took it from him. Ducked back to the cover of the rock face and clicked the button.
"Jackson?" he said. "This is Harland Webster."
McGrath and Johnson crowded in on him. The three men crouched against the rock wall. Webster moved the unit an inch from his ear so the other two could listen in. In the cover of the rock, in the silence of the mountains, they could hear it crackling and hissing and the fast breathing of a person on the other end. Then they heard a voice.
"Harland Webster?" the voice said. "Well, well, the head man himself."
"Jackson?" Webster said again.
"No," the voice said. "This is not Jackson."
Webster glanced at McGrath.
"So who is it?" he asked.
"Beau Borken," the voice said. "And as of today, I guess that's President Borken. President of the Free States of America. But feel free to speak informally."
"Where's Jackson?" Webster asked.
There was a pause. Nothing to hear except the faint electronic sound of FBI telecommunications technology. Satellites and microwaves.
There was another pause. Then there was the sound of laughter. A high, tinny sound. A loud, shrieking laugh which overloaded Webster's earpiece and spilled into distortion and bounced off the rock wall.
"No, he wasn't sick, Webster," Borken said. "He was pretty healthy, up until the last ten minutes."
"What did you do to him?" Webster asked.
"Same as I'm going to do to the General's little girl," Borken said. "Listen up, and I'll tell you the exact details. You need to pay attention, because you need to know what you're dealing with here. We're serious here. We mean business, you understand? You listening?"
Johnson pushed in close. White and sweating.
"You crazy bastards," he yelled.
"Who's that?" Borken asked. "That the General himself?"
"General Johnson," Webster said.
There was a chuckle on the radio. Just a short, satisfied sound.
"A full house," Borken said. "The Director of the FBI and the Joint Chairman. We're flattered, believe me. But I guess the birth of a new nation deserves nothing less."
"What do you want?" Webster asked.
"We crucified him," Borken said. "We found a couple of trees a yard apart, and we nailed him up. We're going to do that to your daughter, General, if you step out of line. Then we cut his balls off. He was pleading and screaming for us not to, but we did it anyway. We can't do that to your kid, her being a woman and all, but we'll find some equivalent, you know what I mean? Do you think she'll be screaming and pleading, General? You know her better than me. Personally, I'm betting she will be. She likes to think she's a tough cookie, but when she sees those blades coming close, she's going to change her damn tune pretty quick, I'm just about sure of that."
Johnson turned whiter. All his blood just drained away. He fell back and sat heavily against the rock. His mouth was working soundlessly.
"What the hell do you bastards want?" Webster yelled.
There was another silence. Then the voice came back, quiet and firm.
"I want you to stop yelling," it said. "I want you to apologize for yelling at me. I want you to apologize for calling me a rude name. I'm the President of the Free States, and I'm owed some courtesy and deference, wouldn't you say?"
His voice was quiet, but McGrath heard it clearly enough. He looked across at Webster in panic. They were close to losing, before they had even started. First rule was to negotiate. To keep them talking, and gradually gain the upper hand. Establish dominance. Classic siege theory. But to start out by apologizing for yelling was to kiss goodbye any hope of dominance. That was to lie down and roll over. From that point on, you were their plaything. McGrath shook his head urgently. Webster nodded back. Said nothing. Just held the radio without speaking. He knew how to do this. He had been in this situation before. Several times. He knew the protocol. Now, the first one to speak was the weaker one. And it wasn't going to be him. He and McGrath gazed at the ground and waited.
"You still there?" Borken asked.
Webster kept on staring down. Saying nothing.
"You there?" Borken said again.
"What's on your mind, Beau?" Webster asked, calmly.
There was angry breathing over the air.
"You cut my phone line," Borken said. "I want it restored."
"No, we didn't," Webster said. "Doesn't your phone work?"