At the reception area, Elizabeth asked, “Sneaking out a bit early, aren’t we, Major?”
“Shhhh.” I pointed at Hal’s monitor and whispered, “Don’t tell anybody.”
She giggled. I leaned on her desk. “Elizabeth, how long did you say you’ve worked here?”
“Fourteen years.”
“Like it?”
“What I like is the paycheck’s not too rubbery.”
“Good point. Uh… what about Hal? When did he get here?”
“Two, possibly three years ago.”
“I see.”
“Do what I do… about Hal, I mean.”
“What’s that?”
“Simply pretend he doesn’t exist.”
I laughed and turned toward the elevator. Then another thought struck me. I turned back around and asked Elizabeth, “When I came in, did you notify Sally I was here?”
“No. Should I have?”
“Yes. And don’t ever forget to do it again.”
She laughed again. Why didn’t anybody take me seriously?
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
I parked in the underground garage beside the Madison Hotel, entered the lobby, and headed straight to my suite on the third floor, which happened to be right beside Janet’s suite, and the suites next door and across the hall were all filled with security stooges to safeguard our health and welfare. In fact, our hallway was like an armed camp, with security cameras, motion detectors, and enough explosives that I hoped nobody lit a match.
The Madison, incidentally, was not really a bad joint to hide out in until our killer was found. It’s a five-star inn, outfitted with all the luxury stuff-nice rooms, great restaurants, and so forth. Thank God the FBI wasn’t in charge of this show, or we’d be holed up in some dive out on Route 1, eating stale pizza, and the piped-in cable would be modified so we only got Lifestyle Network. The CIA, you have to understand, has a totally different take on these things. It helps to have classified budgets, which are the nearest thing to a blank check from Uncle Sam. Also, there’s a big cultural gap between the FBI and CIA, like the difference between an adult Scout den and a Machiavelli fan club, which is maybe why they don’t like or trust each other very much, and maybe why they don’t share things very well.
Anyway, I had just entered my room when there was a knock on my door. It was Janet, and she said, “You’re back early.”
“The early bird gets the drink.”
“Buy me a drink, too.”
So I dutifully went to the minibar, got a beer for her and a scotch for me. She got herself a chair by the window. And, well, here we were, all alone and together.
I really did need this drink.
She asked me, “How did it go?”
“Fine. They’re happy I signed the audit and happy I dropped the suit against them. In fact, I was getting high fives from everybody for fleecing Morris for seventy million. They’re thinking of offering me a partnership.”
“So they bought it?”
“Yes. Cy said I’m off the Morris account, though. Jessica apparently called him and said I’m not a nice person.”
“Too bad. They’re such nice people.”
“Also, the money’s in my bank. And I’m serious about you getting half. After the ten-day lock, I’ll arrange it.”
“Keep it.”
“I don’t think you-”
“It’s blood money. Keep it.”
I checked my watch-it was definitely time for a drink.
She took the beer from my hand, sipped, and said, “By the way, that woman who met us at the elevator seemed particularly upset with you.”
I scratched my head. “Oh… you mean Miss Allison… Jason’s executive assistant.”
“Forget it.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s none of my business.”
Of course it wasn’t. That’s why she raised it.
I said, “We had lunch together. Once… maybe twice. I found her selfish, and not the least bit interesting.”
“She’s gorgeous.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“No wonder things never worked out between you and my sister.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothing… absolutely nothing.”
I kicked off my shoes and fell onto the bed. Two sleepless days, gun battles, FBI grillings, CIA briefings, and now this-geez. I was feeling a little under the weather, and, I guess, a little hot under the collar.
“You took a dive on me,” Janet finally said.
I cleared my throat and replied, “I did not. ”
“Oh yes you did.”
“No. I took the best deal we were going to get.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I know Washington. Because people here think differently than they do in Boston. ‘Inside the beltway’ is not a geographic euphemism, Janet, it’s a mindset. Stop me if I get too metaphorical, but Peterson and his people spend their lives weighing the greater good against lesser wrongs. It’s a dirty business. They don’t like it either. But they do it, and we’re all the better for it.”
“But the killer is just a hired gun. The responsibility for Lisa’s death lies with the people who paid him.”
“We all know that.”
“If you know that, how could you let them off?”
“Because I was being ordered to. Why do you think Clapper was there?” Some impulse made me add, “And I’ve got news for you-were Lisa, your sister, my friend, my sister in arms… were she in my shoes, she would’ve made the identical choice. Think about that.”
So she sat there a moment, looking into her beer, and I sat there unknotting my tie. I wished I knew what was going on inside her head. The truth was, I had become a bit smitten with her. Maybe very smitten.
Which I guess accounted for my hurt feelings and tantrum. I felt like I had lost something very precious, although the truth was, I never really had it. It probably would never have worked anyway, between George, her sister’s murder, the whole artificiality of what brought us together. But after that morning, all doubts were dispelled.
She said, “You mentioned the word ‘cover-up’ this morning.”
“Did I?”
“And I had the impression Peterson and his people side-stepped it.”
“Was that your impression?”
“What were you talking about?”
“Nothing. I was making a stab in the dark.”
“No, you had a very clear sense of something.”
“Ask your friend George.”
“Is George… I mean, do you think he’s involved?”
I finished my scotch. “Ask him. ”
Well, the next word was on the tip of her tongue, but a loud knock rattled the door. I went over and opened it, and two gray-suited thugs stepped inside, followed by Jack MacGruder, the honcho of Operation Trojan Horse, which was a shitty title, in my view. A code name is to supposed to hide the purpose of the operation, right? And if the bad guys ever heard that name, they’d be scratching their heads, saying, Trojan Horse?… Trojan Horse?… These CIA people are so bright and devious… what could that possibly, possibly mean? You know?
Anyway, MacGruder pointed at Janet’s drink and asked, “Got any more of those?”
I went to the minibar and retrieved a beer. The thugs stood by the door, MacGruder sat in the chair opposite Janet, and I returned to the bed.
His eyes strayed around the expansive room. He smiled pleasantly and said, “It’s a fairly nice hotel, don’t you think? You two could be here a long time. We want to be sure you’re comfortable and happy.”
I replied, “We’ve got a killer who wants our asses, my career’s in the shitter, Janet’s father is in the hospital, and her sister’s in the morgue. Spare us the happy hospitality bullshit, Jack. Tell us what’s going on, and get the hell out.”
MacGruder drew a deep breath. Had he thought we were going to be cheerful and polite passengers, he now knew better. He said, “Fine. You recall that the killer escaped from Boston in a car. The latest update from the FBI is they found the car stolen from a Mr. Harry Boticher in Boston. It was discovered in the parking lot of the Maryland House, which you might recognize as a roadside stop along 95. Another car was reported stolen there, and that one was found this afternoon, parked, of all places, illegally, one block from FBI headquarters.” He chuckled. “This fellow has a great sense of humor, doesn’t he?”