Quesada went to his study, where he could speak without any of his soldiers or family overhearing him. As he unlocked his book of names and phone numbers, the telephone rang.
"Buenas noches."
"Hello, Colonel?" Robert Prescott asked, his voice urgent.
The colonel could not restrain his anger. "Do you know what has happened? Do you know how many men died because of your incompetence?"
But the North American's words calmed the enraged colonel.
"I know where the Riveras are," Prescott said.
26
As the last light of the western horizon faded to the turquoise of night, Able Team parked on one of the boulevards near Los Angeles International Airport. Down the block, a neon sign advertised full-size Fords at economy rates. They had abandoned the Silverado in Monterey, rented a Chevrolet from a tourist agency, driven that car to Los Angeles. Now they intended to rent another car. No one would follow their trail to San Diego.
Blancanales glanced at his watch. "Time to check in with Stony Man. If we wait until we get to San Diego it'll be one in the morning back east."
"And I'll need to make calls," Lyons told them. "I've got police friends in San Diego. Maybe we can get some liaison for the search there..."
"Maybe we won't need any help," Jefferson interrupted. "Hold off on the calls to San Diego until I call San Francisco. The Riveras had Mr. Holt's office and home numbers. If they're okay, they'll call him."
"He gave out his home phone number?" Lyons asked with surprise. "Doesn't sound like any lawyer I ever met."
"Mr. Holt knew they needed him. That's the kind of guy he was. I guess I'll call his family, ask if they got news."
Gadgets stayed in the rented car as the others went to a row of pay phones behind the gas station. He sprawled out in the front seat, his sneakers on the steering wheel, his head against the passenger door. By habit, he adjusted the rearview mirror so he could watch behind him without moving. He always called Lyons "paranoid," but in fact, they all qualified as paranoids.
You deal with snakes, you learn to be a snake charmer.
Like that Holt lawyer. He knew he had taken on a case involving terrorism. Right-wing Salvadoran terrorism, but still the same: terrorism. And the case ate at him.
Gadgets wondered if they really faced right-wingers. This is all too weird. What would the Salvadorans have to gain by wasting North Americans? Only made for headlines.
And the headlines made Congress scream. After those four missionaries got snuffed, Gadgets had figured the job for a Commie hit. Why not? What is worse than murdering nuns?
Raping nuns, then offing them, that's what. If a newsman had interviewed Gadgets Schwarz — ex-Green Beret and expert on Vietnamese Stalinist terrorism — he would have said the Commies had dressed up in government uniforms and of fed the women. The People's Army of Vietnam specialized in crazy numbers like that. Dress up in South Vietnamese uniforms and walk through a village shooting little kids. Or get some rice in bags that bore the stencil of an American flag and mix in some poison. Or send in one sniper to kill a few Americans in a passing patrol so they would call down an airstrike on the village.
That was the way Commies operated. But then on national television, what does he see? Salvadoran soldiers confessing to the murders. Too much. Nothing like murdering Americans with American weapons to make Americans think twice about sending more weapons and ammunition.
Then those two labor lawyers. Wow. Zap someone in the local Sheraton coffee shop and think no one will notice? What did the Salvadorans expect people in the United States to think? Maybe the lawyers didn't tip and a waiter got pissed? So he put a few bursts of .45 ACP through them?
Then all the others. The tourist who got shot "while attempting to escape." Except that he had powder burns on the back of his head. The Dutch newsmen who got caught in a "cross fire" and took point-blank bursts. What does that mean, cross fire in a phone booth?
And this Ricardo Marquez, the reporter. Hack off his head and leave it on a fence post? Even the PAVN wouldn't do that to a reporter. Makes for piss-poor press relations.
If he did not know the facts, if he did not know for a fact that Cubans and Nicaraguans actually did fight in the mountains with the rebels, Gadgets would have suspected the Salvadoran government was a Communist plot.
Forty thousand death-squad murders in three years! Thinking about that made his gut twist. Forget the Cubans and Nicaraguans and the Commies; if Gadgets Schwarz was a Salvadoran, he would be in the mountains, too. After he put down the death squads, he would fight it out with the Commies.
He saw Blancanales and Lyons jog back to the car. The expressions on their faces told him something had gone wrong. Blancanales jerked open the door.
"They've canceled the mission."
"What?"
Lyons got in the back seat as Blancanales explained. "Washington has downgraded this to witness protection. They told Brognola the FBI will take it over in the morning."
"What do you make of that?" Lyons sneered. "I don't think I'd feel very safe with a collection of overweight bureau boys packing thirty-eights, up against Salvadoran Nazis and the Black Liberation Army."
Gadgets blinked. "What? Black Liberation Army?"
Blancanales nodded. "That's who tried to hit us on 101 South. One of their wounded said a white man hired them to hit some CIA spooks. That's us. The white man paid in Krugerrands."
"Bet you one of those Krugerrands," Lyons hissed, "that the white man was Prescott."
Looking at Lyons's face, Gadgets laughed. "I think I just heard someone pronounce a sentence of death. Not subject to the approval of the Supreme Court."
"Speaking of a death sentence," Blancanales continued, "that Salvadoran we left at the hospital? He's dead."
"He should have made it!" Gadgets said. "You had him stabilized. He just needed a cast and a transfusion."
"After he left the recovery ward, someone smothered him."
Lyons shook his head. "Those Salvadorans…"
They all turned at once as they heard Jefferson's shoes slap the asphalt. The young man sprinted to the car. In the streetlight, they saw his face as white as his gold-toned skin would allow. He gasped out the words.
"The Riveras called the Holts. They're in Los Angeles. And the Holts sent Bob Prescott to pick them up. He knows where they are!"
The men of Able Team looked at one another. Stony Man had canceled their mission. The Federal Bureau of Investigation now had the case. If Able Team went to the aid of the Rivera family, they violated their authorization.
But their eyes voted to help the Riveras.
Blancanales spoke first. "Our man in Washington told us the FBI would take it over in the morning..."
"Not the FBI!" Jefferson startled at the mention of the bureau. "Holt trusted the FBI and now… now…"
Blancanales calmed the young reporter with a hand on his shoulder. "Just because they told us we're off the case, doesn't mean we'll get off it."
Floyd Jefferson looked at the three "specialists" he had learned to respect and trust. "You'll help the Riveras? Even if it's not your job anymore?"
"I'm free," Lyons joked. He questioned his partners: "You guys got something else you'd rather do?"
27
Cruising past the neon-bright bars and porno theaters of Main Street, Able Team scanned the few parked cars and trucks. Derelicts sprawled beneath the blue white glare of streetlights. Others gathered in doorways or shuffled through the alleys, shadows within the skid-row desolation. Beyond the two— or three-story shops and hotels dating from the 1930s, the light patterns of the contemporary Los Angeles high-rise skyline stood against the night like an image from a dream.