris, which I doubt, he could be real trouble for us. If there's one thing I know, it's that a caged bird eventually sings. He has nothing else to do."

  "We're working on that."

  "You'll keep me posted?"

  "Of course. I'm on your side, Willie. You must know that. But you have to be on my side, too. You have to work with me. I'll do everything I can, and so will Gardner. Just don't make things harder than they have to be."

  "I wouldn't think of it."

  Arledge rose to go. "I hope not. I can't do much for you if you do."

  Pagan said nothing. He watched Arledge leave, then sat back in the chair. Things were getting complicated. He talked a good game, and he had Arledge worried. But he was worried himself, and he wasn't used to the impotence, the feeling of things slipping out of control. He didn't know what had gone wrong, but he was determined to find out and to fix it, no matter what.

  Gardner worried him most. The CIA had been generous, and they had gotten him going. But he now felt as if he'd been used. They had made a fool of him in some way he couldn't quite define, but the knowledge chewed at him like some live thing in his gut. He worried that to kill it he'd have to risk his own life, and he didn't like that one bit.

  Pagan knew, too, that he had himself to blame. He'd been too trusting, too naive. The Yankee promises came so easily, and they were just what he wanted to hear. He should have known early on that nothing was that simple. No one was that good to a perfect stranger, not unless there was something in it for him. He should have seen it, and he hadn't.

  But as much as he blamed himself, Guillermo Pagan knew how to make himself feel better. Only a fool whipped himself when there was someone else to whip, and there was no shortage of candidates. He could start with Gardner, then move on to Bartlett, Arledge. One by one he could knock them down like clay pigeons. But that would solve nothing. So, even though he could do it, he wanted to find something better, a more perfect revenge, one that wouldn't call attention to him, not until he was beyond retribution.

  But first he had to neutralize Rivera. If Gardner and Bartlett thought they had a viable alternative, the ground would begin to move under him. But if he was the only viable alternative to the Sandinistas, they would have to stand by him. That meant Rivera had to be out of the picture.

  Pagan had a sneaking admiration for the old man, not least because he was everything that the younger man wished to be. Cultured, educated, handsome, even dignified. These were all attributes that Pagan could merely pretend to. And Rivera had been loyal without sacrificing his principles. This was the one thing Pagan envied above all else. He, too, had been loyal, but he'd never had to sacrifice principles because he had none. And, except in the darkest heart of the night, he was proud of it.

  But maybe Rivera wasn't the problem. Maybe it was Bartlett. And if something happened to Rivera, wouldn't Arledge immediately suspect him now? He could have Arledge killed, of course, but that would be a shameful waste. Arledge was useful. He could get Gardner's ear, and if he had that, he had the ear of the President, the only ear that really mattered in the final analysis. So there had to be another way.

  That he would find it, Pagan didn't doubt. That it would be easy, he wasn't as sure. But it was important to make a beginning. Once the wheels started to turn, things would happen, and he liked that. He was a man who made things happen, and he liked to be known as such.

  But there were other, smaller matters to attend to. There was the missing shipment. There had t
o be some way to find out what had happened. He wanted to ask Arledge, but not tonight. He couldn't afford to show weakness at the moment. He'd have to find some way to work on Arledge to get what he needed, even if it was just a scrap of information, a rumor, anything that might lead him where he wanted to go.

  After all, he thought, he was paying the man. Why should he hold out? What were these little things? These facts? They were nothing to get upset about. They were, after all, just bits of information, things you could reduce to holes in a card, or numbers on a magnetic tape. Arledge shouldn't be so stingy. Or was that all there was to it? Maybe Arledge had his own agenda. If he took money from two masters, why not three?

  Why not?

  Chapter Seven

  Gil Hoffman sat in the motel room, staring at the bottle in his hand and half listening to the radio's blaring Muzak. He needed a drink, needed one badly. He'd already had a few, but this was no time to be particular. He snatched angrily at the smeared water glass on the table in front of him, tilted three fingers of the cheap whiskey and downed it in two quick gulps. He winced as the rotgut flamed down his gullet like lava, choked back the impulse to gag and wiped a hand across his tearing eyes.

  His nerves were gone, and the whiskey would do nothing to restore them. All it would do was kill the awareness. He could function on autopilot for a while, until the need for his next dose of anesthetic became too insistent to ignore. When the DJ announced the time as 2:00 a.m., Hoffman set the glass down slowly and watched his hand for any sign of the shakes. The glass descended smoothly, and he managed to make contact with the table without a sound. He was ready.

  It was still drizzling when he stepped outside, locking the door behind him while glancing at the empty parking lot across the street. He might have been wrong about the car he'd seen earlier, but it didn't pay to get sloppy, not now, especially. He climbed into the beat-up Ford and fumbled for the ignition. Despite its ratty exterior, the Ford was a crackerjack, and the full-throated rumble of the bored engine made the whole car quiver like a skittish horse.

  He backed away from the motel, letting the car coast, then jerked the wheel and eased up on the clutch. First gear was a mother, and the car jumped, its tires hissing on the slick pavement. The squish of puddles sounded like Niagara to his sensitized ears. He was certain every one in the motel was peering through the curtains, as if they weren't used to late-night goings-on.

  He was going to have to go to Bartlett sooner or later. But when he went, he wanted more than guesswork and innuendo. He needed something solid, something he'd seen with his own eyes at the very least. The web of intersecting rumors was more than enough to convince him, but Bartlett was another matter. Too much logic and not enough instinct in the man, as if tweed somehow prevented your sixth sense from picking up signals.

  Hoffman had the most tantalizing of leads, but he was walking a tightrope. There was a chance, one he didn't even want to consider, that Bartlett was already aware of what was going on. If that turned out to be true, and if he called attention to it — and to himself — he was cutting his own throat. But he couldn't believe, didn't want to believe it. Bartlett wasn't that kind of man. About Gardner he was less certain, but, in all fairness, he didn't really know the new DCI. Field agents seldom got to hobnob with the big boys, and Hoffman wasn't kidding himself. He was the quintessential field hand.

  On the other hand, guys like Vince Arledge were all too common in the Agency. High-strung, impatient, smarter than everybody else — or so they thought — they got tired of the restraints. They saw the goal, and they wanted it quick and — if necessary — dirty. Getting it done was all that counted. Unfortunately they were so tightly focused that they lost sight of the big picture. He'd known Arledge in Angola. The man had a reputation for a short fuse and rather loose interpretation of the rules, such as they were.

  That Vince Arledge was sitting on Guillermo Pagan's shoulder, like some perverse Jiminy Cricket, didn't look promising. The meet was scheduled in less than an hour. Hoffman wasn't entirely pleased with himself for his suspicions, but the one thing he knew so far was that drugs were coming into Homestead under Agency cover. And somebody had to know about it. Chuddy Johnson said it was Arledge, but Johnson might have been bluffing. In any case, Johnson was dead. That meant he had to find the next rung on the ladder, or somebody who knew who it was. There wasn't a better candidate than Vince Arledge.

  Homestead was a secure base, but it was wide open if you knew where to look. And Gil Hoffman was in the know. The Allpoints Transport hangar was tucked away in a far corner, only fifty yards from the chain-link fence surrounding the far reaches of the base. There were patrols, but they wouldn't pose a problem. Hoffman didn't have to go over the wire to see what he wanted to see. Night glasses, a telephoto lens and some infrared film were all he needed. He patted the camera case on the seat beside him, letting his fingers drum on the soft leather.

  Route 821 took him right past the base. The marshland on the perimeter hadn't been developed because Uncle Sam owned it. Hiding the low-slung Ford in the tall grass wouldn't be a problem, either. All he needed was a little luck, and it was about time for some to come his way. It was more than overdue.

  The highway glared back at him, the wet surface picking up his headlights and smearing them across the pavement. He turned off 821 into the opening to a service road, a narrow strip of asphalt that was seldom used. Few people knew of its existence. Hoffman had used Allpoints Transport before, and knew of the road because it had concerned him as a possible security problem. He left the engine running but killed the lights.

  Hoffman opened the door, reached into the back seat and jerked the heavy bolt cutters off the floor. He looked both ways, but the highway was dead, nothing moving in either direction. A steel chain held the levered gate shut, but it was no match for the cutters. He ripped the chain off, then tilted the gate open. It didn't want to move at first, but finally, squealing every foot of the way, it tipped up enough for him to get the Ford past.

  He dumped the cutters into the back, then nosed the Ford, still lightless, past the bar, scraping the roof on its underside. He coasted twenty-five feet or so past the gate, then went back to tug the bar back into place. Covering every base, he rapped the severed chain around the post, then sprinted back to the car.

  The CIA man went the rest of the way without lights, goosing the engine once in a while, just enough to keep the car roiling forward. A mile off the highway the roof of the Allpoints Transport hangar rose above the tall grass between the road and the invisible fence. Hoffman got out of the vehicle to look for a safe place to stash it. In the unlikely event of somebody passing by, he didn't want the car spotted.

  Testing the soggy ground carefully, he found a patch that seemed a little more solid than the rest and stomped around to make sure it was broad enough to take the whole car. If he had to leave in a hurry, the last thing he wanted was to get bogged down and have to escape on foot.

  He nudged the Ford off the road rear end first and let it roll, ready to brake at the first sign that the car was sinking. The tail dipped once, but rose again almost at once. When he had it far back enough to conceal behind the tall grass, he got out, tugging the camera bag after him and leaving the keys in the ignition.

  Easing into the grass across the road, he moved forward. The blades towered over his head, in some places reaching a dozen feet into the air. Every step sent small rivers of water rushing toward him. The footing was less than perfect, and he slipped once and fell to one knee. He'd broken his fall with one hand, but it sank into muck well past his wrist. The grass was tough, its edges sharp and spiny. It tore at his exposed skin and sawed at his clothing as he struggled toward the fence.

  The flight was due in any minute, and Hoffman knew he'd have only the tiniest of windows. If he wasn't in position when the plane touched down, he mightn't get anything conclusive. Pagan wasn't about to waste time. The muck sucked at his boots, and thick clots clung to the textured soles, making every s
tep that much harder.

  Hoffman heard an engine in the distance, but it was too early to tell whether it was the Allpoints Transport. The sound grew louder as he floundered through the grass, which was beginning to thin a little as he approached the fence. It was a twin-engine plane, but he still couldn't tell what kind. The Air Force didn't use many prop jobs anymore, but Homestead was used by Air National Guard units, and the Coast Guard kept a handful of patrol planes in its own hangar.

  The red lights of the hangar roofline bobbed in and out of view then Hoffman broke through the last stand of tall grass. He was in waist-high weeds now, and mosquitoes swarmed up out of the standing water and settled on his bare skin like soft down. He'd forgotten to put repellant on and cursed himself.

  The sound of the plane continued to grow, and he saw its landing lights to the southeast. The pilot wasn't wasting time on a flyby, and the aircraft swooped down out of the mist and rain. It touched down with a squeal of rubber, hitting an auxiliary strip and rolling out of sight on the far side of the hangar. He heard the muted rumble as the pilot feathered his props, then settled into a steady taxi.

  Two minutes later, as he scrambled to thread the long lens in place, the plane reappeared, rocking over the expansion strips in the concrete. The lens screwed home, and the CIA man let the camera dangle from his neck while he used the night glasses.

  Two men stood in front of a gray van left of the hangar, one almost totally obscured, the other visible only from the back. All he could tell was that the man was massive and that his head was shaved.

  Hoffman switched to the camera and snapped two quick shots of the van. He knew he was skating on thin ice, because he was no photographer, but he needed something he could slam on Bartlett's desk, something to wave in front of his nose to make him sit up and take notice.

  Through the viewfinder, he watched as the bald-headed man turned slightly and he clicked the shutter. Almost as if he'd heard the noise, the man turned to face him, and Hoffman snapped a second shot. Baldie tapped his companion on the shoulder, and Hoffman smiled when he recognized Vince Arledge. He snapped two more, then switched back to the night glasses.