He seemed surprised, but relaxed a little.
“Oh, that David? He — he told you about that?”
“Like I said. We’re close.”
Rani swallowed, his fleshy throat bobbing in a walrus-like manner.
“He warned me not to tell anyone, under any circumstances.”
So Rani did know where he was.
“David didn’t realize I was going to show up.”
He eyed her warily. “Look, assuming I knew how to get in touch with him…let’s say I could call him or something. Who would I say was asking for him?”
She debated forcing him into the car, and then thought better of it. Perhaps a little gentle persuasion would be more effective. She could always use more drastic methods later if he didn’t cooperate.
“Tell him ‘his angel’ is looking for him. Describe me to him.” She debated saying more, but decided against it. “I’ll see you later, Rani — have an answer for me when I do. I’d hate for this to deteriorate into something unpleasant, but it will if you don’t tell me where to find him. You have one hour.”
He nodded, beads of sweat beginning to form on his brow.
Jet turned and walked away, Rani staring at her as she left. He shook his head and muttered to himself, then felt in his jacket for his cell. He dialed a number then spoke in a hushed voice as he slowly approached his office.
Chapter 14
Terry Brandt swiveled his Herman Miller Aeron chair around and leaned back, rubbing his face with both hands before groaning softly and rising, his prosthetic leg making a small clicking sound as he did so. He needed to get it adjusted again, he decided as he surveyed the maudlin decorations of his office. The linoleum under his feet popped in the loose spot that always annoyed him, and he made his one thousandth mental note to have it repaired, then scooped up a folder on his desk and pulled his tie tight before setting off for the meeting room.
The air was always a perfect sixty-eight degrees in this section of CIA headquarters in Langley, day or night, summer or winter. It made his wardrobe easy — medium-weight suits, one hundred percent cotton long-sleeved shirts, wingtips. Terry prized consistency and simplicity, and derived satisfaction from the thought that he had his entire career’s clothing already purchased, and could put that chore behind him for the rest of his life.
Oliver Cummins was waiting for him when he strode through the door with his signature lopsided gait and sat at the oval cherry wood table. Oliver was dressed carefully, as usual, in a tan suit and pale blue shirt with yellow tie, his curly black hair graying, giving him a vaguely Denzel Washington look absent any of the good humor or charm. An analyst sat on either side of Oliver, who took every opportunity to trumpet his position in the hierarchy by dragging personnel around and forcing them to sit through hour-long conferences that could have been knocked out in an e-mail in minutes.
Terry did his best to maintain a neutral expression while he waited patiently for Oliver to begin his questions. Of course, it was never that simple. There was inevitably a lengthy oration that rehashed all known facts before he got to the point.
Surprisingly, this time Oliver varied from the predictable script.
“Terry. The Belize situation — the assassination. What do you make of it?” Oliver began without any of the usual pomp. Terry was momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered.
“We’re still trying to figure out what group is responsible. It’s unclear since nobody’s taking credit, but the suspects are all the usual ones. Disgruntled business interests. Criminal syndicates. Political enemies.”
“Other than it could have been anyone, have we been able to make any progress narrowing it down?” Oliver countered.
“I’m afraid not. I have someone working it, but as you know, the death of a minor functionary in a fourth world Central American backwater hardly justifies a full-court press.”
“What about assets on the ground?”
“We have a few friendlies that gather information for us from time to time, but nobody permanent. Again, it’s a question of priorities and strategic value.”
Oliver glanced at the analyst on his right, a birdlike young woman with hair the color of wet straw and darting, slightly bulging eyes that belied a thyroid issue. She cleared her throat.
“Malcolm Foxweather was the assistant petroleum minister for Belize. The current administration appointed him almost four years ago, and he looked good to hold the position for the duration. He had no known affiliation with any criminal factions, and was an unremarkable bureaucrat, with the notable exception that he had a reputation for honest dealings — something all too rare in that area of the world, I think we’d all agree.” Oliver made a hurry up gesture with his hand. “His murder is currently listed as unsolved, and the local police have no leads. No replacement has been named.” She closed her manila folder and sat back.
Terry didn’t like how the meeting was shaping up. Why the hell was Oliver having his staff dig around in this? Was he missing some larger play here?
“Yes, he was the world’s last honest man,” Terry agreed. “None of which affords us any illumination on why he was killed, or who pulled the trigger.”
“Terry, you know I try to take a hands-off approach,” Oliver began in his best reassuring tone, “and I don’t want to be backseat driving on your turf, but I’ve been receiving pressure to take a harder look at the shooting. Belize has no history of this kind of violence, and certain factions in our power structure have expressed concern that this could be some kind of a move by the Mexican cartels to destabilize the government so they can make inroads there.”
So that’s what this was all about. Laurel Rodgers, Oliver’s superior, had a thing for the cartels and saw Mexicans conniving behind every palm tree in Central America. She had nothing to do this week so the trickle-down effect of wild goose chasing was making itself felt.
Terry slowly shook his head. “I’m extremely sensitive to any possible cartel involvement. But this has none of their signature on it. This was one bullet, no clues, clean. When the cartels target someone, they generally go in and mow him down in a hail of lead. There’s no subtlety to it. Or he shows up beheaded by the side of the road. No, while we’re keeping our eyes open to that possibility, this looks more like some sort of an internal power struggle. Or it could be something more mundane — a jealous husband with a hunting rifle, or someone who tried to bribe him but got rebuffed. The truth is that we have no idea what’s going on down there, but nothing has changed politically since the shooting, so it’s a non-issue from that standpoint. Besides which, it’s not like Belize is Saudi Arabia. Their oil reserves are tiny compared to Mexico or Venezuela, and they’re dwarfed by ours…”
“Again, I’m not trying to get into your sandbox here.”
“May I ask why you’re devoting some of your staff’s considerable talents to a parallel examination of this event?” Terry asked, eyeing the blonde as he did so.
“I want to be able to say that I have full confidence that no stone’s been left unturned, Terry. Nothing more. I’m not questioning your group’s diligence or competence.” Oliver had started down the more familiar political-speak Terry was used to. Reassurances and deflection — the tools of the career bureaucrat.
“Very good, then. I’m on it, we’re focusing on the developing situation and are actively working every angle. I’ll ensure you’re kept in the loop as we move forward. I didn’t want to bury you in minutiae, but if you’re interested in the case, by all means…” Terry offered.
“Do that, Terry. I’m sure this will blow over in no time, but I’m getting heat, which means more pressure on you. No hard feelings.”
Terry’s stomach churned as he made his way back to his office. Out of all the possible things that could have drawn Oliver’s interest, why did it have to be this? The man was a boob, but a dangerous one. He had the reputation of being a snake, and Terry had seen firsthand how that could manifest as trouble for his rivals and subordinates.