"Why? Because this is America?" Henry said sarcastically, as if reading his friend's thoughts. "That's exactly what will happen. What would you do, Ray, if you were in their place?" he asked. "Hm? Your people are being killed every day and you don't have shit. Fifty million dollar reward gets ignored. Every day it's getting worse. Your agents are resigning and your apparent leadership ability is going straight into the toilet. Your approval ratings are in the basement, and suddenly a guy appears on your doorstep saying he represents Blair and company. You going to make nice? Shit, no. You'd call in old Hap Edwards with his bolt cutters and tell him to find out whatever he could, don't worry about the blood."

"Henry, I-"

"Ray. Listen to me. I am not making this up. I know Hap Edwards. Not personally, but gun people have lots of connections in law enforcement, including FBI and CIA. There's always a few shooters in those groups, even if they're not as good as the serious guys. You remember Tom Fleming, my friend you met in St. Louis, the lawyer who helps run the training courses with those other guys?"

"Yeah...?"

"Tom knows Hap, and he told me a story about Hap Edwards from a few years back. While you were over in Africa during the Reagan Administration, there was some reporter from New York who was making a nuisance of himself. Hap Edwards was carrying State Department creds, 'cause that was his standard cover, even though anyone that knew anything knew Hap was head of the CIA hit squad. So some administrative aide of Reagan's was whining about this reporter, and he says to Hap, 'I want you to take care of this guy for us. This is embarrassing the President', or words to that effect. Hap says okay, and the guy leaves. So five minutes later, the aide is walking down the hall, Hap's office door is open, and the aide smells this funny smell that you and I would instantly recognize as Hoppe's # 9 coming from the open door. He walks in to investigate, and there's Hap, cleaning the baffles on his suppressed Ruger .22 pistol. The aide says, 'What are you doing?', and Hap says, 'You told me to take care of this asshole reporter, right?', and the aide about has a stroke right there." Henry laughed.

"If Hap had been in the habit of cleaning his gun after every job instead of right before, or if he hadn't left his door open that day, that reporter would have been dead as a hammer inside of twenty-four hours. Hap Edwards travels all around the world for that very purpose. Torturing people for information and then killing them is what he does, Ray. Hell, look who he brought in to testify on his behalf at the last task force meeting- Nigel Hume-Douglas. That guy was wiring IRA guys' nuts to field generators when I was in diapers." "Henry, you yourself would agree that the President of the United States is not likely to order the torture of a citizen worth two hundred million dollars."

"That's an interesting point. Suppose somebody planted an atomic bomb in New York City, and Ross Perot showed up out of the blue at the White House, saying he was representing the terrorists. You don't think they would wire him for sound, and after they got what they wanted announce he'd had an unexpected heart attack, DOA at Walter Reed? You think that's absolutely impossible? Maybe you're right. But Ross Perot is very well known, and he has a family that would use his money to fight what had happened to him. You don't have a family, and no one has any close ties to you. You wind up dead, Ray, and some distant relatives are going to be ecstatic. You go into the White House, and the first thing Hap would do is take off five of your fingers with a set of bolt cutters. Then he'd ask what you had to say. You'd be dead meat, with me and Cindy and Allen about two days behind you. Forget it."

"What if I insist on a different spot?"

"Then they'll know who you are, and snatch you later. Same deal."

He's right Ray thought grudgingly. But there still has to be a way. Then he thought of something, and asked Henry a question.

"How about if we used a cut-out?"

"Have to be someone who won't rat you out, and that Hap and his men won't torture. I doubt such a person exists."

"What about Harrison Potter?" There was a long pause before Henry answered.

"Can't call him and set up a meeting. Word might get back to the President, or Neumann, or Hap Edwards, and they'd follow him and snatch you."

"What, then?" Ray asked. Henry thought for a few moments.

"You'll have to run into him, and get his attention. A chance meeting, but that you orchestrated. At a gas station, or a drug store, something like that. Five minutes to give him the pitch and get his phone number, then you're out of there, and you never meet with him again. Phones only from then on. I got a way to beat those. You'll want to change your appearance some, glasses, wear a Hawaiian shirt, that kind of thing. Best if no one else is around, 'cause if there are other witnesses, like in a restaurant, the FBI will interview everybody and get a better composite than just Potter's recollection." Henry looked at his friend. "You up for tailing him for a day or two?"

"It's not even 8:30 yet," Ray said, looking at his watch. "So we got a whole day ahead of us. Let's get cracking."

"Judge Potter?" Ray asked. It was late afternoon and Harrison Potter was looking at the new arrivals in the biographies section of the Barnes & Noble book store.

"Sir?"

"My name is Jones. I'm a lawyer representing some people in a rather delicate matter. It concerns what the task force has been working on. My clients do not wish to end up on the wrong side of Mr. Edwards' field generator or Major Hume-Douglas' cordless drill. Neither, I confess, do I." Harrison Potter did not surprise easily, but he was surprised now.

"Your client wants to provide information so that he may claim the reward."

"Turn back and face towards the book shelves, please. Thank you, sir," Ray whispered politely. "No, to answer your question. The fact that the President offered such a sum convinced us that the White House is now willing to negotiate. But we don't want money." Ray gave Potter a quick rundown on his own history, changing several details and being vague about others.

"I understand your reluctance to explain how you and Wilson Blair got together," Potter said as he pretended to look at the titles, "or exactly how many people you represent. Since you say you've spent most of the last thirty years living outside of the United States, they were logical questions, but I won't bring them up again. But surely your involvement in this matter is founded on something about which you can tell me."

"It is, Judge Potter," Ray agreed. "You're familiar with the efforts of the Fabian Society more than a century ago in England?" The old man was startled by the question, but he latched onto it quickly. "Yes. They wanted to establish a Socialist government in Great Britain. The group the Fabians founded became the Labour Party, and the rest, as they say, is history."

"Their tactic was to promote incremental change," Ray said. "Like boiling the frog. It worked very well." "And when you came back to America a few years ago, after being gone for thirty years," Potter said with a nod, "you were the frog that got thrown in all at once."

"Exactly." Without mentioning Henry or the Customs incident in New York, Ray described how he had learned about the new currency, regulations on cash, warrantless searches, and seizing property without an arrest or conviction. Then he talked about the tremendous number of people in federal prison for technical violations of the ever-expanding federal antigun laws. Potter nodded again, then frowned.

"And what you're negotiating for your client or clients is not the reward money?"

"Have you ever studied the Miller case, Judge Potter?" Ray asked. "From 1939?"

"I know of the ruling. I have not researched the case itself."

"It was one of the things I did before agreeing to this job. When the Western District threw out the case and the Government appealed to the Supreme Court, Miller was long gone and neither he nor his lawyer showed up. No one was there from Miller's side, Judge Potter. Nobody filed a brief on his behalf. And with no one to call them on it, the government's people lied, Judge Potter. Has that ever happened before, do you suppose?" he said before plunging on.

"They lied and said a gun like Miller's wasn't a type used by any militia. The Court said, 'Okay, since we haven't been shown any evidence that it could have a militia application, it's okay to restrict it under the 1934 Act,' and let the original conviction stand. So the ruling says that militia-type weapons should not be restricted, but the government ignores that and passes more antigun laws, ultimately in 1986 banning one class of militia weapons entirely.

"Remember that the 1934 National Firearms Act was allowed to pass in the first place only as a revenueraising measure. And the Supreme Court has ruled that for a tax statute to be constitutional, its prime consideration has to be raising revenue, not regulation or prohibition."

"Drexall Furniture..." Potter said softly, remembering the landmark Supreme Court case.

"Right. Punitive tax rates cannot be used for the primary purpose of enacting regulatory policy. But with the NFA we have a $200 tax on a twenty-dollar STEN gun. A $200 tax on a ten-dollar auto-sear. A $200 tax on a two-dollar piece of wood. And a $200 tax on a one-dollar soda bottle adaptor. No decent person dares fight it in court, because you have to risk spending life in prison if you lose. Then the 1986 ban comes in, and we get more case law. Three different judges rule that since the government refuses to administer the paperwork and collect the tax on post-May 19,1986 machine guns, the whole NFA is null and void. Government ignores that ruling, too.

"Then the Supreme Court hands us the Lopez case. Suddenly, the feds can't claim everything on earth falls under interstate commerce. And finally, we get Bownds, where the Court ruled the law was now irrelevant to a man who made his own STEN guns and kept them in one state.

"So now the feds are put in a box, and the only way out is to say 'Yeah, okay, all this stuff really is unconstitutional, sorry about everything, we'll go home now.' Only they don't. Instead, they ignore the rulings. They pass more bans and they issue their tax agents more surveillance aircraft and more machine guns. The tax agents put on more ninja suits and black ski masks, and trash more people's houses and slam more pregnant wives up against the wall and stomp more cats to death and plant more evidence and throw more people in prison.

"And finally, Judge Potter, one of those tax agents says 'enough'. The government has refused to clean up its own mess, so he takes the only option left and issues a simple ultimatum: Shape up or die. And horror of horrors, it's working. It's drawing all kinds of decent people in. That should come as no surprise--if you'll check your history, you'll see that the same thing happened on a smaller scale in 1946. The Battle of Athens, Tennessee." Before Potter could say anything, Ray changed the subject.

"To get back to your original question, sir, no one I represent wants to sell out a friend to collect thirty pieces of silver. No matter how much those pieces weigh."

"What do you want?"

"A solution to both sides' problems. The government wants their people to stop dying prematurely. We want our people to stop being sent to prison, shot, or burned alive over $200 taxes on pieces of wood and steel. I don't see why we can't come to an agreement that satisfies both parties."

"It will be a tough sell, I'm afraid," Potter sighed.

"Well, of course it will be a tough sell, Judge Potter," Ray whispered to the man's back, a little more loudly than he had intended. "If it wasn't, my clients and I wouldn't need you."

With that, the old man burst out laughing, and Ray Johnson looked around to see if anyone was paying attention to them. No one was.

"I worry that I may have put your own life in jeopardy by telling you as much as I have." "From what source?"

"The White House, Judge. Do you think I'm crazy for saying it?"

"No...not necessarily. Though I really can't imagine that happening."

"I understand, but I think it's possible. So do my clients. That's why this is the only time you'll be seeing me. From now on, I'll call you. I assume you have a cellular phone?"

"Yes. Let me give you the number." After he had done so, Judge Potter turned his head slightly. "I assume Jones is not your real name." Ray shrugged, but said nothing. "Well then," the Judge said, "perhaps you'd better tell me what kind of terms you have in mind on this 'negotiated peace'."

After Ray had finished explaining his position and the two men had talked further, Ray pulled a manila envelope from his coat pocket and dumped the contents on the floor. "You'll find some corroboration there," he told Potter. As the Judge bent down to pick up the wallet and badge case, Ray Johnson turned on his heel and left the store. By the time he was three blocks away, the glasses and Hawaiian shirt were in two different trash cans, and Ray's heart rate was slowly returning to normal.

"Mr. President, Jones is in an unusual situation. He represents, and I believe that is indeed the proper term, more than one person. No one that he represents has been arrested or indicted, and he intends to keep it that way. Divulging their names or identities can in no way benefit any of them, and he did not tell me who they were."

"Surely he doesn't represent all of the people who are behind what's been happening," Edgar Loverin said. Loverin was White House Counsel. "His clients could be looking at, shall we say...modest sentences in return for information that would help us wrap this up. Perhaps even complete immunity, in some cases." He paused and smiled. "And of course there's the matter of the reward." Potter nodded and shifted his gaze to the President.

"I'm glad Mr. Loverin brought that up early on," Potter said easily. "I said the same thing, and I believe I can quote Jones' response exactly, or close to it: 'No one that I represent has any interest in helping the federal government arrest and convict any private citizen. I did not contact you to represent an informant in the exchange of information for payment of a reward. Each side wants something, Judge Potter, and each side has something to offer, but money is not on our list. Neither is betrayal'. Those were his words." The President looked thoughtful and scratched his chin.

"What, then, is he proposing?"

"He believes that the interests of both sides are...compatible, Mr. President. The government finds the killings unacceptable and wants them to end. Jones' clients truly believe that the federal government has enacted legislation in areas over which it has no authority. They believe Government agents who enforce these measures share equally in the blame. The Nuremberg defense doesn't cut any ice."

"Go on."

"Jones' clients take no pleasure in killing, but neither do they find it repellent. And they have a saying-a philosophy, if you will: 'After the first one, the rest are free'." The President frowned as he considered t hat.

"Jones also points out that the killings are working, Mr. President, and on two fronts: First, they discourage evil behavior. Every day, more agents resign and more legislators get religion about the Second Amendment. Second, he believes the killings remind the public that the behavior really is evil. Every time a specific agent or politician is executed, it shows the public that rights violations have serious consequences, not just a two-week paid leave and a letter in the agent's file. That is why, he feels, support for what is happening has been growing exponentially. If you want to stop the killings, you, Mr. President, will have to bring about the same or better results through other means. Jones doubts you would be willing to do that. He thinks it virtually impossible you would be willing to publicly tell the American people that certain laws and government policies are fundamentally evil, before demanding that they be reversed."

"In what areas? Give me an example."

"With the exception of the FBI, Secret Service, Coast Guard, Marshal's Service,

and possibly DEA, Jones says all government agents should be prohibited from carrying weapons while on duty. According to him, tax agents who carry machine guns and wear ninja outfits, body armor and ski masks are the textbook definition of 'jackbooted thugs'. They are evil." The President did not reply for several long moments.

"I might be able to work something like that," he said finally. "What else?"

"Several things," Potter said, and listed them. It took a few minutes. The President's eyes narrowed as the retired Chief Justice enumerated Jones' demands.

"That's preposterous!" Edgar Loverin blurted out when Judge Potter had finished. "I'm sorry, Mr. President," the White House Counsel added quickly, obviously abashed by his instinctive response.

"That's all right, Ed," the President said evenly. He turned to Potter. "I'm afraid what he asks is out of the question. A pardon for his clients is within the realm of possibility, but it could only occur if Blair c alls for an immediate cease-fire while these negotiations continue. I think that's the only way we can proceed in good faith." Potter scowled and looked at his notes for the first time.

"Mr. President, Jones says that we, the government, have unlimited money, unlimited manpower, unlimited access to the media, and unlimited authority to make whatever rules we want. His clients have none of those things. The only way they can even the odds is to attract more supporters. Which, he points out, is happening daily. A cease-fire would be counterproductive to their interests."

"Then I'd say we were at an impasse with these people, Harry. We'll have to wait until you can talk to this man Jones some more. When's your next meeting?"

"I don't believe there will be one. I can only wait for him to call me."

"Then we'll have to wait for them to come down on their demands, Harry. We'll let the FBI work the case some more."

"Jones told me he suspected as much," Judge Potter said as he reached into his suit coat. "My instructions were to give you this envelope, Mr. President. I do not know what is in it, except to say that I have been promised it will not explode." He held out the thin white rectangle, which the President took reluctantly.

"Jones says he will have a short message for you tomorrow morning. I don't know if I will be the one delivering it, or what." The President nodded. Then he pressed a button, and a Secret Service agent stuck his head in the door.

"Get Alex Neumann for me." When the FBI man came in, the President told him about the envelope and handed it to him. Neumann was careful to touch only the edges as he looked at it. Then he held it up to the light.

"Just one piece of paper, with a number on it. I'll have the techs check this out, but don't hold your breath. The number is 324452651, for what that's worth. We'll see if we can make anything of it, sir." "Very good," the President said. He had the unpleasant feeling that this first contact with the terrorists had accomplished absolutely nothing.

"Potter was a little nervous when he first sat down, Mr. Edwards," one of the two technicians said as he reran the videotapes of the meeting with the President and Edgar Loverin. "Got a jump in his heart rate early on. That's par-reaction to the opening round, especially when it's the President of the United States. The VS A started to settle down a few words later." The technician was referring to the Voice Stress Analyzer that detected changes in frequency and pitch in a person's speech.

"No iffy spots?" Edwards asked.

"No, sir. By the time he was talking about Jones' demands, his stress level was next to nothing." "You're positive?" Hap Edwards asked. The technician shrugged.