Later that same day, Rick pulled into a Chevron station and, leaving his van running, used a public telephone. “Agent Hammerstein, please…tell him it’s Rick Strange.”
Bill Hammerstein came onto the line. “What have you got for me, buddy? Make it good, and keep it short.”
“I think I got her hooked.”
“Is that all?”
“It’s a major step. But she’s got a problem…”
“What’s that?”
Rick told him about the accident.
“And now, apparently most of the rest of them are gun-shy. I guess they got their real baptism by fire, but they’re not sure they wanna continue.”
A long pause at the other end left Rick wondering if he oughta just pack up his van and drive to Mexico. He felt like he had done his part, as much as he could, and he couldn’t have foreseen this new obstacle to satisfying the demands of a man who had become something of a nemesis, and who apparently wouldn’t take no for an answer. Mexico itself was not a permanent solution, but if he stayed there long enough, like Leroy said, he’d probably drop off the radar. The FBI had bigger criminals to go after; in the scheme of things, he didn’t amount to more than a pea-size pebble underfoot.
“Did you know the guy?”
“He was the guy I was gonna use to keep track of things for me, in exchange for pot. I told you about that, right?”
“Whatever. But he was gonna keep me posted.”
“I guess he can’t now, huh?”
“No…not unless he can communicate from the grave.”
“What’re you doing right now?”
“I’m talking to you…boss.”
“Give me a minute and I’ll tell you whether or not I think that’s funny.”
“I’m not doing anything right now. Like I said, I just talked to Heidi…we had coffee. I got some free time. Why?”
“I want you to come up to the office and tell us about this little caper of theirs. I want to put it in writing and have you sign it. When can you be here?”
“I’m on my way.”
“Good.”
The office was located at the end of a long corridor in the Federal Building, in downtown Portland. Opening the door, Rick stuck his head inside. “Rick Strange. I’m here to see Bill Hammerstein. He’s expecting me.”
The receptionist buzzed through to the agent’s office. “There’s a Mr. Strange here to see you, Mr. Hammerstein.”
“Show him in.”
The receptionist looked up. “This way,” she said.
Rick followed the woman into an inner office. It was furnished with two metal desks, a file cabinet, a wooden table with a coffeemaker on it, and two visitor chairs. Bill Hammerstein sat behind one of the desks, and his partner, Tom McCullers, sat behind the other. A woman wearing a gray business outfit, her hair in a bun, occupied one of the visitor chairs. She had a stenographer’s notebook on her lap and a wooden pencil in her hand. As Rick entered the room, she regarded him through a pair of steel-rimmed glasses.
“This is Miss Jensen,” Bill said. “She’s here to take down everything you tell me. We’re gonna type it up afterwards and have you sign it. We’re also gonna record it. Any objections?”
“No.”
“Have a seat.”
Rick spent the next fifteen minutes reiterating everything Heidi had told him about the accident. Concentrating on the gist of what had happened, naturally she had left out a number of details. Rick did know why they had gone out there, of course: to do as much damage to the site as they could, and thereby register a protest. He could also tell the agents about the accident: how Carlos had used the bulldozer to demolish one of the condos and that, during this part of the operation, Dalt had hopped up alongside and apparently lost his balance, resulting in a fateful fall. But Heidi had said nothing more. Besides the bulldozer incident, Rick was in the dark about the rest of their activity while they were at the site. He assumed that the rest of the group had been there, but he couldn’t be sure.
When the session ended, the stenographer left the room to type up her notes. While she was gone the two agents probed Rick for anything else he knew about what the group had been up to. Again, Rick only knew as much as Heidi had conveyed over coffee. As his purpose for seeing her in the first place had been to set her up, that had been his focus. He had not spent much time on other matters, only on what seemed relevant.
“You did good,” Bill said. “But if she comes around on this and can get the others on board, you’re probably gonna be seeing more of her. So use the opportunity to learn everything you can about their activities, past and present. We want to know it all, especially if they’re in touch with any other groups.”
“Yeah, and see if you can find out more about the Mobley Johnson flyover. We still don’t know enough about that.”
“Well, guys, since my ass is on the line, you know I’m gonna do what I can.”
“That’s what we like to hear, Rick!” Bill told him.
“Yeah, you keep up the good work, and you’ll be home free.”
The stenographer returned. She had typed up his testimony on an official form, and they had him sign at the bottom, with her standing by as an official witness. When they were done, Bill thanked her for her help, and she left.
Rick looked at the two agents. “Anything else?”
“You can go now. Just keep us posted.”
“And just remember, you do nice things for us, and we’ll do nice things for you…like let you keep your buns to yourself. Sound like a deal, Rick?”
“Sounds like a deal to me, fellas!”
“We’re just a couple a teddy bears, Rick.” Bill said. “Now get the fuck outta here.”
§ § § § § §
The two FBI agents stepped into Reginald Arnold’s office and took chairs in front of his desk. A brass sign on the desk identified this third man as a district supervisor. Unlike Bill Hammerstein and Tom McCullers, in keeping with his supervisory role, his attire conveyed a more formal appearance. While the other two habitually wore sport shirts and off-the-rack sport coats, Reginald had on a tie, a starched pinstriped shirt, ruby cufflinks, and red suspenders. He had not even bothered to roll up his sleeves.
He listened as the two agents justified their intent.
“This way, we nab them red-handed,” Bill explained. “A domestic terror group caught in the act. A smooth operation, a clean conviction. They walk right into our loving embrace…and we give them the kiss of death. It doesn’t get any easier than that, Reggie.”
Reginald Arnold had been with the agency twenty-one years. He had had his share of adventures—a few gun battles, several sting operations, even a couple of high-speed car chases—but he had also been the victim of more than one miscalculation resulting in a reprimand and a stern warning. Perforce of mistakes and errors of judgment, he had overcome the cowboy syndrome younger, less experienced agents were sometimes prone to.
“What about glitches? You prepared for glitches and fuckups? I was in on the Randy Weaver fiasco—we don’t need another shit storm like that.”
“This is different, Reggie. Randy Weaver was based more on rumors and innuendo than anything else. We know with absolute certainty what these folks are up to. We got a first-class ear on this, and he’s getting firsthand information. We can follow them every step of the way, from inception to execution.”
“What do you think, Tom?”
Tom McCullers cleared his throat. “I’m with Bill on this one, Reggie. We got our boy Rick by the balls—if he steers us wrong, he’s goin’ down, and he knows it. He’s not gonna try to fuck us—if he does, he’s in for a lotta time. Besides, he’s in solid with this group. He was an integral part of that smokestack affair back in Cleveland; they used his expertise to get it done. He’s been with these folks since then, and he’s kept us up to date. We’re onto something big here, Reggie—there may even be other organizations involved. If we let it play out, we’ll have a major bag, zipped up and ready to go.”
Reginald swung around in his chair and looked out the window. He ran a hand over his partially bald head and gave the back of his neck a couple of squeezes.
He wanted to do the right thing here. He wanted to let the two agents handle it. In the last few years, Eco-terrorism had come into its own as a bona fide criminal activity; it was no longer simply protest signs, letters-to-the-editor, publications along the line of Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring, or discussions on National Public Radio. Certain elements within the environmental community had jumped the line between permissible tactics and impermissible tactics. A self-righteous, radical consciousness had usurped a rational, controlled approach to the problem, and the result had been the kind of blatant activity that couldn’t be tolerated. Sabotaging logging equipment, spiking trees, burning down hunting lodges, blowing up SUVs, slashing truck tires, and all the rest—none of it could be allowed to go uninvestigated, and if Bill and his partner were onto something, he didn’t want to be an obstacle.
He turned from the window and faced the two men again. “Here’s the deal…you keep me posted every step of the way. I want a comprehensive, detailed report on everything, from beginning to end. That includes all the contacts you’ve had with your informant. If we go to court on this, I want a solid front. I don’t want to be left out. Understand?”
“You got it, Reggie,” Bill agreed.
“What about you, Tom?”
“Like I said, I’m with Bill.”
“Okay…now get outta here, both of ya. While you guys are out there having all the fun, I got real work to do.”
He picked up paperwork and began looking through it. The two agents got up to leave.
“One more thing, Reggie…”
“Make it quick, Bill.”
“I’d like to get a wire on Rick…”
“Put it in writing and get back to me.”
“It’ll get done right away.”
“Good.”