“Distances are big around here,” he said to McGrath. “Don’t ever forget that. We’re still two hundred forty miles shy of Yorke. On our roads, that’s four hours, absolute minimum. Me, I’d get some mobile units and move up a lot closer. Basing yourselves down here won’t help you much, not if things start to turn bad up there.”

McGrath nodded.

“You hear from Jackson again?” he asked.

“Not since Monday,” the Resident Agent said. “The dynamite thing.”

“Next time he calls, he speaks to me, OK?” McGrath said.

The Butte guy nodded. Fished one-handed in his pocket while he drove. Pulled out a small radio receiver. McGrath took it from him. Put it into his own pocket.

“Be my guest,” the Butte guy said. “I’m on vacation. Webster’s orders. But don’t hold your breath. Jackson doesn’t call often. He’s very cautious.”

The Field Office was just a single room, second floor of a two-floor municipal building. A desk, two chairs, a computer, a big map of Montana on the wall, a lot of filing space, and a ringing telephone. McGrath answered it. He listened and grunted. Hung up and waited for the Resident Agent to take the hint.

“OK, I’m gone,” the old guy said. “Silver Bow Jeep will bring you a couple of vehicles over. Anything else you guys need?”

“Privacy,” Brogan said.

The old guy nodded and glanced around his office. Then he was gone.

“Air Force has put a couple of spy planes up there,” McGrath said. “Satellite gear is coming in by road. The General and his aide are coming here. Looks like they’re going to be our guests for the duration. Can’t really argue with that, right?”

Milosevic was studying the map on the wall.

“Wouldn’t want to argue with that,” he said. “We’re going to need some favors. You guys ever seen a worse-looking place?”

McGrath and Brogan joined him in front of the map. Milosevic’s finger was planted on Yorke. Ferocious green and brown terrain boiled all around it.

“Four thousand square miles,” Milosevic said. “One road and one track.”

“They chose a good spot,” Brogan said.

“I SPOKE WITH the President,” Dexter said.

He sat back and paused. Webster stared at him. What the hell else would he have been doing? Pruning the Rose Garden? Dexter was staring back. He was a small guy, burned up, dark, twisted, the way a person gets to look after spending every minute of every day figuring every possible angle.

“And?” Webster said.

“There are sixty-six million gun owners in this country,” Dexter said.

“So?” Webster asked.

“Our analysts think they all share certain basic sympathies,” Dexter said.

“What analysts?” Webster said. “What sympathies?”

“There was a poll,” Dexter said. “Did we send you a copy? One adult in five would be willing to take up arms against the government, if strictly necessary.”

“So?” Webster asked again.

“There was another poll,” Dexter said. “A simple question, to be answered intuitively, from the gut. Who’s in the right, the government or the militias?”

“And?” Webster said.

“Twelve million Americans sided with the militias,” Dexter said.

Webster stared at him. Waited for the message.

“So,” Dexter said. “Somewhere between twelve and sixty-six million voters.”

“What about them?” Webster asked.

“And where are they?” Dexter asked back. “You won’t find many of them in D.C. or New York or Boston or L.A. It’s a skewed sample. Some places they’re a tiny minority. They look like weirdos. But other places, they’re a majority. Other places, they’re absolutely normal, Harland.”

“So?” he said.

“Some places they control counties,” Dexter said. “Even states.”

Webster stared at him.

“God’s sake, Dexter, this isn’t politics,” he said. “This is Holly.”

Dexter paused and glanced around the small White House room. It was painted a subtle off-white. It had been painted and repainted that same subtle color every few years, while Presidents came and went. He smiled a connoisseur’s smile.

“Unfortunately, everything’s politics,” he said.

“This is Holly,” Webster said again.

Dexter shook his head. Just a slight movement.

“This is emotion,” he said. “Think about innocent little emotional words, like patriot, resistance, crush, underground, struggle, oppression, individual, distrust, rebel, revolt, revolution, rights. There’s a certain majesty to those words, don’t you think? In an American context?”

Webster shook his head doggedly.

“Nothing majestic about kidnapping women,” he said. “Nothing majestic about illegal weapons, illegal armies, stolen dynamite. This isn’t politics.”

Dexter shook his head again. The same slight movement.

“Things have a way of becoming politics,” he said. “Think about Ruby Ridge. Think about Waco, Harland. That wasn’t politics, right? But it became politics pretty damn soon. We hurt ourselves with maybe sixty-six million voters there. And we were real dumb about it. Big reactions are what these people want. They figure that harsh reprisals will upset people, bring more people into their fold. And we gave them big reactions. We fueled their fire. We made it look like big government was just about itching to crush the little guy.”

The room went silent.

“The polls say we need a better approach,” Dexter said. “And we’re trying to find one. We’re trying real hard. So how would it look if the White House stopped trying just because it happens to be Holly who’s involved? And right now? The Fourth of July weekend? Don’t you understand anything? Think about it, Harland. Think about the reaction. Think about words like vindictive, self-interested, revenge, personal, words like that, Harland. Think about what words like those are going to do to our poll numbers.”

Webster stared at him. The off-white walls crushed in on him.

“This is about Holly, for God’s sake,” he said. “This is not about poll numbers. And what about the General? Has the President said all this to him?”

Dexter shook his head.

“I’ve said it all to him,” he said. “Personally. A dozen times. He’s been calling every hour, on the hour.”

Webster thought: now the President won’t even take Johnson’s calls anymore. Dexter has really fixed him.

“And?” he asked.

Dexter shrugged.

“I think he understands the principle,” he said. “But naturally, his judgment is kind of colored right now. He’s not a happy man.”

Webster lapsed into silence. Started thinking hard. He was a smart enough bureaucrat to know if you can’t beat them, you join them. You force yourself to think like they think.

“But busting her out could do you good,” he said. “A lot of good. It would look tough, decisive, loyal, no-nonsense. Could be advantageous. In the polls.”

Dexter nodded.

“I totally agree with you,” he said. “But it’s a gamble, right? A real big gamble. A quick victory is good, a foul-up is a disaster. A big gamble, with big poll numbers at stake. And right now, I’m doubting if you can get the quick victory. Right now, you’re half-cocked. So right now my money would be on the foul-up.”

Webster stared at him.

“Hey, no offense, Harland,” Dexter said. “I’m paid to think like this, right?”

“So what the hell are you saying here?” Webster asked him. “I need to move the Hostage Rescue Team into place right now?”

“No,” Dexter said.

“No?” Webster repeated incredulously.

Dexter shook his head.

“Permission denied,” he said. “For the time being.”

Webster just stared at him.

“I need a position,” he said.

The room stayed silent. Then Dexter spoke to a spot on the off-white wall, a yard to the left of Webster’s chair.

“You remain in personal command of the situation,” he said. “Holiday weekend starts tomorrow. Come talk to me Monday. If there’s still a problem.”

“There’s a problem now,” Webster said. “And I’m talking to you now.”