"Your end all right?"
"It's covered," Cartwright told him. "I understand you've got the target marked."
"You understand exactly right." There was a shadow of uneasiness behind the mobster's smile. "The bastard's here, and I can tell you that he's hot as hell."
"You were expecting that."
"Damn right. I didn't think he'd take it this fast off the mark, but I was counting on some losses here and there."
The capo's tone betrayed his anger, faint bewilderment at what was happening on the streets of Washington. From quiet sources, Cartwright knew that Gianelli had been taking hits all evening, from the ghetto to his favorite pleasure palaces. It was the price he had to pay for setting up an operation in his own backyard.
"I set the meeting with Brognola as you asked. It's Arlington at midnight."
Gianelli frowned. "I wish we'd set it earlier, the way this bastard's tearing up the town, but what the hell. It's just a few more hours, right?"
"Four hours, thirty-seven minutes."
"Yeah, all right. You mentioned something on the phone about another problem."
Cartwright nodded, drawing cautious pleasure from the mobster's agitation.
"It's the media. Specifically a free lance by the name of Susan Landry. Someone tipped her to the move against Brognola, and she's pressing for supporting evidence."
"Goddamn it. Was it Landry? Why's that name familiar?" Gianelli's scowl was carving furrows in his cheeks. "I know that name from somewhere, dammit."
Cartwright gave it to him on a platter. "She's the one who broke the story on that little business in Virginia. Prior to that, she had alleged connections with your target's Cleveland operation. Someone in the Family up there should have the details."
"Shit, I know the score on Cleveland," Gianelli growled. "The bitch was there, all right. Goddammit, what's she up to now?"
"An educated guess would say that she's attempting to corroborate — or to expose — the evidence against Brognola."
"Christ, that's all we need. The frigging media. How badly can she hurt us?"
Cartwright didn't even have to think about it. "There's a single source of information she could tap, outside this room."
"DeVries."
It hadn't come out sounding like a question, but he nodded all the same, confirming Gianelli's choice of the potential leak.
"We'll have to take him out. You wanna set it up?"
It was the CIA man's turn to frown. "I think it's better handled out of house. Less chance of comebacks in the long run."
Gianelli chuckled. "'In-house,' 'out of house,' what the hell's the difference? I'llhandle it, and we won't have no fucking comebacks, neither. Shit, you cloak-and-daggers kill me."
Not a bad idea, thought Cartwright, but he kept the icy smile in place. The time was not yet ripe for dumping Gianelli. Later, when the present mess was all behind them.
"While we're on the subject, Nick, I think you should be covering the meet in Arlington.''
The mafioso dropped his smile, bent forward, elbows planted on his knees. "Why's that?"
"My ass is hanging out a mile for no good reason on this thing. I laid the groundwork, got your target here. It's your show now."
"My show? Your ass is hanging out for no good reason? Maybe you should take another look around and find out who your friends are, Cam. Think about the shit you'd have to wade through if Brognola tied you in with Farnsworth and that fuck-up in Virginia."
"He was nowhere close. You know that."
"What I know is that it only takes a phone call, and your little world goes up in smoke. Capisce? Somebody ties you in with Farnsworth, and you wouldn't have a pot to piss in by this time tomorrow."
Cartwright bristled.
"This has never been about Brognola, dammit. It's about his contact."
"What's the matter, you can't say the name? It's Bolan, asshole. Say it."
"This is childish."
"Say it!"
The explosion took him by surprise, the dark contorted face reminding Cartwright that the mobster might be capable of anything. Behind him in the entryway, he heard the hulking gunner sucking wind and waiting for the order to attack.
He said it.
"Bolan."
Gianelli rocked back in his easy chair, retreating from the brink of detonation, and the sudden shift confirmed for Cartwright that he had been dealing with a psychopath these past two years. "See there? It's easy when you try."
"I've got no argument with Bolan."
"Oh? Well, I'd lay money on it that he's got an argument with you. He lost some people in Virginia, just in case you don't remember, and the bastard has been known to hold a grudge. He finds out you were in the deal with Farnsworth, chances are that you'll be dead before you come to trial."
"It wouldn't stand in court," the Company man responded. "Nothing ever went on paper, and the principals are dead. Assuming that you wanted to involve yourself with federal juries, any testimony you presented would be hearsay."
"You want evidence on paper, pally? Think about the notebooks Farnsworth left behind. Dumb move for such a cagey bastard, huh? He wasn't stingy with the names, I'll give him that. And all those memos that he cycled through the Xerox for a rainy day. I'd say it's raining pretty hard right now."
"The statute's run on that by now. It's ancient history."
"So, tell me why you're sitting here right now? Could be that you're embarrassed by the thought of all that shit resurfacing? Could be the statute doesn't run on murder... or should I be calling it assassination?"
Cartwright couldn't answer. He was rooted to his chair, jaws locked, his mind racing back across the years and miles. He flashed on Dallas and the motorcade turning off Houston, running west on Elm Street toward the triple underpass, the grassy knoll. There was a telltale puff of smoke behind the fence, an echo from the book depository, thunder in his ears... And he was instantly transported to Los Angeles, amid the crush of campaign workers at the great Ambassador Hotel. It was congested, even claustrophobic in the kitchen, but he saw the slender figure edging forward, reaching with the pistol to bestow his special blessing, firing blindly toward the ceiling while another shooter closed on Bobby's flank to pop the lethal caps at skin-touch range, secure in his silent weapon, the invisibility of his policeman's uniform.
For Cartwright, the recovery of here and now was the emotional equivalent of diving naked into icy water. For an instant, impact with the present took his breath away.
"All right."
"What's that?"
"I said all right."
"That's better. Arlington is your show, and you'd better get it right the first time, 'cause you won't get any second chances, dig it? I'll take out DeVries, and if the Landry bitch gets burned, we can consider it a bonus."
"Anything you say."
The mobster flashed a savage grin. "I like our little chats, don't you? Let's keep in touch."
He turned away and ambled toward the bar, dismissing Cartwright like a servant, carving one more notch out of his dignity. The man from the CIA retreated through the entryway, ignoring the gorilla's smirk, and took the elevator down.