Conspiracy by Stephen Coonts Read Free Book Online

the background of every possible international situation and had considered nuances no one else had, or even the fact that her assessments of the international situation tended to be about ten years out-of-date.
    The thing that
most
annoyed Rubens was the tone of her voice, a nasal singsong tottering on the edge of becoming a sneer.
    The voice greeted them with a perfunctory, “What is it?”
    â€œDonna, Bill Rubens and his people have developed some information concerning Vietnam that we thought important to bring to the President’s attention,” said Collins. “There is an intersection with intelligence we developed about three years ago. Bill is here now.”
    Rubens detailed what they had found. To his great surprise, Bing’s voice seemed bright, even cheery, when he finished.
    â€œGood work. We must pursue this.”
    â€œThat’s why Ms. Collins and I are calling,” said Rubens.
    â€œThis is a Deep Black project?”
    â€œWe hadn’t quite gotten that far,” said Rubens. “I don’t know that there is a role for Desk Three.”
    â€œWhat you’re talking about here is a covert attack on the American government,” said Bing. “I want the best involved.”
    Rubens glanced over at Collins, whose agency had just been indirectly insulted.
    â€œTake the lead,” added Bing. “I’ll inform the President.”
    And then she clicked off.
    â€œYou
really
should have taken the job, Bill,” said Collins. “You made a big mistake. For all of us.”

 
14
    THE LION HAD used the commotion to jump from the tree, wrestling briefly with one of the hounds before making its escape. The dog had two long, deep cuts in his flank but was actually very lucky. He hadn’t lost much blood and could easily have had his neck snapped in the confrontation.
    Sleeth worked on the dog’s wounds carefully, cleaning and dressing them, all the while nuzzling the animal to comfort him. The hound had belonged to Sleeth’s father, who’d retired as a guide just the year before.
    â€œGood lion hound’s worth a fortune,” said Sleeth, but Dean sensed that his concern for the animal had nothing to do with money. “I don’t think I have to put him down. I’d hate to.”
    â€œWe can make a sling and carry him out,” suggested Dean.
    â€œBe heavy carrying the lion, too.”
    â€œWe can do it. If we can’t, the dog’s more important.”
    â€œI appreciate that,” said Sleeth. “I really appreciate that.”
    His other dog circled as they rigged a stretcher. They took the animal up the hill to the dead lion. Sleeth had a collection of metal poles that he used to sling the dead animal for carrying. The poles were thin and Dean didn’t think they’d hold the weight of the cat, which topped a hundred pounds. But the pole hardly bent at all, even when they tied the dog as well.
    â€œIf it’s too heavy, let me know,” said Sleeth, starting out.
    Dean grunted. It
was
heavy, and the truth was, he didn’t really care that much about having a trophy. But leaving the lion felt like admitting defeat—or, worse, like an admission that he was old, as Sleeth had commented earlier.
    He was old. But still strong. And stubborn.
    More the latter, maybe.
    He could still see the lion charging at him. It was almost as if it had happened twice—once he made the shot; once he didn’t. And there was a fork in reality: in one version he’d been mauled; in the other he’d emerged victorious, barely scratched.
    But it had all happened together. There had been no turning point, no choice, just reaction. Everything scrunched together.
    And how the hell had he missed that shot?
    The sun was edging below the horizon, leaving the mountains in deep shadow. Sleeth aimed toward a dried streambed about two and a half miles away, where his wife could meet them with her pickup truck.