CLARK AND LARSON started off well before dawn, heading south again in their borrowed Subaru four-wheel-drive wagon. In the front was a briefcase. In the back were a few boxes of rocks, under which were two Beretta automatics whose muzzles were threaded for silencers. It was a pity to abuse the guns by placing all those rocks in the same box, but neither man figured to take the weapons home after the job was completed, and both fervently hoped that they wouldn't be needed in any way.
"What exactly are we looking for?" Larson asked after an hour or so of silence.
"I was kind of hoping that you'd know. Something unusual."
"Seeing people walk around with guns down here isn't terribly unusual, in case you haven't noticed."
"Organized activity?"
"That, too, but it does give us something to think about. We won't be seeing much military activity," Larson said.
"Why?"
"Guerrillas raided a small army post again last night-heard it on the radio this morning. Either M-19 or PARC is getting frisky."
"Cortez," Clark said at once.
"Yeah, that makes sense. Pull all the official heat in a different direction."
"I'm going to have to meet that boy," Mr. Clark told the passing scenery.
"And?" Larson asked.
"And what do you think? The bastard was part of a plot to kill one of our ambassadors, the Director of the FBI, and the Administrator of DEA, plus a driver and assorted bodyguards. He's a terrorist."
"Take him back?"
"Do I look like a cop?" Clark responded.
"Look, man, we don't - "
"I do. By the way, have you forgotten those two bombs? I believe you were there."
"That was -"
"Different?" Clark chuckled. "That's what they always say, 'But that's different.' Larson, I didn't go to Dartmouth like you did, and maybe the difference is lost on me."
"This isn't the fucking movies!" Larson said angrily.
"Carlos, if this was the movies, you'd be a blond with big tits and a loose blouse. You know, I've been in this business since you were driving cars made by Matchbox, and I've never got laid on the job. Never. Not once. Hardly seems fair." He might have added that he was married and took it seriously, but why confuse the lad? He had accomplished what he'd intended. Larson smiled. The tension was broken.
"I guess maybe I got you there, Mr. Clark."
"Where is she?"
"Gone till the end of the week - European run. I left a message in three places - I mean,
"Good. This one is complicated enough. When it's all over, marry the girl, settle down, raise a family."
"I've thought about that. What about - I mean, is it fair to - "
"The job you're in is less dangerous statistically than running a liquor store in a big city. They all raise families. What holds you together on a big job in a faraway place is the knowledge that there is somebody to come back to. You can trust me on that one, son."
"But for the moment we're in the area you want to look at. Now what do we do?"
"Start prowling the side roads. Don't go too fast." Clark cranked down his window and started smelling the air. Next he opened his briefcase and pulled out a topographical map. He grew quiet for several minutes, getting his brain in synch with the situation. There were soldiers up there, trained men in Indian country, being hunted and trying to evade contact. He had to get himself in the proper frame of mind, alternately looking at the terrain and the map. "God, I'd kill for the right kind of radio right now."
"Just to talk to them?"
"Look, kid, how much security you seen so far?"
"Why, none."
"Right. With a radio I could call them down out of the hills and we could pick them up, clean them up, and drive 'em to the fucking airport for the flight home," Clark said, the frustration manifest in his voice.
"That's craz - Jesus, you're right. This situation really is crazy." The realization dawned on Larson, and he was amazed that he'd misinterpreted the situation so completely.
