Backlash

by Don Pendleton

  Rivera got to his feet with some difficulty. He looked Bolan in the eye for a long moment. "You know, Mr. Belasko, it's easier to fool yourself than it is to fool anyone else. After a while I told myself that I believed in what I was doing. That reform was an unworkable nightmare, that what was the only way things could be. I had betrayed my ideals, sold them down the river for my own safety, and the only way I could justify that betrayal was to convince myself, and to convince everyone else, by brute force if necessary, that there was only one reality, that the world as it was all that stood between us and the abyss."

  "You didn't really come back here to recover the money, did you, General?"

  "Of course I did. What kind of a fool do you think I am? I've lived too long, Mr. Belasko, far too long with a secret that I can't undo. And I now have what I didn't have when it counted — wisdom. I know that it's too late to change the past and that the future is beyond our power to change. Man reaches too far. I reached too far. But I won't make that mistake again." Rivera swiveled in the chair. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to be alone. With my past."

  Bolan nodded. He pushed aside the flap and left the tent. Outside, it was high noon, but the sun had vanished. A swirling mass of black clouds had swept down from the mountains, pouring over the tops of the trees like a thick liquid. The first drops of rain splattered on the canvas like gunshots. Bolan felt a few drops on his shoulders and watched the small puffs of dust other drops kicked up from the bone-dry earth.

  He didn't know what to make of Rivera. If the old man was an actor, it was a bravura performance. If he was on the level, it made for a whole new ball game. There was a passion in the man, but it could cut either way. If Rivera truly believed the past was a dead issue, that things couldn't be changed, then he just might be here for the fortune he'd left behind. But if, as Bolan was beginning to suspect, Rivera harbored long-hidden thoughts of setting right the past, it could be a long and dangerous path. Bolan didn't know which, and had to expect both. But how did you prepare for an earthquake triggered by a single footfall?

  He looked up at the sky where the clouds had stopped swirling. A uniform sheet of charcoal now covered it, seeming to rest like a dark gray tent on the surrounding peaks. It was as if the entire world were confined to this single valley. They had already been shrink-wrapped in funeral garb, and the dying had yet to begin.

  Bolan walked toward the trees, needing a solitude of his own. Among the green fronds, darkened by the absence of sunlight, he listened to the patter of the rain on the thick, fleshy leaves stretching high overhead. As if in response to his glance, the sky seemed to split open, and a clap of thunder signaled the beginning of a real downpour. Soon the leaves were too heavy to hold the water off any longer, and streams coursed down the trunks and branches, writhing silver bands wriggling like slender snakes toward the ground.

  The steady drumbeat of the huge drops on the green canopy grew to a roar. Bolan stood under a thickly leaved tree and tried to keep dry. He watched Rivera's tent, then let himself slide to the ground. Resting his chin on his knees, he stared through the slashing rain. Rivera appeared in the mouth of the tent and stared at the sky, slowly slipping out into the open to spread his arms, palms up.

  Rivera was smiling.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Gil Hoffman sat patiently, watching the motel across the road. Vince Arledge had been inside for two days without once venturing out, even for meals. He'd had a pizza delivered the first night, but had had no other visitors. It was getting tough just to sit there and watch. Hoffman was dog-tired. Twice he'd fallen asleep only to wake up with a desperate feeling that events were unfolding over which he had no control.

  It was tempting to barge in on Arledge, but Hoffman was convinced he had to wait, to let the man make the first move. If Vince was in it alone, he thought, no harm done. If he wasn't, Hoffman had to know. Rapping the wheel impatiently, whistling through his teeth, Hoffman poured himself another cup of cold coffee from the thermos and swallowed another benny.

  He thought back to the beginning of it all and his conversation with Ricky Vargas. He was certain now that he had been right. He was too old for this crap. He kept thinking of his wife and kids. He hadn't seen them in a month, and it had been the longest month of his life. Something kept nagging at him, telling him it might be the last month. He didn't want to believe it, but he knew himself too well to argue with a feeling like that.

  Hoffman's stomach felt as if it were full of hot lead. The acid kept churning, and the coffee just made it worse. He tried another cheese sandwich, but his mouth was dry, the bread even drier, and the cheese wouldn't go down. He swallowed hard, washed the mouthful down with more cold coffee, then rolled down his window and tossed the last of the sandwich into the weeds.

  More than anything in the world, Hoffman wanted to go to sleep. It wouldn't be the end of the world, he told himself. He'd planted a locator on Arledge's 4×4 the first night. He kept telling himself that even if Arledge left while he slept, he could find him again.

  But that was only part of the problem. Arledge might just be the tip of the iceberg. Until he knew for sure, he had to stay awake. Hoffman fished another Benzedrine out of his pocket and washed it down with the last of the coffee. He felt his nerves pulsing just under his skin, imagining for a minute that he could hear them humming like high-tension wires.

  The CIA agent got out of the car and stretched his legs, running a fistful of nervous fingers across his jaw. His whiskers grated on the skin of his palm. He stepped deeper into the woods to urinate, glancing over his shoulder to keep an eye on the motel. He zipped up again and sat on the hood of the car.

  The Benzedrine was making it harder to concentrate. He knew the danger, but measured against so many other dangers it seemed like a small risk, one that at least gave him a return. Then Hoffman chuckled out loud. He remembered the first time he'd taken a benny. It had been Vince Arledge who had given it to him. "So much water under the bridge," he mumbled. Then, aloud, he said, "So much spilled milk."

  The woods behind him grew even more silent. The flashing neon of the motel sign, a flamingo flapping its garish pink wings, hurt his eyes. He closed them, and in the darkness inside his own head he could still see the grotesque bird, its wings constantly flapping, making no progress at all. Like me, he thought. He rubbed his eyes, pressing them back into his skull hard enough to hurt.

  The pain made him feel good somehow, made him more alert, pushed a lot of memories away. He and Vince had been through so much together. What the hell had happened to him? Hoffman wondered. Where had it all fallen apart? Whose fault was it, anyway?

  Hoffman knew the answer even before the question fully formed in his mind. The fault belonged to Vince Arledge, and to no one else. Sure, there were temptations, but they were there for everybody. Sure, there were rotten choices to be made, but everybody had to make them. Arledge was no exception, and he was no victim.

  Or was he?

  Who knew? And in the final analysis what did it matter?

  Hoffman recognized the signs. He was getting antsy. He was losing control, losing that analytical edge, that split-second advantage that perfect control gave him. It wasn't just a matter of reflexes, although that was part of it. It was a kind of second sight, seeing things before they happened, anticipating them just enough to compensate, to deflect them before they did any damage. But there was nothing he could do about it. He was what he was, just as Vince Arledge was what he was. And what they were, separately and together, had brought them to this point with an inevitability that was almost too perfect.

  Hoffman eased off the car. He felt cold, even though it was a hot and muggy night. He wrapped his arms across his chest, hugged them to himself and rocked back and forth on his heels. God, he hated this shit. How much he wished it could be over. But it wasn't. It was a long way from being over.

  He climbed back into the car and sat in the passenger seat. He had a little more room, and he curled his legs and tucked hi
s feet under him, leaning back against the door. Pouring the last of the cold coffee from the third and final thermos, he watched the motel out of the corner of his eye, but all he could see clearly was the flapping wings of the damn flamingo.

  He choked the coffee down and crushed the flimsy paper cup into a ball. The little portable clock on the dashboard glowed a pale green. It said 2:17.

  His eyes closed for a moment, and he felt a tremendous wave of sleep trying to suck him under. His lids were heavy, and they fluttered when he forced them open. He'd been chintzy with the bennies, and it was catching up with him. Hoffman screwed his head down into his shoulders and twisted his neck. The crack of his vertebrae felt good. He did it again, and this time the crack was less audible and less satisfying. He shrugged his shoulders and smacked his cheeks. The sting of his own hand on his face made him shiver.

  He changed position and leaned across the seat, his head propped on the window ledge. He could see only half the motel now, just far enough down to watch the top of the doors. It was enough, but he felt negligent, as if he were slacking off. And he didn't give a shit.

  He heard tires on the gravel of the parking lot and he sat up. Maybe Vince was having a visitor. He grabbed binoculars off the dash and sat up. A late-model Oldsmobile pulled up in front of number ten. Arledge was in number eight. The Olds was right next to his 4×4.

  Two people sat in the front seat. They huddled together for a minute, then the driver opened his door. The passenger was a woman. She slid across the seat, under the steering wheel, and climbed out behind the driver. Hoffman twiddled the focus, sharpened the image a bit and held his breath.

  The driver walked to the door of number ten, which he opened, and stepped inside, leaving it open for the woman. She teetered slightly on high heels, entered the room and turned to close the door. Her face was clearly visible under the pale yellow light. Even at this range it was obvious that her lipstick was a little smeared. She closed the door, and that was that.

  Hoffman allowed himself to sink back toward the car door, the binoculars in his lap. Nothing like a false alarm to get the juices pumping, he thought.

  The agent was nearing the end of his tether. If something didn't happen soon, he was going to have to do something about it. He didn't know what he could do, but there had to be something. His options were limited working on his own. It would have been nice to mount a full-fledged surveillance operation, but that just wasn't in the cards. He didn't know who he could trust, if anybody.

  He thought about the big guy in Nicaragua and wished Belasko was here. That was a man you could count on. But that would have to wait. There was business to transact, and besides, he reminded himself, Arledge was an open door. Somebody had set up the Gregory hit. Somebody had leaked the news about Rivera. Somebody, in fact, was running a full-fledged wire service for the other side.

  It could have been Bartlett, but he didn't think so. Everything pointed to Vince Arledge. Of course, in the Byzantine logic of Winston Bartlett, anything was possible. But this seemed a little too convoluted even for the DDO. It had to be Arledge, and the best way to find out was to take him out of the loop. Bartlett hadn't heard from Arledge in several days. That was suggestive, but not conclusive. But Arledge was plugged into all the wrong circuits on this one. Only things he knew had been leaked. To be on the safe side, Bartlett had cut him off, or so he said.

  But the snowball was already rolling downhill, and it was up to him to stop it before it became an avalanche. A car door slammed, and Hoffman turned to see Arledge's brake lights go on.

  Here goes nothing, he thought, reaching for the ignition key.

  Chapter Thirty

  Bolan lay on his bunk, watching the bugs crawl up and down the mosquito netting. He stopped counting after he'd spotted two dozen species. If there were any more out there, he didn't want to know about them. He was uneasy with the way things were shaping up. The contingent of American advisers, just a dozen men, had seemed too aloof, too detached. They kept to themselves even at mealtime. It seemed as if they were trying to conceal something, either from the men they were there to advise, or from themselves.

  The determined lockjaw, the tight mouths and immobile faces suggested an unaccustomed restraint. He'd seen that look before, and he didn't like the parallel. The CIA advisers training Hmong tribesmen in the mountains of Laos had had that look in the last days before they'd pulled out, leaving the people to fend for themselves. It was a mixture of resignation and contempt, but for whom was never clear, not even to the men themselves. They just knew that something had gone terribly wrong and that they were powerless to do anything about it, regardless of their feelings. So the next best thing was semiparalysis.

  He knew Rivera wasn't a popular choice at the Agency. He was the candidate of desperation, the marginal player sent in when the game was out of reach. More often than not, the guy was on a bus back to the Texas League when he stepped out of the shower. Bolan didn't know if that was Rivera's impending fate, but he wouldn't bet against it. What had started out as a run at cocaine cowboys had turned into a political pipe dream. The warrior was backstopping a Company plan to win the hearts and minds of Nicaraguans in far less time than any reasonable man would think possible. It was a puppeteer's two-minute drill, and he kept tripping over the strings.

  The heat sat on Bolan's chest like an anvil, and he had trouble breathing. He had to get out of the tent, get a little air, or he'd suffocate. The warrior grabbed an AK-47, standard armament in the camp, and slung it over his shoulder. Pushing aside the netting, he stepped out of the tent. The ground was as dry as if it had never rained, but clouds of smoky fog coiled among the trees, contorting like ghosts in a kid's Halloween nightmare.

  It had cooled down a little from the afternoon's sweltering oppression, but it was still more than seventy-five degrees. A half moon drifted in and out of the ragged clouds. High above the camp, a dozen bats fluttered like black rags, their wings alternately flapping and dragging as they spiraled in tight circles after the bugs.

  Bolan drifted aimlessly, crossing the makeshift parade ground at an angle toward a dim light that showed in one of the advisers' tents. Before he got halfway across the hard-baked square the light went out.

  He slowed and watched the moon for a few seconds. It seemed to glow with inordinate brightness for a moment, then dimmed, and he realized there was a very thin overcast. He heard a guitar, some shuffling blues thing, as he drifted closer. The guitarist was good, bending notes and wrenching triplet clusters with painful restraint, building his lines slowly, patiently, a phrase at a time, letting space speak as eloquently as the strings.

  As Bolan drew closer, the tent flap swung open. One of the advisers, a small black man shaped like a barrel with arms, stepped into the moonlight, a portable cassette player in his hands. He moved in time to the music, letting his body take its cue from the guitar. He moved away from the tent as an ironic Oklahoma drawl snarled, "Thank you, Homes."

  The black man mumbled something Bolan couldn't catch and drifted toward the edge of the camp. The warrior moved after him, and at the first step the man swung around, a .45 in his hand. "You shouldn't sneak up on folks, cowboy."

  "Sorry," Bolan said. He nodded toward the cassette player. "Luther Allison, right?"

  The man shook his head. "Not bad. I'm surprised you ever heard of the dude, let alone recognize his style."

  "A good bluesman is as recognizable by his instrument as by his voice."

  "That's what they say. Especially those white folks who think they're cool 'cause they recognize B. B. King. My name's Caspar Washington. They call me Cazz." He stuck out a hand that felt as if it had been carved out of ebony, as hard as a rock. But he made no attempt to squeeze to show how macho he was. It was all there in the grip, and he knew it.

  "Mike Belasko."

  "Couldn't sleep or didn't want to?"

  "I don't think I know the difference anymore."

  "You're right. Maybe there isn't one."

&n
bsp; "Listen, I didn't mean to startle you. I was just walking off a lousy mood."

  "Don't walk too far. These woods are full of snakes. Good idea to hang close to the edge of camp."

  "Thanks."

  "Later…" Washington drifted off, cranking up the volume a bit as he left the tents behind.

  Bolan moved toward the narrow road that entered the camp at one end and left it at the other. A winding gash in the forest that simply swelled enough to accommodate the tents, then closed up again, it was already losing the battle against the lush growth, sprouting patches of green and narrowing at the top where the canopy on either side reached out to heal the wound.

  The warrior walked about sixty or seventy yards, just past the first curve in the road. When he turned to look back, he could no longer see the camp. The road itself looked otherworldly in the uncertain moonlight. At times the leaves, soaked by the day's rain, turned the color of skim milk, and when the moon receded, they faded to battleship-gray. If he didn't know why he was here, and what was going on every second in the forest all around him, it might have been peaceful.

  But he knew too much.

  He was about to turn back when a slight glimmer caught his eye. For a moment he thought it might have been a firefly, but as he let his eyes sweep the forest across the road, he realized there were no others. If there was one, there would be more.

  The glimmer came once more, then disappeared. Bolan slipped the safety off the AK-47 and stepped into the trees. He had to go slowly, unfamiliar as he was with the terrain.

  He swept tangled vines aside with his free arm, hefting the assault rifle in his right, his finger curled through the guard. The forest floor was a jumble of rotting timber and leafy mulch. Thorny vines wound around one another and everything else in their search for the scattered light that managed to sift through the canopy. His clothes kept getting snagged on the thorns, and he was growing impatient. He heard mumbled voices and stopped to listen. They were moving away from him out on the road, and he realized he had simply taken a short cut through a wedge of forest where the road doubled back on itself.