But he couldn’t complain…too much. The job had stature, and he was coming through probably the darkest period of his political life relatively unscathed. All by being honest. As his feet — one real, one not — pushed his trim frame back toward home from his nightly five-miler along Leesburg Pike and its periphery streets, the congressman marveled briefly that he’d survived it all at the hand of the truth. Amazing. It wasn’t a trend he planned to continue, though. Not that one was “less than forthright” intentionally; it was simply a matter of necessity in government. The truth often was less important than being right. There was a difference, Vorhees knew.
So he walked at night to keep his heart strong, went home and massaged the soreness from the stump of flesh below his left knee, showered, slept, and got up the next day. Then off to battle, albeit a quieter kind of conflict than that which he’d seen as an officer in the 82nd. A quiet fight, a good fight. At the end of each day that was what counted. Not your wounds, but that you would fight again. That was the—
“Congressman!”
Vorhees slowed his pace at the call, putting on the brakes fully and turning to see two people, a man and a woman, trotting along the sidewalk to catch up with him. Leaves from the residential lawns blew across their path, and the motion of the man’s body twisted his jacket to the side to reveal a badge on his belt. Shit! Not you again. I thought I dodged your asses a month and a half ago.
“Congressman,” Art said, stopping after their short jog. Frankie was at his side. “I’m Special Agent Art Jefferson, FBI. This is Special Agent Frankie Aguirre. We were hoping you’d give us a minute of your time.”
Vorhees feigned breathlessness and bent forward, hands on knees. “I’m right at the end of my walk, Agent Jefferson.”
“It’ll just take a minute,” Art insisted diplomatically.
“We just have a few questions, sir,” Frankie added.
Vorhees straightened, shifting his bad leg a bit for better balance, and nodded. “All right.”
“We got your statement last month when we were in town, but there are a couple things we need to know beyond that.” Art let that hang for just a second. He wanted more than anything to gauge Vorhees’s reaction to their just being there. It wasn’t that he thought Vorhees was dirty, it was simply that he didn’t want the man to hold anything back that, though it might be embarrassing to him, would help them get their job done. “Nikolai Kostin — did you ever meet him? Face to face?”
Vorhees shook his head and breathed the Virginia night air deeply. “Never.”
“How much did Monte Royce tell you about him?” Art asked.
“The particulars,” Vorhees answered. “His position in the Russian and Soviet militaries. His expertise.”
“No red flags in any of that?” Frankie inquired. A hint of skepticism flavored the question.
“At the time I thought it would be better to have his kind of expertise in our country than in, say, Iran. Or Libya. Or Vietnam.”
“And Royce was vouching for him,” Frankie observed. “That was enough?”
“I thought so.” A little defiant, but also apologetic. It was the first lesson of excelling in D.C.: Craft your response perfectly.
“Did Monte Royce ever ask for any other favors?”
Vorhees eyed the black agent. “I don’t do favors.”
Of course not, Saint Richard. Let’s change the wording to something more palatable, Art thought. “Assistance, then?”
“I don’t recall at the moment,” Vorhees said, bringing both hands to his hips to signal impatience.
“How long did you know Monte Royce?” Royce was Vorhees’s link to this, Art knew. It was the place to apply pressure.
“A number of years.” The response was short. Get the message, Jefferson. You don’t grill a United States congressman like this. You don’t grill me like this.
“Did you attend his funeral?”
Vorhees sneered at the question. Funeral? There’s your exit. “I was busy. Agent Jefferson, if you don’t mind, I have things to do. This is not a good night for me. I have to attend a good friend’s funeral tomorrow.” Poor John. Victim of a bump and rob. But why did they leave his new Suburban? The police were probably trying to figure that out, too. But at least the body hadn’t lain for weeks rotting in some wooded ditch somewhere. His killers were decent enough to leave him by a road. It had still taken more than two days to locate it. And now the congressman had to find a new orthopedic. “If you are so interested in Monte Royce, which you seem to be from your questions, then why don’t you talk to Senator Crippen.”
“We have,” Frankie said.
“Well, then you know more than I can give you already. He was closer to Monte Royce than I was.”
But you were the one to help Royce. Art thought on that for a brief second. Maybe Royce thought Crippen would balk at the request. Maybe not. It was just the luck of the draw. Vorhees had come up short.
“If you’ll excuse me?” Vorhees said, politely waiting for a nod, or some signal that his inquisition was finished.
Darian eased the Volvo through the intersection after pausing at the four-way stop, looking right past Moises at their next target. “Those are pigs. I can smell ‘em.”
Jesus! Moises slid a bit lower in his seat. That’s him. The FBI guy.
The Volvo passed through the intersection and continued down Monroe. Vorhees’s residence was eight houses down. Darian slowed as they passed. “Did you get the route down?”
“Yeah,” Moises said, coming back up in his seat.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.” You can’t tell him that pig was in your house. Who’d believe that and not think you were a snitch? “When you said there were pigs there I got nervous.”
“Pigs are pigs are pigs,” Darian said. “They bleed, they die, just like anyone. Funner to kill than ordinary people, though.” He’d only killed one pig up close — several had died in the World Center attack — but he was certain that would change before too long. “So you got it?”
Moises tapped the marked-up map book on his lap. Three times now they’d followed the gimp on his nightly walk, and each time he’d taken the same route. He was either cocky or stupid, Moises thought. An easy target. An opportune target.
“Let’s get home,” Darian said, accelerating down the street as the sight of the waddling congressman became visible in the rearview. The pigs were done with him. But they weren’t.
Toby opened the long brown box and lifted the contents out with one hand. It wasn’t light, but it wasn’t heavy either. He knew that weight would be the key to making this work. “Looks fake as hell, huh?”
John took the prosthetic limb, cradling it with both hands. It was roughly flesh colored, though one could tell by appearance that its surface did not approach the softness of real flesh. To touch it one would know that its exterior was a hard plastic material. The top, where the stump of the limb amputated below the knee fit into a form-fitting cup, was heavier in balance, as was the bottom. At that end a crude foot was attached. It rotated on a metallic ball joint through only a front-back motion to allow the wearer to walk, though not naturally or comfortably. This was a clunker, John knew. Not a new model at all.