tc.patriotgames-第79章

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　the　woods。　Dirt　samples　were　taken　to　be　matched　with　those　vacuumed　from　the　van。　The　tracks　were　photographed　for　later　analysis。
　　　　The　ballistics　people　had　already　made　further　tests　on　the　Uzi。　The　ejected　cartridge　cases　were　pared　with　those　recovered　from　the　van　and　the　crime　scene；　and　showed　perfect　matches　in　extractor　marks　and　firing　pin　penetrations。　The　match　of　the　gun　with　the　crime　and　the　van　was　now　better　than　one　hundred　percent。　The　serial　number　had　been　confirmed　with　the　factory　in　Singapore；　and　records　were　being　checked　to　determine　where　the　gun　had　been　shipped。　The　name　of　every　arms　dealer　in　the　world　was　in　the　Bureau's　puter。
　　　　The　whole　purpose　of　the　FBI's　institutional　expertise　was　to　take　a　single　piece　of　information　and　develop　it　into　a　plete　criminal　case。　What　it　could　not　entirely　prevent　was　having　someone　see　them。　Alex　Dobbens　drove　past　the　quarry　road　on　his　way　to　work　every　day。　He　saw　a　pair　of　vehicles　pulling　out　onto　the　highway　from　the　dirt　and　gravel　path。　Though　both　the　car　and　van　from　the　FBI　laboratory　were　unmarked；　they　had　federal　license　plates；　and　that　was　all　he　needed　to　see。
　　　　Dobbens　was　not　an　excitable　man。　His　professional　training　permitted　him　to　look　at　the　world　as　a　collection　of　small；　discrete　problems；　each　of　which　had　a　solution；　and　if　you　solved　enough　of　the　small　ones；　then　the　large　ones　would　similarly　be　solved；　one　at　a　time。　He　was　also　a　meticulous　person。　Everything　he　did　was　part　of　a　larger　plan；　both　part　of；　and　isolated　from；　the　next　planned　step。　It　was　not　something　that　his　people　had　easily　e　to　understand；　but　it　was　hard　to　argue　with　success；　and　everything　Dobbens　did　was　successful。　This　had　earned　him　respect　and　obedience　from　people　who　had　once　been　too　passionate　for　what　Alex　deemed　their　mission　in　life。
　　　　It　was　unusual；　Dobbens　thought；　for　two　cars　at　once　to　e　out　of　that　road。　It　was　out　of　the　ordinary　realm　of　probability　that　both　should　have　government　license　plates。　Therefore　he　had　to　assume　that　somehow　the　feds　had　learned　that　he'd　used　the　quarry　for　weapons　training。　How　had　it　been　blown？　he　wondered。　A　hunter；　perhaps；　one　of　the　rustics　who　went　in　there　after　squirrels　and　birds？　Or　one　of　the　people　who　chopped　wood；　maybe？　Or　some　kid　from　a　nearby　farm？　How　big　a　problem　was　this？
　　　　He'd　taken　his　people　to　shoot　there　only　four　times；　the　most　recent　being　when　the　Irish　had　e　over。　Hmm；　what　does　that　tell　me？　he　asked　the　road　in　front　of　his　car。　That　was　weeks　ago。　Each　time；　they'd　done　all　the　shooting　during　rush　hour；　mostly　in　the　morning。　Even　this　far　from　D。C。；　there　were　a　lot　of　cars　and　trucks　on　the　road　in　the　morning　and　late　afternoon；　enough　to　add　quite　a　bit　of　noise　to　the　environment。　It　was　therefore　unlikely　that　anyone　had　heard　them。　Okay。
　　　　Every　time　they　had　shot　there；　Alex　had　been　assiduous　about　picking　up　the　brass；　and　he　was　certain　that　they'd　left　nothing　behind；　not　even　a　cigarette　butt；　to　prove　that　they'd　been　there。　They　could　not　avoid　leaving　tire　marks；　but　one　of　the　reasons　he'd　picked　the　place　was　that　kids　went　back　there　to　park　on　weekends　　there　were　plenty　of　tire　marks。
　　　　They　had　dumped　the　gun　there；　he　remembered；　but　who　could　have　discovered　that？　The　water　in　the　quarry　was　over　eighty　feet　deep　　he'd　checked　　and　looked　about　as　uninviting　as　a　rice　paddy；　murky　from　dirt　that　washed　in；　and　whatever　kind　of　scum　it　was　that　formed　on　the　surface。　Not　a　place　to　go　swimming。　They　had　dumped　only　the　gun　that　had　been　fired；　but　as　unlikely　as　it　seemed；　he　had　to　assume　they'd　found　it。　How　that　had　happened　didn't　matter　for　the　moment。　Well；　we　have　to　dispose　of　the　others　too；　now；　Alex　told　himself。　You　can　always　get　new　guns。
　　　　What　is　the　most　the　cops　can　learn？　he　asked　himself。　He　was　well　versed　on　police　procedures。　It　seemed　only　reasonable　that　he　should　know　his　enemy；　and　Alex　owned　a　number　of　texts　on　investigative　techniques；　the　books　used　to　train　cops　in　their　various　academies；　like　Snyder's　Homicide　Investigation　and　the　Law　Enforcement　Bible。　He　and　his　people　studied　them　as　carefully　as　the　would…be　cops　with　their　shiny　young　faces　。　。　。　
　　　　There　could　be　no　fingerprints　on　the　gun。　After　being　in　water；　the　skin　oil　that　makes　the　marks　would　long　since　have　been　gone。　Alex　had　handled　and　cleaned　it；　but　he　didn't　need　to　worry　about　that。
　　　　The　van　was　gone。　It　had　been　stolen　to　begin　with；　then　customized　by　one　of　Alex's　own　people；　and　had　used　four　different　sets　of　tags。　The　tags　were　long　gone；　underneath　a　telephone/power　pole　in　Anne　Arundel　County。　If　something　had　resulted　from　that；　he'd　have　known　it　long　before　now；　Alex　thought。　The　van　itself　had　been　fully　sanitized；　everything　had　been　wiped　clean；　the　dirt　from　the　quarry　road　。　。　。　that　was　something　to　think　about；　but　the　van　still　led　to　a　dead　end。　They'd　left　nothing　in　it　to　connect　it　with　his　group。
　　　　Had　any　of　his　people　talked；　perhaps　a　man　with　an　aching　conscience　because　of　the　kid　who'd　almost　died？　Again；　had　that　happened；　he　would　have　awakened　this　afternoon　to　see　a　badge　and　gun　in　front　of　his　face。　So　that　was　out。　Probably。　He'd　talk　to　his　people　about　that；　remind　them　that　they　could　never　talk　with　anyone　about　what　they　did。
　　　　Might　his　face　have　been　seen？　Alex　chided　himself　again　for　having　waved　at　the　helicopter。　But　he'd　been　wearing　a　hat；　sunglasses；　and　a　beard；　all　of　which　were　now　gone；　along　with　the　jacket；　jeans；　and　boots　that　he'd　worn。　He　still　had　the　work　gloves；　but　they　were　so　mon　an　item　that　you　could　buy　them　in　any　hardware　store。　So　dump　'em　and　buy　another　pair；　asshole！　he　said　to　himself。　Make　sure　they're　the　same　color；　and　keep　the　sales　receipt。
　　　　His　mind　ran　through　the　data　again。　He　might　even　be　overreacting；　he　thought。　The　feds　could　be　investigating　some　totally　unrelated　thing；　but　it　was　stupid　to　take　any　unnecessary　risks。　Everything　that　they'd　used　at　the　quarry　would　be　disposed　of。　He'd　make　a　plete　list　of　possible　connections　and　eliminate　every　one　of　them。　They'd　never　go　back　there　again。　Cops　had　their　rules　and　procedures；　and　he'd　unhesitatingly　copied　the　principle　to　deny　its　advantage　to　his　opponents。　He　had　established　the　rules　for　himself　after　seeing　what　catastrophes　resulted　from　having　none。　The　radical　groups　he'd　hovered　around　in　his　college　days　had　died　because　of　their　arrogance　and　stupidity；　their　underestimation　of　the　skill　of　their　enemies。　Fundamentally；　they'd　died　because　they　were　unworthy　of　success。　Victory　es　only　to　those　prepared　to　make　it；　and　take　it；　Alex　thought。　He　was　even　able　to　keep　from　congratulating　himself　on　spotting　the　feds。　It　was　simple　prudence；　not　genius。　His　route　had　been　chosen　with　an　eye　to　taking　note　of　such　things。　He　already　had　another　promising　site　for　weapons　training。

　　　　〃Erik　Martens；〃　Ryan　breathed。　〃We　meet　again。〃　
　　　　All　of　the　FBI's　data　had　been　forwarded　to　the　Central　Intelligence　Agency's　working　group　within　hours　of　its　receipt。　The　Uzi　that　had　been　recovered　　Ryan　marveled　at　how　that　had　happened！　　had；　he　saw；　been　fabricated　in　Singapore；　at　a　plant　that　also　made　a　version　of　the　M…16　rifle　that　he'd　carried　in　the　Corps；　and　a　number　of　other　military　arms；　both　East　and　West；　for　sale　to　third…world　countries　。　。　。　and　other　interested　parties。　From　his　work　the　previous　summer；　Ryan　knew　that　there　were　quite　a　few　such　factories；　and　quite　a　few　governments　whose　only　measure　for　the　legitimacy　of　an　arms　purchaser　was　his　credit　rating。　Even　those　who　paid　lip…service　to　such　niceties　as　〃end…user　certificates〃　often　turned　a　blind　eye　to　the　reputation　of　a　dealer　who　never　quite　proved　to　be　on　the　wrong　side　of　the　shadowy　line　that　was　supposed　to　distinguish　the　honest　from　the　others。　Since　it　was　the　dealer's　government　that　generally　made　this　determination；　yet　another　variable　was　added　to　an　already　inexact　equation。
　　　　Such　was　the　case　with　Mr。　Martens。　A　very　petent　man　in　his　business；　a　man　with　remarkable　connections；　Martens　had　once　worked　with　the　CIA…backed　UNITA　rebels　in　Angola　until　a　more　regular　pipeline　had　been　established。　His　principal　asset；　however；　was　his　ability　to　obtain　items　for　the　South　African　government。　His　last　major　coup　had　been　obtaining　the　manufacturing　tools　and　dies　for　the　Milan　antitank　missile；　a　weapon　that　could　not　be　legally　shipped　to　the　Afrikaner　government　due　to　the　Western　embargo。　After　three　months'　creative　effort　on　his　part；　the　government's　own　armaments　factories　would　be　making　it　themselves。　His　fee　for　that　had　doubtless　been　noteworthy；　Ryan　knew；　though　the　CIA　had　been　unable　to　ascertain　just　how　noteworthy。　The　man　owned　his　own　business　jet；　a　Grumman　G…3　with　intercontinental　range。　To　make　sure　that　he　could　fly　it　anywhere　he　wished。　Martens　had　obtained　weapons　for　a　number　of　black　African　nations；　and　even　missiles　for　Argentina。　He　could　go　to　any　corner　of　the　world　and　find　a　government　that　was　in　his　debt。　The　man　would　have　been　a　sensation　on　Wall　Street　or　any　other　marketplace；　Ryan　smiled　to　himself。　He　could　deal　with　anyone；　could　market　weapons　the　way　that　people　in　Chicago　traded　wheat　futures。
　　　　The　Uzis　from　Singapore　had　e　to　him。　Everyone　loved　the　Uzi。　Even　the　Czechs　had　tried　to　copy　it；　but　without　great　mercial　success。　The　Israelis　sold　them　by　the　thousands　to　military　and　security　forces；　always　　most　of　the　time　　following　the　rules　that　the　United　States　insisted　upon。　Quite　a　few　had　found　their　way　to　South　Africa；　Ryan　read；　until　the　embargo　had　made　it　rather　more　difficult。　Is　that　the　reason　they　finally　let　someone　make　the　gun　under　license？　Jack　wondered。　Let　someone　else　broaden　the　market　for　you；　and　just　keep　the　profits　。　。　。　
　　　　The　shipment　had　been　five　thousand　units　。　。　。　about　two　million　dollars；　wholesale。　Not　very　much；　really；　enough　to　equip　a　city　police　force　or　a　regiment　of　paratroopers；　depending　on　the　receiving　government's　orientation。　Large　enough　to　show　a　profit　for　Mr。　Martens；　small　enough　not　to　attract　a　great　deal　of　attention。　One　truckload；　Ryan　wondered；　maybe　two？　The　pallets　of　boxes　would　be　tucked　into　a　corner　of　his　warehouse；　technically　supervised　by　his　government；　but　more　likely　in　fact　to　be　Martens'　private　domain　。　。　。　
　　　　That's　what　Sir　Basil　Charleston　told　me　at　the　dinner；　Ryan　reminded　himself。　You　didn't　pay　enough　attention　to　that　South　African　chap　。　。　。　So　the　Brits　think　he　deals　to　terrorists　。　。　。　directly？　No；　his　government　wouldn't　tolerate　that。　Probably　wouldn't；　Ryan　corrected　himself。　The　guns　might　find　their　way　to　the　African　National　Congress；　which　might　not　be　very　good　news　for　the　government　they　were　pledged　to　destroy。　So　now　Ryan　had　to　find　an　intermediary。　It　took　thirty　minutes　to　get　that　file；　involving　a　call　to　Marty　Cantor。
　　　　The　file　was　a　disaster。　Martens　had　eight　known　and　fifteen　suspected　intermediary　agents　。　。　。　one　or　two　in　every　country　he　sold　to　　of　course！　Ryan　punched　Cantor's　number　again。　
　　　　〃I　take　it　we've　never　talked　to　Martens？〃　Ryan　asked。
　　　　〃Not　for　a　few　years。