Wilder wondered if the kid was old enough to shave. He sure as hell wasn't old enough to handle Wilder. He rubbed his left temple, which was beginning to throb. "Beer," he said to the waitress who appeared behind Crawford.

Crawford jerked his head up. "What?"

Wilder arched an eyebrow and the kid looked over his shoulder. The waitress nodded and walked away.

Wilder waited for the kid to tell him what hellhole he was going to be flying off to now.

"Don't Look Down," the kid said.

Wilder blinked, staying the natural impulse to look down. "Say again?"

"That's the name of the movie. It's also the name of the company that was set up to assist in financing the movie. Don't Look Down Incorporated. Let's call it DLDI."

Let's not.

"So far DLDI has invested four million dollars in the production of Don't Look Down," Crawford continued. "That's a lot of money."

No shit. Wilder was still waiting for the really bad part, but he was relieved that Crawford hadn't mentioned places like Iraq or Afghanistan. Yet.

"The money is coming through DLDI from a man named James Finnegan," Crawford said. "We have Finnegan on our terrorist watch list. We believe he's putting dirty money into the movie in order to pull out at least a percentage of it clean when the movie is released and funnel it into funding for various organizations that we are opposed to."

Wonderful, Wilder thought. An international terrorist. That was all this mess needed.

Crawford shifted in his chair. "We want you to watch the movie set for Finnegan. Get us a lead on where he is, a phone number, anything." Wilder sat back. He should have known the easy movie work was too much of a good deal not to go wrong. "And you just got lucky that Bryce needed a consultant and put me on the set."

"Uh, no, not exactly," Crawford said. "We convinced his stunt double to leave. And then it was suggested to him via his agent, who has some issues with the IRS, that you might be a good replacement. He is highly suggestible."

No shit. "It was not suggested to me."

"We didn't know for certain he'd ask you. Now he has. Now you know. And now you can find us a lead to Finnegan."

Fuck, Wilder thought, but it was still better than Iraq. "Was it by chance that I was picked to be Bryce's guide when he was at Fort Bragg?"

"Uh, no. In fact, if you want the truth, Bryce's agent was the one who told Bryce to go to Bragg to get some help on being an action star. And we kind of told his agent to do that, too. And we got the Army to agree to it."

Wilder nodded, resigned to the situation. "If Finnegan's behind the movie, there have to be a shitload of legitimate contacts he's made. Why not just follow those?"

"Dead ends," Crawford said. "He's not dumb."

Nobody connected with that movie has any brains, Wilder wanted to say, but the jury was still out on Armstrong. And Nash wasn't stupid. "Tell me about Finnegan."

Crawford nodded. "James Finnegan. Seventy-three years old. His mother worked in the art museum in Dublin until she was killed in a cross fire. That's when he joined the IRA. Before 9/11, the IRA was getting a lot of cash in from the United States, and Finnegan helped them wash it by investing it in art. After that, Finnegan began freelancing, working for whoever paid him the most."

Wilder sighed. "A capitalistic terrorist. Great."

Crawford went on. "Finnegan disappeared off the intelligence radar until the Mexican authorities caught him in Cabo four months ago trying to take out some very rare and expensive stolen pre-Columbian artifacts from Costa Rica. Pornographic stuff. A bunch of jade dicks." He snickered, and when Wilder didn't join in, he cleared his throat and said, "Jade phallic symbols. Supposed to cure impotence and increase, uh, staying power."

Wilder resisted the urge to make wisecracks since Crawford was being juvenile enough for both of them. "It's a smart play. Use the dirty money to buy the art, then sell it on the black market and get clean money from the collectors in return. How much was the stuff worth?"

"The entire shipment would have been worth about five million without the Viagra factor. But if you believe the stuff will help you get it up, it's worth about fifty million. Finnegan's in his seventies. Maybe he believes." Crawford snickered again.

Just what I needed, Wilder thought. Beavis as my CIA handler. "But the Mexicans caught him."

Crawford nodded. "He paid them off and got away, but without the jade. Which leads us to DLDI."

Wilder shook his head. "He lost the art so now he's financing a movie? How does that help him?"

Crawford tried to look mysterious and just looked confused. "That's on a need-to-know basis."

Right. "Do you have a photo of him? For all I know he's already on the set, I just didn't get introduced to him."

"I'll get you a photo, but the odds are slim that Finnegan will ever set foot inside the country."

"Then why are you bothering me?"

"I told you. We need you to keep an eye on things. See if you can get a line on where Finnegan is."

Wilder sighed again. "What kind of backup do you have on call?"

The kid looked confused once more. " 'Backup?"

Fuck, this was like talking to Bryce. "You know, if the bad guy shows up. Do I call you to send in the troops? Or am I supposed to handle him? And how? Tie him up? Club him? Tell him he has nice eyes and buy him a drink?"

Crawford tried to look disapproving and just looked grumpy. "You call me if Finnegan shows."

"And?"

"And I'll handle it."

Right. Wilder took a deep breath and let it out. The odds of this kid handling anything were about the same as Finnegan showing up on the movie set, so it really wasn't an issue.

"I said, I'll handle it," Crawford said, a little louder, disconcerted by Wilder's silence when he really should have been happy about it.

"This is a pretty vague mission. You could have told me this crap on the phone in five minutes. Why'd you drag my ass here?" Wilder raised a finger as Crawford's mouth flapped open to answer.

The waitress glided in and put a mug of whatever local brew was on tap in front of Wilder. She glanced at the kid. ''You need a refill on that Coke?"

Crawford shook his head and she departed. Wilder was willing to bet it was Diet Coke.

"I wanted to meet you," Crawford said.

"Okay. Done it. Feel better? Bye."

Crawford placed both hands on the scarred table. Wilder could see the veins pulse as the kid pressed down, trying to regain control. "There's no need to be antagonistic. We're working together."

"What you mean 'we,' kemosabe?" Wilder picked up the mug and drained half of it in one smooth gulp.

"What?"

The kid liked that word, Wilder thought as he put the mug on the table. And he was too young to have seen The Lone Ranger, so the kemosabe crack was wasted. This was one shitty day. "Okay, we're working together. Work. Fell me about the people on the set who are most likely to be hooked up with Finnegan. The director-Lucy Armstrong." He felt a twinge or guilt asking about her, but she was the one in charge. "She just got on the set, but she's running things. What's her story?"

"I don't know."

Wilder spoke slowly. "That's your part of the 'we,' okay? Apparently, I'm the guy in the field whose ass is in a sling when things go to shit. You're the handler. You pump me for intel to report back to your boss, I pump you for intel so I can do my job. Dah? Nyet? Mosybyet?"

The Russian was lost on the kid. Wilder had seen the type before. The CIA sent a lot of their people down to Bragg to learn the abbreviated version of being a commando. Just enough info so they could justify carrying automatic weapons overseas and run hellholes like Abu Gharib. And let the military guys take the fall for it. He finished his beer and set the mug down on the table with a solid thump.