now,” Potter said reasonably. “He’s been deputized.”
LeBow looked quizzically at Potter, who shrugged. There was no procedure that either of them knew about for field-deputizing federal agents.
Peter Henderson’s face, alone among the crowd at the briefing, was still smiling. Potter said to him, “You too, Pete. I want any agents not involved in intelligence gathering, forensics, or liaising with HRT under Sheriff Stillwell’s direction.”
Henderson nodded slowly, then said, “Could I talk to you for a minute, Art?”
“We don’t have much time.”
“Just take a minute.”
Potter knew what was coming and understood that it was important for it not to happen in front of the other commanders. He said, “Let’s step outside, what do you say?”
In the shadow of the van Henderson said in a harsh whisper, “I’m sorry, Arthur. I know your reputation but I’m not putting my people under some hick.”
“Well, Pete, my reputation’s irrelevant. What counts is my authority.”
Again Henderson nodded reasonably, this man in a white shirt immaculately starched and a gray suit that would gain him entrance into any restaurant within a mile of Capitol Hill.
“Arthur, I ought to be more involved in this thing. I mean, I know Handy. I—”
“How do you know him?” Potter interrupted. This was news to him.
“I had agents on the scene at apprehension. At the S&L. I interviewed him after the collar. I helped the U.S. Attorney make the case. It was our forensics that put him away.”
Since Handy’d been caught in the act and there were direct eyewitnesses, forensics would be a mere technicality. On the DomTran flight Potter had read the interview conducted by, apparently, Henderson. The prisoner had said virtually nothing except “Fuck you.”
“Anything you can tell us about him would be appreciated,” Potter said. “But you don’t have the sort of experience we need for containment.”
“And Stillwell does?”
“He has a containment officer’s temperament. And judgment. He’s not a cowboy.”
Or, thought Potter, a bureaucrat, which was just as bad, if not worse.
Finally Henderson looked down at the muddy ground. He growled, “No fucking way, Potter. I’ve been stuck in this hellhole plenty long enough. Not a damn thing happens down here except copping applesauce and Dictaphones from the Air Force base. And Indians pissing into fucking Minuteman silos. I want a piece of this.”
“You don’t have any barricade experience, Pete. I read your sheet on the way here.”
“I have more law enforcement experience than that Gomer Pyle you’ve picked. For chrissake, I’ve got a law degree from Georgetown.”
“I’m putting you in charge of the rear staging area. Coordinating medical, press liaison, the facilities for the hostages’ families, and supplies for the containment troopers and hostage rescue when they get here.”
There was a pause as Henderson gazed at his fellow agent—only a few years older—with shocked amusement then, suddenly, pure contempt, which was sealed with an abrupt nod and a chill grin. “Fuck you, Potter. I know the other part of your reputation. Grandstanding.”
“It’s an important job, rear staging,” Potter continued, as if Henderson hadn’t spoken. “It’s where you’ll be the most valuable.”
“Fucking holier than thou . . . You’ve gotta have the limelight, don’t you? Afraid somebody a little showier, with a little more class might play better on camera?”
“I think you know that’s not my motive.”
“Know? What do I know? Except that you breeze into town with the Admiral’s blessing, send us off to get your fucking coffee. After the shootout—where, who knows, a dozen troopers and a hostage or two’re killed—you give your press conference, take credit for the good stuff, blame us for the fuckups. And then you’re gone. Who’s left to deal with the shit you leave behind? Me, that’s who.”
“If there’s nothing
LeBow looked quizzically at Potter, who shrugged. There was no procedure that either of them knew about for field-deputizing federal agents.
Peter Henderson’s face, alone among the crowd at the briefing, was still smiling. Potter said to him, “You too, Pete. I want any agents not involved in intelligence gathering, forensics, or liaising with HRT under Sheriff Stillwell’s direction.”
Henderson nodded slowly, then said, “Could I talk to you for a minute, Art?”
“We don’t have much time.”
“Just take a minute.”
Potter knew what was coming and understood that it was important for it not to happen in front of the other commanders. He said, “Let’s step outside, what do you say?”
In the shadow of the van Henderson said in a harsh whisper, “I’m sorry, Arthur. I know your reputation but I’m not putting my people under some hick.”
“Well, Pete, my reputation’s irrelevant. What counts is my authority.”
Again Henderson nodded reasonably, this man in a white shirt immaculately starched and a gray suit that would gain him entrance into any restaurant within a mile of Capitol Hill.
“Arthur, I ought to be more involved in this thing. I mean, I know Handy. I—”
“How do you know him?” Potter interrupted. This was news to him.
“I had agents on the scene at apprehension. At the S&L. I interviewed him after the collar. I helped the U.S. Attorney make the case. It was our forensics that put him away.”
Since Handy’d been caught in the act and there were direct eyewitnesses, forensics would be a mere technicality. On the DomTran flight Potter had read the interview conducted by, apparently, Henderson. The prisoner had said virtually nothing except “Fuck you.”
“Anything you can tell us about him would be appreciated,” Potter said. “But you don’t have the sort of experience we need for containment.”
“And Stillwell does?”
“He has a containment officer’s temperament. And judgment. He’s not a cowboy.”
Or, thought Potter, a bureaucrat, which was just as bad, if not worse.
Finally Henderson looked down at the muddy ground. He growled, “No fucking way, Potter. I’ve been stuck in this hellhole plenty long enough. Not a damn thing happens down here except copping applesauce and Dictaphones from the Air Force base. And Indians pissing into fucking Minuteman silos. I want a piece of this.”
“You don’t have any barricade experience, Pete. I read your sheet on the way here.”
“I have more law enforcement experience than that Gomer Pyle you’ve picked. For chrissake, I’ve got a law degree from Georgetown.”
“I’m putting you in charge of the rear staging area. Coordinating medical, press liaison, the facilities for the hostages’ families, and supplies for the containment troopers and hostage rescue when they get here.”
There was a pause as Henderson gazed at his fellow agent—only a few years older—with shocked amusement then, suddenly, pure contempt, which was sealed with an abrupt nod and a chill grin. “Fuck you, Potter. I know the other part of your reputation. Grandstanding.”
“It’s an important job, rear staging,” Potter continued, as if Henderson hadn’t spoken. “It’s where you’ll be the most valuable.”
“Fucking holier than thou . . . You’ve gotta have the limelight, don’t you? Afraid somebody a little showier, with a little more class might play better on camera?”
“I think you know that’s not my motive.”
“Know? What do I know? Except that you breeze into town with the Admiral’s blessing, send us off to get your fucking coffee. After the shootout—where, who knows, a dozen troopers and a hostage or two’re killed—you give your press conference, take credit for the good stuff, blame us for the fuckups. And then you’re gone. Who’s left to deal with the shit you leave behind? Me, that’s who.”
“If there’s nothing
Similar Books
