42
It was like being a movie star, only without the fun part. When the car pulled into the driveway, Nick was swarmed as he walked to it, amid a whirring buzz of digital Nikons, lit up by the flashbulbs and the Sony Steadicam lights, as if they expected him to wave and bow and escort a goddess to the car. Instead the bright blades of light cut at him and he winced and hunched furtively like a felon. The questions hung in the air, and though he pretended not to hear them, how could he not?
“Nick, how much gun company money did you take?”
“Nick, will you resign today?”
“Nick, was it worth it?”
“Nick, will this ruin your wife’s career as well as your own?”
“Nick, do you regret your love affair with guns? Has it ruined your life?”
“Nick, are you in the NRA?”
Nick ducked, bobbed, wove, sidestepped, and ultimately got into the limo with no dignity intact.
“Go on,” he said to the driver, “back out, kill ’em all, I don’t care.”
But the driver, a decent guy from the Federal Protective Service, just laughed and handled the issue coolly enough, and soon had Nick hurtling downtown along the parkwayed banks of the federal river amid the usual assortment of inspirational marble monuments, arching white bridges decorated with valiant steeds, and Greek-styled buildings that were designed, on such broad avenues, to glow white with the fervor of democracy. Yeah, well, whoever thought up democracy never heard of the Times, he thought.
The driver got him there a little early and in by an obscure entrance on H Street, so when he dipped into the fortress of the Hoover Building, he was spared the Evil Clark Gable treatment. With a little time to kill before the meet with the director, he headed up to the Major Case Section, curious to see if his various IDs with their computer chips still admitted him or he’d already been classified a nonperson by the hall watchers, who had their ear to the ground as stealthily and efficiently as anyone. Yet all doors opened, the elevator stopped at all floors, and in another surprisingly quick transit, he stepped into what had been the work area he commanded, and before they saw him, he saw them, Fields and Starling talking at her computer monitor, a dozen others on phone or monitor, all intently absorbed in their tasks, as if this huge cloud weren’t whirling about them. He looked, saw his own glass-enclosed office with its glory wall still intact-the photos of his career, all the stops in hick towns and taco circuit cities, the triumphs, the setbacks, the pics of himself and Sally at this vacation spot or that, the pics of himself and the four men who’d served as director in his time, a couple of grateful senators and other DC lizard species, so forth, so on. The Robot sat erect at his desk, and though Nick should have despised the Robot, he really didn’t, as a man did what a man did to keep a career running hard, and the Robot hadn’t made a fetish of clearing out all traces of disgraced former team leader Nick Memphis.
Fields finally saw him.
“Nick, hey!” said the big guy, and a dozen faces snapped toward his. It wasn’t like he’d been in a POW camp or anything and his unofficial exile had only run a week, but still there seemed to be a sense of welcome, as people rose and came forward to wish him luck.
“Good to see you back, Nicky,” said Fields warmly, his eyes brilliant but not with brainpower. “I know you’ll beat this shit. We all know who’s behind it.”
Starling smiled. He smiled back, and then others clustered about, so he uttered banalities like, “Oh, nice to see you guys. Hey, how’s it going? Great haircut. New tie, huh? How’s Mary?”
Finally he asked, “So can anyone tell me what’s going on?”
“Well,” Starling said after a pause, “I’m working on a case narrative, and we’ve gone through most of the names on the new list and are trying to close that out. Maybe one of the last few will break it open, but even that seems-”
But she trailed off as the Robot came over, leaned in, and said, “Nick, if you want to use your office, go ahead, I’ll take a hike. I tried not to disturb anything; most of my stuff’s in the corner.”
“Nah, thanks,” he said.
The quasi-reunion, strained as it was by the necessity of avoiding commenting directly on what had appeared in the Times and what brought Nick here today, went on for a bit and then, when Nick glanced at his watch and saw that it was now five till, had to end. He joshed a bit, then by body language indicated it was time to slide and began to make his way to the door.
He was somewhat surprised to see a lurker in the hall, someone clearly waiting to escort him to the elevator to the Seventh Floor. It was Ray Case, of Arson-Robbery, a legendary gunfighter who with Nick served on the oversight board to the Sniper Rifle Committee. He’d actually taken it seriously. What was he doing here? Was it just coincidence?
But no, it wasn’t, because Ray made eye contact aggressively, followed by a little nod signifying a need for a quick chat.
Nick pulled away, gave a last broad good-bye to the team he had assembled, proud of them that they had done such a totally professional job and stayed on task despite all the political bullshit and the flamboyant crash-and-burn scenario enacted by their leader, and then headed to the door, the hallway, the elevators, and his fate.
Ray Case slid next to him.
“Baby, we’ve got to talk,” said Ray.
So Nick was a few minutes late to his beheading. Still, the director, who wasn’t the sort of man who cared about little stuff like that, welcomed him with warmth, considering the situation. They stood in the director’s office making idiotic small talk, then the director led him to his private conference room.
“Nick, I asked Jeff Neely and Rob Harris of Professional Integrity to drop by. Their report isn’t due yet, but I wanted them to give us their preliminary findings before you and I try to figure this thing out, so we’ll know just what’s going on here and I have something to say at this press conference I’m scheduled to address in”-he checked his watch-“fifty-one minutes.”
“Sure,” said Nick, nodding to the two headhunters, who nodded back behind tight, professional, noncommittal office smiles.
Everyone sat, the director at the head of the table, Jeff and Rob on one side, Nick on the other.
“Okay, fellows,” said the director, “you’re handling the forensic document examination of the items the Times ran.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Now, Nick, just for the record, although you aren’t under oath, this meeting is being tape-recorded, and I want it acknowledged that you’ve so far forgone legal representation and are here without counsel or professional advice.”
“Yes sir,” said Nick, loudly, as if to help the tape recorders do their job.
“And, although I hate to say this to a special agent of your seniority and brilliant record, you understand that any misrepresentations can be considered perjury, and if in the opinion of prosecutors it is necessary and appropriate, you will be charged under statutes blah blah and yadda yadda if it can be shown you’ve willingly misrepresented.”
“Yes sir,” said Nick.
“So, for the record, you deny any trips whatsoever, either under your own expense or at their expense to Columbia, South Carolina, and the headquarters of FN USA, is that correct?”
“Yes sir.”
“And you maintain that these documents, which the Times uncovered and published, are some sort of fraud?”
“They’d have to be. Other than that I have no opinion on them.”
“So we asked Professional Integrity to run forensic document tests on them, to try to ascertain their authenticity. I’m speaking for the tape recorder: these are documents allegedly showing FN USA’s transcribed notes on Nick’s alleged trip to Columbia, as compared, for authenticity’s sake, to the proposal on their official stationery that accompanied their formal submission of their rifle to the sniper competition and was already logged in our files. You have compared them, to establish the authenticity of the notes, assuming the baseline authenticity of the submission. I’m about to learn their results. Okay, Nick?”