The maitre d’ shrugged and tossed his head to the side. “They’ve taken a few hours off. Given the guest list for your meeting, it seemed prudent for all concerned. Mr. Sinclair also assured me that you’d be finished before the dinner rush begins.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem at all,” Jake said.
The answer seemed to please Eddie, who closed the gun drawer and led the way around to the staircase. “Follow me, please,” he said. “I understand that you need a place where you can remain out of sight.”
Jake grumbled under his breath, “That’s the story of my life.”
This time Paul drove. In fact, by the time they’d taxied all the way to the midfield terminal at Dulles, and they’d ridden the bus to the place where they could catch a second bus to the car rental counter, Paul felt like he might as well have driven all the way from Arkansas.
With the zero notice they’d received to get here, they were lucky to have caught a flight as it was. Add that confusion to the disturbing lack of detail on the purpose of the trip, and what Paul had was a barrelful of question marks.
“I’m glad this makes sense to you, Irene,” he said as he navigated the treacherous, narrow lanes of Route 66 through Arlington. “Because it sure beats the hell out of me.”
She watched out the window, squirming with a desire to move faster through traffic. He drove like an old woman, sticking to posted speeds and prompting angry blasts from other motorists. “What’s to make sense? When the chairman of the Judiciary Committee tells you to come to a meeting, you come to a meeting.”
“Without telling anyone? That’s not right. It’s not the way things are done. Christ, we didn’t even tell the field office here.”
She shrugged, still avoiding eye contact. “He’s a senator. If he wants secrecy, we’ll give him secrecy.”
“That’s improper as hell, Irene. Who is this senator to be giving us orders to begin with? I’ll bet you a week’s pay this has something to do with his alternative-lifestyle crap, and when it surfaces in the press, we’re gonna get screwed.”
Finally, her head came around. “No, Paul. I’m gonna get screwed. You’re just sitting in the car, remember? Besides, he said it was about the Donovans. As case agent, I’m the one he should have called. Nothing improper in that at all.”
“Then why doesn’t he want me in the meeting?”
She rolled her features into a bored, condescending scowl. “That’ll be the very first question I ask,” she said, groaning. “Truthfully, my guess is that he’s turned up something on Frankel, and he’s as scared of his conclusions as we are.”
As they crossed the Potomac, Route 66 became Constitution Avenue, and from there, it was only a matter of navigating the one-way streets up to Connecticut Avenue, where Senator Clayton Albricht would be waiting. Given Paul’s cynicism, she didn’t bother to mention that she’d agreed on the telephone to surrender her firearm at the door. Frankly, she didn’t need any more of his shit right now.
By the time Clayton Albricht arrived at the Smithville at three-thirty, the luncheon crowd had come and gone, leaving the ornate cavern empty. Other than Eddie Bartholomew, he didn’t even see any service people.
According to his telephone conversation with Harry Sinclair, if Clayton could convince Irene Rivers to travel to Washington in secret, and Peter Frankel to come to the Smithville for another afternoon rendezvous, then all this pedophile bullshit would go away. It wasn’t Sinclair’s way to be specific in such things, any more than Clayton would have welcomed specifics over the telephone.
He moved to sit near the archway, as close as possible to the entrance. From there, he could see for himself who came and who left the restaurant, but Eddie Bartholomew wouldn’t hear of it. “Please,” he said as he led the senator toward a spacious table for four in the rear corner of the room. “You’ll be very comfortable over here.”
Albricht considered arguing but didn’t bother. Eddie seemed wrapped pretty tight this afternoon. A man who was none too stable on a good day, it was best not to push him.
Barely five minutes passed before he heard the heavy front door open and shut, and among the muddled conversation out in the hallway, he heard the unmistakable arrogance of Peter Frankel.
Jake listened to it all from the top of the stairs, where he sat crouched out of sight. If he wanted to, he could crane his neck far enough to catch a glance at people’s legs as they arrived, but what was the point? He’d see them all, soon enough, from head to toe.
He felt like a kid with a secret-ready to bust if he didn’t share it soon.
When Frankel entered the foyer, Jake’s blood pressure topped the scale. Just breathing the same air as that son of a bitch was nearly more than he could tolerate.
And Eddie Bartholomew was just as cordial as could be. They exchanged pleasantries at the lectern, and as Frankel handed over his firearm, Jake could hear the famous television smile in his voice.
Just a few more minutes, Jake told himself, and I’ll shove that smile out your ass.
“You sure this is it?” Paul asked incredulously as he backed into the narrow alleyway. “There’s no sign or anything.”
Irene checked her notes one more time. “It’s the right address.”
He shook his head. “I gotta tell you, boss. This one doesn’t feel good to me.”
She shrugged, even though she shared the sentiment. “Well, we’re here. If it’s the wrong place, then I won’t be gone long at all.” She opened the car door.
“I’ll be here if you need me,” he said.
She sensed danger as she climbed the front steps to the town house, and she found herself noticing every detail of her surroundings. The steel staples in the marble steps; the boot scraper on the stoop. Someone had spent serious bucks on this place. She waited patiently after pushing the doorbell, even though she never heard anything ring on the other side. To make it easy on whoever was watching the security monitor, she stared directly into the camera lens. She fought the urge to rest her hand on her pistol grip, figuring that this kind of security bespoke a certain paranoia on the other side. The last thing she wanted to do was make people more nervous than they might otherwise be.
Finally, the door buzzed, and she pushed it open. Eddie was waiting for her, smile already in place. “Ms. Rivers?”
She nodded. “Agent Rivers, yes. I’m here to meet someone.”
Eddie beckoned her inside. “Senator Albricht, of course. We’ve been expecting you, ma’am. You’ve heard of our unique security precautions?”
Another nod. She hesitantly produced her S amp;W from the waistband of her skirt and placed it on the lectern.
Eddie swept her body quickly with the metal detector, then ushered her forward with a sweeping motion of his hand. “Please go on in. The others are waiting for you.”
Others? she thought. As in, more than one?
The senator sat facing the door, and as soon as she entered the room, his face beamed. “Welcome, welcome,” he said, rising from his chair.
They’d never met, but she recognized him from the news. It was the other man-the one with his back turned-who looked remarkably familiar. As Frankel turned in his seat to greet the new arrival, his face mirrored the shock Irene felt in her belly.
“What the hell are you doing here?” they both said in unison.
Jake sat on the stairs now, waiting for the right moment to come down. The sudden explosion of voices startled him at first, then brought a smile as he imagined what must be going through everyone’s mind.
If they thought they were surprised now, they need only wait half a minute.
He took a huge breath and concentrated on his nerves. He had to remain calm through this. Finally, he had the audience he’d dreamed of, and at last, he knew what had to be said. Now all it would take was a little salesmanship. After fourteen years on the run-after all the days and nights of worry and of lies-it all came down to this.