11

Floyd Jefferson watched the boulevard. Three floors below the congressman's office, a light came on in the rented Dodge. A Salvadoran left the car. Jefferson watched the man run to a pay phone down the block.

In the inner office, Congressman Buckley finally hung up the phone. The door opened, a swath of light silhouetting Jefferson against the window before he could jump to the side.

"Sir! Turn off that light. They're down there."

"Oh…yes. I'll..." Buckley returned to his office for an instant. The suite of offices went dark again.

Below, the Salvadoran glanced up to the office windows as he talked on the pay phone.

"They haven't left?" The middle-aged, balding congressman joined Jefferson at the window.

"It's called surveillance. They're just down there watching. One's still in the car, the other one's calling his boss, I bet."

"Has Bob seen anything?" Buckley asked. His aide, Bob Prescott, stood guard in the lobby. If the Salvadoran attempted to enter the building, he would warn Buckley and Jefferson.

"Checked with him a minute ago. Nothing. What did they say in Washington?"

"He told me to wait. He'll need to make a few calls."

"Who did you call?"

"It would be a violation of the President's confidence if I told you the man's name..."

"I meant, was it the FBI? Mr. Holt went to the FBI office down in Los Angeles yesterday. He told them what he knew. And now he's gone."

"No, it wasn't the bureau. This group is independent. That's all I can tell you."

"Did you tell them about the two goons I shot?"

Buckley nodded. He glanced past Jefferson to the boulevard. The Salvadoran at the pay phone hung up the receiver, then punched another number. The middle-aged congressman ran his hand over his balding head. He turned to the young reporter.

"You realize the story you told me, this… intrigue — does not mitigate the fact that you shot two men. I have no doubt the police are now searching for you. I advise you to consult a criminal attorney very, very soon."

"Hey, man. You're a lawyer, you been a lawyer all your life..."

"Twenty-five years."

"You run around in Washington Dee of Cee, talking laws, writing laws, voting on laws," fumed Jefferson, "but just because there are police and courthouses and jails doesn't mean the law is real. You grow up like I did, you'll know there's laws and then there are people. There are people who won't cross the street in the middle of the block and then there are people who don't give a shit if it's your body they serve for Sunday dinner. And in this particular instance, we are dealing with some people of the latter variety. So, you'll forgive me if I don't give the police a whole lot of thought. If I live through all this, then I'll go talk with the police. Because those goons down there, those Salvadorans, they come from a different world."

"Floyd..." The congressman walked through the darkness of his office as he considered his response to what the young man had declared. "Do you actually believe I am a stranger to reality? As you say, there are laws and there are people. I am not unfamiliar with conflicts between the law and reality. Yet I serve and obey the law."

"But you just called some dudes on the phone who aren't legal, right? If they're not police and they're not FBI, then chances are..."

"Let me qualify what I said. I serve and obey the law whenever possible."

"Uh-huh. I get it. You made an exception in this case. Does that exception have anything to do with the reality that some goons are parked in front of your office? They didn't know I was coming here. They didn't even recognize me. They were watching you. Is that why you made an exception?"

Inside the inner office, the phone rang. Buckley rushed away without answering Jefferson. The young reporter heard the door lock before the ringing stopped. As the murmuring, almost inaudible voice of the congressman came through the thick oak panels of the office door, Jefferson took the old Smith & Wesson from the floor.

Surrounded by walls of law volumes — the leatherbound two-hundred-year history of the world's most successful experiment in justice — Floyd Jefferson put the hacksaw to the shotgun and, as fast as he was able, sawed off the barrel to fourteen inches.

12

In the predawn darkness, a chill wind swept from the Smoky Mountains. Able Team gathered at the Stony Man Farm helipad. Hal Brognola had called from Washington only half an hour before. Now the three men of Able Team waited. Unshaved, their close-cut hair windblown, their sport coats and slacks pulled from hangers, they waited for the helicopter that would take them to Dulles International. Lyons knotted his tie, Blancanales smoothed the wrinkles from his slacks, Gadgets listened to an early-morning talk show on a pocket stereo.

They had not needed to pack their suitcases. Cases packed with clothing and equipment stood ready at all times. They needed only to know their destination, then take the proper prepacked case of clothing and equipment. Professionals, they knew action might come at any time.

"I didn't really get what Hal told me," Lyons wondered aloud. "What do you think's going on? He said, 'Until we consult with the bureau, you three have highest authority.' Does that mean we hit the problem first, then the federals take over? I was still half-asleep, or I would have quizzed him on that one..."

"Sounds like we're in the gray zone on this," Gadgets answered him.

"Sounds like we're walking point for the FBI," Blancanales said.

"No." Gadgets shook his head. He wound up his transistor radio's earphone wire. "I asked Hal if we would have access to bureau equipment in San Francisco. And he said..." Gadgets pressed a button on the miniature stereo. Hal Brognola's voice came from the tiny speaker: "Absolutely not. Under no circumstances will you identify yourselves to law enforcement personnel of any other agency, local or federal. There are several uncertainties that must be resolved before we can request liaison or technical services…"

Gadgets clicked off the replay. "Comprendedat jivo?"

"You record everything?" Lyons asked.

"When I get a call from Washington, and the man's talking jive, I record it. It was recordings that got Tricky Dick in the shit. I'm hoping recordings might keep this Wizard clean."

Blancanales shook his head. "Hal wouldn't send us out without authorization."

"He never sent us out with conditional authorization before," Lyons countered.

"Conditional highest authority," Gadgets laughed. "I mean, that's jive."

Rotor throb came from the east. Their heads turned simultaneously to the sound. Lyons laughed cynically. "How about Conditionally Beyond Sanction? Conditionally Beyond the Law? No way. Mack Bolan acts beyond conditions, and so do we. Sometimes, my friends, the law's got nothing to do with it, and that's one condition I can understand."