‘What do you want, sir?’ the guard said.
DeMarco looked at the guard’s name tag. McGuire.
‘Mr McGuire, would you come here a minute so I can talk to you without everybody hearing?’
‘I’m in the middle of-’
‘McGuire, a lot of powerful people work in this building. You are not one of them. I’m just trying to save you some pain, m’man. C’mere.’
McGuire turned to the guard dissembling the pen and said, ‘Watch this guy,’ gesturing with his head toward Hassan, then he stepped over to DeMarco. ‘Yeah, so what is it?’ he said.
‘That guy you’re screwin’ with, McGuire, was invited here by John Mahoney. The speaker. In fact, he was supposed to be in Mahoney’s office fifteen minutes ago.’
‘I’m just following procee-’
‘McGuire, it feels like it’s about twenty degrees outside. Right now you’re working indoors, probably a pretty good place to be this time of year. How hard do you think it would be for Mahoney to have you assigned to a less comfortable post? Now, the speaker’s waiting to see that man and you’ve had plenty of time to confirm that he’s safe, so quit dickin’ with him, put his stuff back in his briefcase, and apologize for hassling him.’
McGuire’s face flushed red — not as red as Mahoney’s had been a few minutes ago but red enough. But he didn’t say all the profane things flashing through his Irish brain. He turned and said to Hassan, ‘Sir, you’re free to enter the building. And I — uh, I apologize for the inconvenience of our — ah, current security procedures.’
Hassan didn’t say anything. He put his belt back through the loops in his pants and shoved his belongings into his pockets. He put on his shoes and started to tie his tie, then just shook his head and stuffed the tie into a pocket in his suit jacket.
‘Mr Zarif,’ DeMarco said, ‘I’ll escort you to Mr Mahoney’s office.’
‘Thank you,’ Hassan said, but he didn’t look at DeMarco. He just stared straight ahead as they walked toward the staircase, bristling from the embarrassment of what had just happened but too dignified to complain.
As they stepped into the speaker’s office, Mahoney got up from his chair and came out from behind his desk. DeMarco thought he would shake Hassan’s hand but instead Mahoney pulled the smaller man close, crushing him in a hug.
While Mahoney was greeting Hassan, DeMarco explained what had happened at the security checkpoint.
‘Goddamn, Hassie, I’m sorry,’ Mahoney said. ‘I should have had someone down there to meet you.’ Then he glowered at DeMarco as if DeMarco should have thought of that.
Hassan smiled, but it was a bitter twist of his lips. ‘It wasn’t as bad as at the airport. I was expecting that they’d give me a hard time, so I left Boston early yesterday morning. I missed my first flight because they spent so long inspecting my luggage and searching me. I was actually strip-searched. That’s never happened before.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Mahoney said again. ‘Would you like a drink?’
Hassan looked away and his chin began to tremble, and for a moment DeMarco thought the man was going to cry, but then Hassan took in a breath and said, ‘Yes, Mr Mahoney, a drink would be good. Bourbon if you have it.’
Hassan Zarif, DeMarco concluded, was not a strict Muslim. Any more than Mahoney and DeMarco were strict Catholics, for that matter.
Mahoney poured drinks for himself and Hassan, Then, realizing that he hadn’t bothered to ask if DeMarco wanted one, he said, ‘Joe, what about you?’
‘No, I’m okay,’ DeMarco said. He knew that’s what Mahoney expected him to say. Plus — sheesh! — it was only ten in the morning.
‘How’s your father doing?’ Mahoney said.
‘Not well, sir. He’s in intensive care. It was his second heart attack. We’re not sure he’s going to make it.’
‘But they’re taking good care of him?’ Mahoney said.
‘Yes, the nurses at the hospital, they have souls. And at least, where he is, the press can’t bother him.’
Mahoney didn’t say anything for a minute. ‘So,’ he finally said. ‘What can I do for you? When you called-’
‘Excuse me, Mr Mahoney, but is this gentleman,’ Hassan said, looking over at DeMarco, ‘one of your assistants?’
DeMarco knew Hassan might have asked the question simply because he wanted to know who DeMarco was before he spoke. But DeMarco also suspected that the question may have had to do with the way he looked. DeMarco had dark hair that he combed straight back, a strong nose, and a big, square, dimpled chin. He was broad-chested and had thick shoulders and heavy, muscular arms. He was a good-looking man, but he looked tough and hard — he didn’t look like some congressman’s assistant.
Most congressional staffers were eager young kids just a few years out of college. Or, if not kids, they looked like crafty old negotiators, wheeler-dealers who spend all their time in dimly lit bars making the trade-offs that pass the laws. DeMarco didn’t look like someone from either of those groups. He looked instead like the guy a casino boss might assign to have a word with a card counter or a man the Teamsters might deploy to talk to a trucker who was behind on his dues. He looked, in other words, a lot like his father — and DeMarco’s father had been a hit man for the Italian Mafia.
In response to Hassan’s question, Mahoney made a motion with his head — a little bit of a shake, a little bit of a nod — a motion that could have meant anything, and said, ‘Sorta. When you called, I figured it might be good if Joe sat in on this meeting. He’s a guy who helps out with things around here.’
That was sorta clear as mud, DeMarco thought, and Hassan seemed to think so too.
‘I only ask because-’
‘Joe’s okay, Hassan. Now tell me why you’re here. Is it because the FBI’s hassling your family?’
‘No. I mean we are being hassled — the FBI’s questioned me and my sister and searched our houses — but I don’t need your help with that.’
‘So what is it, son?’ Mahoney said.
‘I want some answers!’ Hassan said, his voice rising. ‘This thing is killing my father. I want to know what really happened.’
‘Answers?’ Mahoney said. Then he added, in a surprisingly gentle voice, ‘Reza was flying the plane, son. There’s no doubt about that.’
‘Sir, I know he flew the plane, but nothing makes any sense. The FBI claims they found links between Reza and al-Qaeda, but they won’t say what they are. The information’s classified, they say. At the same time they’re implying that Reza was working with al-Qaeda, they’re saying he just went crazy because of all the pressure he’d been under lately. And he was under pressure, but he wouldn’t have tried to crash a plane into the White House because money was tight or because he’d lost a few cases in court. And no matter what kind of pressure he was under, he wouldn’t have killed his family! You knew Reza, Mr Mahoney. Can you imagine my brother killing his own children?’
‘Not unless he went off the deep end like the Bureau’s saying,’ Mahoney said.
But DeMarco was thinking, This guy’s the pilot’s brother!
Hassan shook his head. ‘I talked to Reza three days before he … before he died. He was angry about everything going on — this bill of Broderick’s and what happened on Meet the Press — but he didn’t have some kind of nervous breakdown. I don’t care what the FBI says.’
Mahoney just sat there for a moment, not sure what to say. ‘What do you want me to do, Hassie? You know how I feel about your dad, but I can’t change what happened. And you might not like what the Bureau’s saying, but those guys are pretty sharp. And for something this big … well, you know they didn’t do some half-assed investigation.’
‘The Bureau’s wrong!’ Hassan said. Before Mahoney could debate the point, he added, ‘Mr Mahoney, all I want are some answers that make sense. I want to know why this happened. I want to know about these so-called links to al-Qaeda. I want to know why my brother killed his wife and kids. The FBI won’t talk to me, sir — but they’ll talk to you.’