Now Jefferson searched the apartment. Leading with the shotgun, he checked the closets, the bedroom, the bathroom. He reached under the bookshelf where he kept his .38 pistol. Gone. He felt only the spring clips that had held it.

In the bathroom, his colognes and medicines and shampoos covered the floor. He saw the spilled box of Arm and Hammer baking soda. Reaching inside the box, he took out the plastic canister.

They had not found the negatives.

Searching through the litter on the floor, Jefferson picked up his bankbook. He didn't bother with clothes. He had enough for three days packed in a suitcase in his Volkswagen.

"Vacation time," he joked to himself, giving his looted apartment a last look. He turned off the light before he stepped out.

He avoided the front entry. Jogging to the rear of the courtyard, he stopped at the security gate to the parking spaces. He listened for a minute, then slowly, silently eased the steel gate open.

Shotgun ready, he crept around the rear of the building to the driveway. He walked quickly but stealthily to the street. Stopping at the end of the driveway, he peered around the corner.

A Salvadoran, his back to Jefferson, crouched beside the entry. In his dark jacket and dark slacks, he appeared to be only the shadow of a shrub. His close-cut black hair glistened red from the decorative spotlights.

On the street, a rented four-door Dodge idled, both curb-side doors open. Another Salvadoran waited behind the wheel. Jefferson strained to see any others, his eyes searching the shadows, the doorways, the cars parked at the curb. He saw only the two Salvadorans.

He waited. As his pulse raced, he forced himself to breathe slowly, to calm himself. He felt the stock of the shotgun become slick with his sweat.

Rising from his crouch, the Salvadoran at the entry looked into the apartment courtyard. He made a hand signal to the other man. Jefferson saw a rope in the man's hand.

They intended to take him alive, Jefferson realized. Maybe for the negatives. Maybe for interrogation.

If he could take one of them, maybe he could help Mr. Holt. Jefferson looked at the shrubs screening the apartments from the street. The Salvadoran waiting in the Dodge would not see him. But could he cross the flower beds silently? No.

The answer came to him. Forget the man at the entry. Take the Salvadoran waiting in the car. Put the shotgun up against his gut, tell him to drive to a police station. All right…

Easing from the corner, the shotgun clammy in his hands beneath its camouflage of pant leg, Jefferson took one slow step at a time. He watched the man at the entry. Shrubs blocked the view of the man in the car. Jefferson moved silently through the shadows and the soft colors of the decorative floodlights.

Headlights blinded him. A car lurched to a stop in the driveway. Squinting through the glare, Jefferson saw a form lean from the driver's window.

"Who are you? What're — Floyd? Is that you, Floyd?"

Disregarding his neighbor's questions, Jefferson ran to the idling Dodge. He jumped into the front seat, the Smith & Wesson riot shotgun pointed at the midsection of the Salvadoran. The Salvadoran jerked an auto-pistol from a shoulder holster.

From a distance of eighteen inches, Jefferson fired, the blast deafening him, the backsplash of blood hot on his face and hands. The Salvadoran groaned once and died as Jefferson scrambled backward, falling out of the car.

On his back on the street, he saw the second Salvadoran running at him, a pistol in his hand flashing. A slug zipped past the young journalist's face.

He tromboned the riot gun and pointed the torn, blood-slick pant leg covering the muzzle at the death-squad soldier rushing him.

A blast of double-ought slammed the Salvadoran back. Shattered glass fell to the entry's walkway as Jefferson scrambled to his feet. Lights came on everywhere on the block. Jefferson ran to his car and jerked the door open.

His shaking, bloody hands dropped the keys twice before he jammed the key into the ignition. Redlining the Volkswagen's old engine, Jefferson roared away in first gear.

Wiping blood and shreds of flesh from his face and hands, Jefferson drove to the civic center. His friend Bob Prescott worked for U.S. Congressman Buckley as a legal researcher. The congressman had a reputation for investigating conspiracies and federal intrigues.

In front of the congressman's district office, Jefferson looked at the other parked cars and trucks before turning off his old Volkswagen's engine. Working the shotgun's action to chamber another shell, he set the safety. He wrapped the pant legs around the muzzle and stock again. Acting as naturally as his nerves allowed, he left the car, his eyes always moving, searching every shadow. He opened the hood and found a hacksaw and a roll of tape in his tool kit. He took his overnight case.

Often, Jefferson knew, Congressman Buckley — through Floyd's friend Prescott — had tipped Ricardo Marquez to impending scandals and indictments. And in the past year, the congressman had become a leading critic of the Administration's blunderings in Central America. Now Floyd Jefferson had a story for Buckley.

As he went up the steps to the office, a car squealed around the corner. Inside the plate-glass doors, Jefferson paused to watch the car. It skidded to a stop.

His gut twisted as the driver's door flew open, the interior light revealing two Hispanics in the car.

Clutching the shotgun, Jefferson ran upstairs to the sanctuary of the congressman's office.

10

Hal Brognola ignored the ringing telephone. Turning in the bed, he pulled a pillow over his head. He knew it would not be an important call. The White House or Stony Man would only call via the secure line. His pager would then sound an electronic tone. The ringing stopped as the answering machine in his study clicked on.

An amplified voice broke the silence of the house: "Hal? Hal Brognola? This is Congressman Buckley. I'm calling from San Francisco. I have a problem I need to discuss..."

Brognola groped for the phone. "Chris Buckley?" he whispered, to avoid waking up his wife. "Ah… this is Hal. What's the problem?"

"Sorry to wake you up. But I've got a bad situation and I need help with it tonight."

"Well, the Justice Department doesn't operate like that. Litigation can take years. Have you called..."

"The police? The FBI? The FBI may be involved in this problem. But on the other side. I thought you could put me in touch with some… specialists."

"Don't know what you mean, Mr. Buckley."

"Is this a secure line?"

"No."

"Give me the number. I'll call on the other..."

"Mr. Buckley, ifI had a secure line, and ifI could somehow help you with this problem you have, it would be a matter of authorization. And that authorization would be available only after consultation with my bureau. We have regulations and procedures."

"Remember Las Islas de Sabana?"

"What did you say?"

"Let's talk on the secure line."

Brognola gave him the number.