Victor O'Reilly - The Devil's footprint

Two men faced him. Not policemen, he thought. The street left its mark after a while; a certain look about the eyes. These people had Langley written all over them. Different pressures, different body language. Though again you never quite knew. The CIA was only one player in the intelligence community these days. Anyway, these were intelligence types, possibly with military backgrounds.

"Cigarette?" said the younger man. He had closely cropped blond hair and wore a tan suit.

Rheiman shook his head. "I don't smoke," he said. "I guess you know that."

The older man smiled. "There's a lot of good shit to smoke in Tecuno," he said, "and not a whole lot else to do. Or so I hear."

"I'm Olsen," said the younger man. He indicated his companion. "And this is Mr. Steele."

Steele consulted the screen of his notebook computer. "The convenient thing about you, Edgar," he said, "is that we don't have to charge you with anything. You've already been tried and sentenced. You're a fugitive from justice. All we've go tot do is ship you back home and they're going to strap you in the chair and pull the switch. No new trial needed. Just the formality of an execution."

"A messy business," said Olsen. "Or so they say. And slow. Of course, I've never seen an actual execution. Yours will be the first, Edgar. For that I'm going to get a front seat. I'm told that you literally cook to death."

"You're a multiple murderer and a rapist, Edgar," said Steele, "and worse than that, you're a traitor. Personally, I think the chair is too good for you."

Rheiman shook his head. "I'll serve time," he said, "but I won't be executed. The governor remits every sentence where I come from." He smiled. "Good liberal values."

Steele looked across at Olsen and sighed. "You know, Edgar, you may have a point. And, frankly, that does not make me happy."

"Worse still, Mr. Steele," said Olsen, "Edgar may appeal and argue that he wasn't legally deported from Mexico and then he will probably have to be freed."

"Not a pretty picture," said Steele.

"But then again," said Olsen, "if Edgar was not legally deported, then he is not legally here in the United States."

"Which opens a whole host of possibilities," said Steele. He reached inside his jacked and removed an automatic pistol. Seconds later he screwed on a compact silencer.

Rheiman felt ill. He knew they must be bluffing. Yet it was true. He had not been legally deported. No one knew where he was. He did not know where he was. He could still be in Mexico. This could be a test. He remembered Kathleen and then pain, confusion, and nothing. This was probably one of Oshima's games, a test of loyalty. She did things like this. "Probing defenses," she called it. Well, they would not push it too far. He was essential to the project.

"Who are you people?" said Rheiman.

Steele smiled.

"None of your fucking business," said Olsen.

"What do you want?" said Rheiman.

There was phtt! Sound as Steele fired at Rheiman's left hand.

Blood spurted as Rheiman's thumb and half his palm were blown away. He looked at Steele in horror. "What do you want?" he whispered.

"Nothing really," said Steele cheerfully.

"We're going to kill you," said Olsen. "Though since you're here, Edgar, you can't die."

"A consoling thought, Edgar," said Steele. He raised the pistol again and fired.

Rheiman's eyes were closed. He felt the muzzle flash burn into him. Nothing more. He opened his eyes.

"Just to set the tone," said Olsen. "But you're still alive, Edgar."

"What do you want to know?" he breathed.

"The truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth, Edgar," said Steele.

"Or we'll blow your fucking head off," said Olsen. "And enjoy it."

"Frankly, we'd prefer it, Edgar," said Steele.

"Who are you?" said Rheiman faintly. "I'll tell you everything, but who – who are you?"

"The government calls us in when they really – but really – mean it," said Olsen. "When pushed to the wall, governments are not very nice. Think of us as the end of the line. We're kind of like morticians. We bury shits like you."

"Not everyone knows that, Edgar," said Steele, "but you're a scientist, a curious type, and you were determined to find out."

"So now you know, Edgar," said Olsen. "So the thing is: What are you going to tell us?"

Vernon Slade, National Security Advisor to the President of the United States of America, sat silent, momentarily stunned at what he had heard.

"But Mexico…" he said weakly, "there is a great deal at stake there. Mexico is our neighbor. Our policy is to let Mexico sort out its own problems and eventually they will become truly democratic. We can't intervene in the internal affairs of a friendly nation."

"Mr. Slade," said the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, " eventually is not the problem. It is the here and now we have got to worry about. As we speak, a terrorist weapon of mass destruction is pointed at this country. Perhaps even more to the point, it is aimed at this city by people we know are ruthless enough and irrational enough to act. They will use this weapon. They have attacked this country already. Consider the congressional killings and the Fayetteville massacre."

"And sooner rather than later, Mr. Slade," said William E. Martin. "And you should know that it is our assessment that the Mexican government will cooperate in this venture. They don't want Tecuno seceding any more than we do. The trick is to ask them to ask us to help sort out a little internal problem."

"And if they agree?" said the National Security Advisor.

"The 82 ^ nd Airborne goes into the Devil's Footprint, the base on the plateau," said General Frampton, "and the Mexican Army handles the mopping up." He was silent.

"The terrorist base is a strong position," said Slade, "and this man Fitzduane's assault has already alerted them. We will take casualties."

"Without the Task Force on Terrorism and Fitzduane, we would not know we had a problem," said William Martin. He remembered he was in Washington and corrected himself. "We would not know the extent of the problem."

The slip reassured National Security Advisor Slade. If the Deputy Director of Operations was sufficiently concerned to let his guard down that much, then there really and truly was a problem. Washington, D.C., was on the firing line. He, Vernon Slade, was in actual physical danger. The thought gave him a strange, not unpleasant feeling.

"Are you absolutely sure of this supergun's capability?" said Slade. "Can this turncoat Rheiman's information be relied upon?"

"Mr. Rheiman's information is accurate," said William E. Martin grimly. "He had every motivation to tell the truth, and unfortunately what he said checks out."

The National Security Advisor looked intently at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. "General Frampton, if the President authorizes this mission are you absolutely certain the 82 ^ nd Airborne will succeed?"

General Frampton smiled grimly. "Hooah, sir," he said.

The National Security Advisor looked puzzled. "I don't understand, General. What does – hooah mean?"

General Frampton told him.

There was silence in the room. "Sometimes we forget," said the National Security Advisor, "what we ask of our young men."

"Shall I alert the 82 ^ nd?" said the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

"Yes," said the National Security Advisor.

"Will you recommend the mission, sir?" said William E. Martin.

"Hooah," said the National Security Advisor.

In shocked silence, Governor Diego Quintana drove around the box canyon that had housed the main camp of the Devil's Footprint.

His examination was detailed and took over two hours. At its conclusion, he was pale and a vein could be seen pulsing in his forehead. He tried to hide his feelings, but the tremor in his voice was perceptible. Quintana was terrified, and his fear fed a vicious anger.