Ken Goddard - Double blind

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."