Stephen Hunter - Point Of Impact

He made a face, and blinked, realizing that either out of rage or horror he’d begun to weep.

Shaking, he turned to the last page. No, it wasn’t the famous Annex B, which was presumably locked up somewhere in the National Security Office or the Pentagon or FBI headquarters or out at Langley. But it was something quite interesting nevertheless.

It was an export order for an Electrotek AMSAT LC-L5400 series Directional Electronic Intercept Vehicle, on consignment to Salvadoran Military Intelligence, cleared by Customs, as delivered by RamDyne.

It was the kind of thing that could enable men in it to listen to a desperate man in a hotel room call FBI headquarters in New Orleans and ask for one Nick Memphis, and then go in and hack him to death with axes.

LANCER ADVISES NO FURTHER ACTION, said the stamp. NATIONAL SECURITY IS AT STAKE (REFER TO ANNEX B).

It was a war party.

Shreck, the hard-looking black man who was called Morgan State, and the serious Hatcher were waiting for him.

“Colonel Shreck, I – ”

“Listen to me, Dobbler. I need a fast assessment. Try not to get this one wrong.”

Shreck’s face was hooded and taut; he looked like the statue of a violent medieval German knight in the armor room of the Metropolitan Museum of Art that had briefly fascinated Dobbler when he was a child.

“Just before Swagger was killed, he spent some time in that truck with an FBI agent. Now, what I have to know, would he have talked? As we break the incident down, they were not together more than four minutes, all of it highly stressed. Is it possible that during that period of time, Swagger could have told the agent something, convinced him of certain things?”

“Ah – ” said Dobbler, stalling for time.

But then, “No. No, it’s not probable. Swagger was a private, taciturn man, we saw it here. And he couldn’t have trusted anyone and he couldn’t have known who it was he’d have picked up. No, it’s not likely.”

“Possibly he passed him something,” said Morgan State.

“But Colonel Shreck, there was no direct link to us. We operated under dummy institutions, and left no trail. What could Swagger have known?”

The colonel nodded imperceptibly.

“May I ask what’s happening?” Dobbler said.

“Tell him,” Shreck said to Hatcher.

“We’ve learned from a friend that an FBI special agent named Nicholas Memphis – the agent Swagger kidnapped – has requested access to the FBI’s RamDyne file. It’s exactly the sort of thing that Lancer is supposed to protect us from. And somehow – stupidly, incredibly, by one of those bureaucratic screwups that happen, the transmission was authorized. He has the file. He knew Swagger and he has the file.”

“Good lord,” said Dobbler, a cold stab of fear coming into him. “Could he go to the press? Or to a politician? Or to – ”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Shreck impatiently, turning to Morgan State. “Get Payne. Tell him we want this Memphis taken, interrogated, and all his secrets removed. Then Payne can kill him.”

The phone was ringing. Nick stopped drying his breakfast dishes and went to pick it up.

“Yeah.”

“Nick?”

“Uh, yeah?” The voice, a female’s, had a familiar lilt to it.

“Nick, it’s Sally Ellion in Rec – ”

“Sure, hi, what’s up?”

“Nick, you’ve got me in so much trouble.” She was whispering.

“Oh. The file.”

“I didn’t know you were on suspension.”

“Ah. Yeah, yeah, it was crummy of me not to tell you. I’m very sorry. It wasn’t honest behavior. I just had this damn case I was really hot to clear. I thought…oh, it was so stupid, I thought in my time off I’d just be able to concentrate on it.”

“Nick, I’ve got a directive to return that file by special courier instantly.”

“Oh, Jesus. I hope you’re not in any trouble.”

“I have to have that file back. You weren’t even supposed to leave the building with it.”

“Yeah, but since I couldn’t stay in the building, I couldn’t read it there, could I? Anyway, Sally, I’m very sorry to have disappointed you. I’m done with it, I’ll leave in ten minutes and have it back to you in an hour. Okay? And could this be our little secret, I mean, the fact that I actually looked at it?”

“Oh, yes. It has to be. I can’t tell them you left the building with it. Please hurry.”

“I’m on my way.”

Nick showered quickly, and put on a gray suit. In a strange way it pleased him to have some mission in life, even if it was only to deliver the file.

He’d been turning over what he’d learned in his head. He remembered the strange message the man who may have been the Salvadoran secret policeman Eduardo Lanzman had crawled into the bathroom to leave for him. ROM DO was the message in the blood, in the split second before it was obliterated. Possibly the beginnings of the words Romeo Dog , which was early-sixties Army radio code for the letters R and D and the Bay of Pigs invasion force call sign in 1962? R and D . Ram and Dyne. RamDyne…

It was almost something. But it was still nothing. Why didn’t he write RA DY, why ROM DO, what was there about the radio codes of the Bay of Pigs? If it was from the Bay of Pigs?

He shook his head, feeling an ache begin in it somewhere. He now believed that he had an indication – but no legally constituted evidence, another matter entirely – that this RamDyne was in some way involved in the murder of Eduardo Lanzman and possibly the murder, therefore, of Archbishop Jorge Roberto Lopez. He knew he’d ventured into very hazy areas, the vaunted wilderness of mirrors, where it was possible to lose your bearings in a second, and become so riddled with paranoia that nothing made sense anymore. Everything in him told him to back off, it was none of his business.

But the idea…those guys running around on their own special mission. Who watched them? Who paid them? Shreck, Payne, the others? To whom did they give their accounts? To some Lancer Committee. Who founded them? Where did they come from in the year 1964, suddenly rich and influential enough to get the deal going with fifteen hundred Armalite rifles. Who were they?

Annex B would tell him.

I’ve got to get Annex B, he told himself.

But what the fuck is Annex B?

“There he goes,” said Tommy Montoya in the van, “that’s my little Nicky.”

Jack Payne, watching through the scope as Nick Memphis walked from his little suburban house to his Dodge, and climbed in, just grunted.

“Take him now, Payne-O?” asked Tommy.

“No. They’re expecting him. Let him return the fucking file, then we’ll nail him on the way out. What I want is someone in his house. He’s got to have a piece in there. If it ain’t a piece, he’ll have a kitchen knife or a razor or something. I want it lifted. We’ll use it when we chill his bones out after our little chat.”

“Jack, man, it’s no sweat, I can do the house,” said one of the other team members.

“Yeah, Pony, that’s fine, you do it. We’ll wait on you.”

“You don’t want to tail him?” asked Mr. Ed, the driver.

“Nah. Let Pony get into the house and pick out a nice toy. No prints now, Pony, you got that?”

“Sí, Jack, sure, got it.”

“Okay, go to it, son.”

Pony stepped out of the back of the Electrotek 5400 surveillance van parked a discreet distance down from Memphis’s house. Jack watched him go. He was dressed like a workman. He went to the house, knocked on the door, then blandly went around back.

“He’ll get in,” said Edwards, always called Mr. Ed. “I seen him do locks. He’s like a fucking genius with locks.”