you much, not if things start to turn bad up there.”
McGrath nodded.
“You hear from Jackson again?” he asked.
“Not since Monday,” the resident agent said. The dynamite thing.”
“Next time he calls, he speaks to me, OK?” McGrath said.
The Butte guy nodded. Fished one-handed in his pocket while he drove.
Pulled out a small radio receiver. McGrath took it from him. Put it
into his own pocket.
“Be my guest,” the Butte guy said. “I’m on vacation. Webster’s
orders. But don’t hold your breath. Jackson doesn’t call often. He’s
very cautious.”
The Field Office was just a single room, second floor of a two-floor
municipal building. A desk, two chairs, a computer, a big map of
Montana on the wall, a lot of filing space, and a ringing telephone.
McGrath answered it. He listened and grunted. Hung up and waited for
the resident agent to take the hint.
“OK, I’m gone,” the old guy said. “Silver Bow Jeep will bring you a
couple of vehicles over. Anything else you guys need?”
“Privacy,” Brogan said.
The old guy nodded and glanced around his office. Then he was gone.
“Air force has put a couple of spy planes up there,” McGrath said.
“Satellite gear is coming in by road. The general and his aide are
coming here. Looks like they’re going to be our guests for the
duration. Can’t really argue with that, right?”
Milosevic was studying the map on the wall.
“Wouldn’t want to argue with that,” he said. “We’re going to need some
favors. You guys ever seen a worse-looking place?”
McGrath and Brogan joined him in front of the map. Milosevic’s finger
was planted on Yorke. Ferocious green and brown terrain boiled all
around it.
“Four thousand square miles,” Milosevic said. “One road and one
track.”
“They chose a good spot,” Brogan said.
“I spoke with the president,” Dexter said.
He sat back and paused. Webster stared at him. What the hell else
would he have been doing? Pruning the Rose Garden? Dexter was staring
back. He was a small guy, burned up, dark, twisted, the way a person
gets to look after spending every minute of every day figuring every
possible angle.
“And?” Webster said.
There are sixty-six million gun-owners in this country,” Dexter said.
“So?” Webster asked.
“Our analysts think they all share certain basic sympathies,” Dexter
said.
“What analysts?” Webster said. “What sympathies?”
There was a poll,” Dexter said. “Did we send you a copy? One adult in
five would be willing to take up arms against the government, if
strictly necessary.”
“So?” Webster asked again.
There was another poll,” Dexter said. “A simple question, to be
answered intuitively, from the gut. Who’s in the right, the government
or the militias?”
“And?” Webster said.
Twelve million Americans sided with the militias,” Dexter said.
Webster stared at him. Waited for the message.
“So,” Dexter said. “Somewhere between twelve and sixty-six million
voters.”
“What about them?” Webster asked.
“And where are they?” Dexter asked back. “You won’t find many of them
in DC or New York or Boston or LA. It’s a skewed sample. Some places
they’re a tiny minority. They look like weirdos. But other places
they’re a majority. Other places they’re absolutely normal,
Harland.”
“So?” he said.
“Some places they control counties,” Dexter said. “Even states.”
Webster stared at him.
“God’s sake, Dexter, this isn’t politics,” he said. This is Holly.”
Dexter paused and glanced around the small White House room. It was
painted a subtle off-white. It had been painted and repainted that
same subtle color every few years, while presidents came and went. He
smiled a connoisseur’s smile.
“Unfortunately, everything’s politics,” he said.
“This is Holly,” Webster said again.
Dexter shook his head. Just a slight movement.
This is emotion,” he said. Think about innocent little emotional
words, like patriot, resistance, crush, underground, struggle,
oppression, individual, distrust, rebel, revolt, revolution, rights.
There’s a certain majesty to those words, don’t you think? In an
American context?”
Webster shook his head doggedly.
“Nothing majestic about kidnaping women,” he said. “Nothing majestic
about illegal weapons, illegal armies, stolen dynamite. This isn’t
politics.”
Dexter shook his head again. The same slight movement.
Things have a way of becoming politics,” he said. Think about Ruby