"Make a note - this is what happens when you run an op out of D.C. instead of running it from the field. Remember that. You might be a supervisor someday. Ritter thinks like a spymaster instead of a line-animal like me, and he's been out of the field too long. That's the biggest problem at Langley: the guys who run the show have forgotten what it's like out here, and the rules have changed a lot since they serviced all their dead-drops in Budapest. Moreover, this is a very different situation from what they think it is. This isn't intelligence-gathering. It's low-intensity warfare. You gotta know when not to be covert, too. This sort of thing is a whole new ball game."
"They didn't cover this sort of thing at The Farm."
"That's no surprise. Most of the instructors there are a bunch of old -" Clark stopped. "Slow down some."
"What is it?"
"Stop the car."
Larson did as he was told, pulling off the gravel surface. Clark jumped out with his briefcase, which seemed very strange indeed, and took the ignition keys as he did so. His next move was open the back, then to toss the keys back to Larson. Clark dug into one of the boxes, past the samples of gold-bearing rock, and came out with his Beretta and silencer. He was wearing a bush jacket, and the gun disappeared nicely in the small of his back, silencer and all. Then he waved to Larson to stay put and follow him slowly in the car. Clark started walking with his map and a photograph in his hands. There was a bend in the road; just around it was a truck. Near the truck were some armed men. He was looking at his map when they shouted, and his head came up in obvious surprise. A man jerked his AK in a way that required no words:
Larson was overcome with the urge to wet his pants, but Clark waved for him to follow and walked confidently to the truck. Its loadbed was covered with a tarp, but Clark already knew what was under it. He'd smelled it. That was why he'd stopped around the bend.
"Good day," he said to the nearest one with a rifle.
"You have picked a bad day to be on the road, my friend."
"He told me you would be out here. I have permission," Clark replied.
"What? Permission? Whose permission?"
"Se or Escobedo, of course," Larson heard him say.
"Who are you?" the man said with a mixture of anger and wariness.
"I am a prospector. I am looking for gold. Here," Clark said, turning his photo around. "This area I have marked, I think there is gold here. Of course I would not come here without permission of Se or Escobedo, and he told me to tell those I met that I am here under his protection."
"Gold - you look for gold?" another man said as he came up. The first one deferred to him, and Clark figured he was talking to the boss now.
"
The man clearly didn't know what to do or think. Clark was speaking in good Spanish, with a trace of accent, and talking as normally as though he were asking directions from a policeman.
"Here, you see this?" Clark said, pointing to the rock. "That is gold. This may be the biggest find since Pizarro. I think Se or Escobedo and his friends will buy all of this land."
"They did not tell me of this," the man temporized.
"Of course. It is a secret. And I must warn you, senor, not to speak of it to anyone or you will surely speak to Se or Escobedo!"
Bladder control was a major problem for Larson now.
"When are we leaving?" someone called from the truck.
Clark looked around while the two gunmen tried to decide what to do. A driver and perhaps one other in the truck. He didn't hear or see anyone else. He started walking toward it. Two more steps and he saw what he'd needed and feared to see. Sticking out from under the edge of the tarp was the front sight assembly of an M-16A2 rifle. What he had to do was decided in less than a second. Even to Clark it was amazing how the old habits kept coming back.
"Stop!" the leader said.
"Can I load my samples on your truck?" Clark asked without turning. "To take to Se or Escobedo? He will be very pleased to see what I have found, I promise you," Clark added.
The two men ran to catch up with him, their rifles dangling from their hands as they did so. They'd gotten within ten feet when he turned. As he did so, his right hand remained fixed in space, and took the Beretta from his waistband while his left hand fluttered the map and photo. Neither one saw it coming, Larson realized. He was so smooth...
"Not this truck, se or, I - "
