Free Call to Treason by Tom Clancy, Steve Pieczenik, Jeff Rovin

other guys watching him. If there are, they may want to grab us, see what he said. If that happens, one of us needs to be a floater."
        A floater was a roughneck term for a jack-of-all-trades who hovered around a group on a rig. He only pitched in when necessary, usually when someone got hurt or a piece of equipment failed.
        Richmond had a good point, so he went down first.
        Mandor followed a few minutes later. They met by the charcoal gray van.
        "How does it look?" Mandor asked.
        "As advertised," Richmond said. "The floor is raised slightly in back.
        There's a big hollow space under there."
        "What do you think it's for?" Mandor asked. "Drugs? Illegals?"
        Richmond shrugged. "Does it matter? I've gone through the border checkpoint on 1-15. No one ever stopped me."
        Mandor leaned close to his partner. "What about a whack?" he asked in a loud whisper.
        Richmond was silent for a moment. "Okay. What about it?"
        "This is hit-level money. We've never gone there. Do we want to start?"
        Richmond looked at his friend. "We get caught for some of the other stuff we do, it's ten to twenty years. At our age, there ain't much difference between that and a life sentence. I don't have enough to retire. Do you?"
        "No."
        "Then I say what the hell, we do this. We just watch every step and be a little extra cautious along the way."
        Mandor pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it. Richmond was right. What did it matter? Mandor asked himself. Every job has its risk. He had faced danger every day on the rig, from fires to pump room explosions to metal fatigue that could have resulted in the breakup of the platform. If he were a factory worker, he would face accidents or being laid off. Every day, every breath carried risks.
        Very few of them offered these kinds of rewards.
        "I'll tell you what," Richmond said after thinking for a moment. "Let's have a look at the cash. That will make you feel better."
        "Okay."
        "We'll leave the van here for a day," Richmond said. "I don't want our friend to think we're careless or predictable. You can come back for it later."
        Mandor agreed. They went to their own cars, left the parking structure, and drove to Flamingo. Mandor fired up a second cigarette while he made his way through the thin, early-morning traffic.
        There was no logical reason not to go ahead. Pete Farmer had effectively vouched for Stone. The guy was trusting them with a lot of cash. All they had to do for the rest and more to come, apparently was to follow instructions. It sounded easy, like connect the dots. There was just one thing that bothered Mandor. It bothered him more than the other jobs they had taken over the years. Mandor had liked and trusted those other people, the bookies who sent them to collect overdue debts, the mobsters who needed bagmen. He understood them. Eric Stone was a mystery.
        But as Richmond had said, they would move one step at a time. In the end, they had one advantage over Stone.
        If things went south, they could always put him in that special storage compartment.

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    NINE
        
        Washington, B.C. Monday, 10:59 a.m.
        It was one of those days. A day when Darrell McCaskey was working for everyone but his employer.
        When McCaskey worked for the FBI, the agents and field directors called things like this tactical exchange activities. TEA time was when operatives for one law enforcement agency or intelligence group were loaned to another organization. Sometimes it was an official and open-ended seconding, such as General Rodgers being assigned to Op-Center. More often than not, it was unofficial, for a day or two, such as Darrell giving a hand to the postal police.
        Or being asked just a few hours later to help Scotland Yard investigate the sudden death of William Wilson. Detective