When I returned some time later to the living room, Lloyd was lying on his side on the sofa bed. It was quiet. With a sigh, I turned off the light and stretched out next to him.
Chapter Eight
Two men in gray suits stood facing each other in the middle of a spacious oval office. The one speaking in a raised voice was tall and slender, middle-aged, dark-haired and sharp-nosed. The other was of about the same height, wider in the shoulders, thicker in the chest, and with his gray sideburns could be taken for an older relative of the first man. Beyond the single large window lay, completely silenced, a busy New York avenue.
“So, if I understand this correctly, by ‘fool-proof’ you meant success was guaranteed, unless something completely unrealistic happened, something utterly out of the question, something preposterous, like when the subject you prepped for over five years STOPS TAKING PILLS?” the younger-looking man was saying, lapsing into a reverberating shout. He shouted without opening his mouth any wider than during regular speech.
The target of his wrath, accustomed to the present style of discussion, held his own. Having confirmed his interlocutor finished the sentence, he began to say, “The probability of such an event happening unaided is—”
“The probability?! Let me tell you something. As of right now, the probability of such an event is one hundred percent, you understand? Two marshals are one hundred percent dead; Whales is one hundred percent free; and we are one hundred percent screwed.”
“I agree, sir. But as I was about to point out—”
“This is the second time your TV star wiggles out of police’s grasp. Make sure there isn’t a third. You understand? Make sure.”
“There’s more to it,” the older man said firmly. His cheeks contracted briefly over a clenched jaw. His boss eyed his facial movements with displeasure, but he too, had known the man for a long time. Leaning with one hand on the desk, he listened. “As I said, it is very unlikely that Mr. Whales was and still is operating unaided.”
“Who could possibly be helping him?”
“I think you know the answer to that question.”
The younger man did, of course. There was only one answer to the question. Now he felt foolish for voicing it, and angry at the older man for pointing out his error. It was unlike both of them. The ordeal was taking its toll. He kept his voice calm.
“But how?”
“We have a rat.”
The men fell silent. After some time, the younger one spoke.
“If a rat is soiling our stock, send the hounds.”
“On the other hand, it may be better to let the local authorities resolve the situation. We are not entirely certain—”
“No. Send them. Better safe than sorry. You do have a back-up for the project, is that not correct?”
“It is, sir. But there’s a reason why he is a back-up…”
“Send them. Explain as much as you can. Let it be done quickly. In two months, when no one remembers Whales, we will proceed with the other one. Honestly, all we need is a nudge. He will do.”
“What about the FBI?”
“Who do they have on the case?”
“Brighton and Brome, sir.”
The younger man, who was becoming calmer, now that his orders were being obeyed, glared.
“You know well enough their names mean nothing to me. Give me the numbers. No decimals.”
“Three and Five.”
“A Five? Hmm. Well, we can risk one. We must risk one.” Then, after a brief pause, he added suddenly, “Which one is a Five?”
His assistant’s eyebrows climbed slightly and he almost smiled.
“Brighton, sir,” he said. The younger man nodded.
“That will be all.”
The old man turned to leave, hesitated. “Are you sure they will forget in two months? We’re really being hurried along this time.”
“They will forget.”
“Yes, sir.”
A gray door slid in and back out of the wall. The Chief Administrator was left
alone.
Special Agent Brome, a modest Three on the Human Agent Loyalty, Achievement and Potential (HALAP) scale, dressed in stiff black suit and warm wool slippers, was eating sugar-free corn flakes at the pallid kitchen table. He neither had any knowledge of being a Three, nor had he ever heard of HALAP. What occupied his mind that morning were the consequences of a divorce.
“Daddy, will you catch a bad guy today?” Annie asked, milk dripping down her chin. Just like him, she was an early riser.
Absently, daddy dabbed her chin with a cloth napkin. He wished he knew.
Grace, who was not an early riser, but woke up every morning to see him off, yawned in a cute way, smacking her lips. Flames of the morning sun slithered through azure drapes and got tangled in her hair. He went to put the bowl in the sink and kiss her.
“Why do you have to catch bad guys on Sundays?” Grace asked. “Why do I have to wake up?”
“At least you got that extra hour of sleep today.”
“Be careful,” she said. “Love you.”
“Love you, daddy,” Annie rang out, smooching his cheek and hugging his head.
“Love you, girls.”
Brome put on his shoes and went out the door.
He pulled out of the driveway, waved and hit the gas. The thoughts kept up no matter how fast he drove. He took the ramp to I-55 and hit the breaks. Stupid traffic. He remembered seeing, back a few years, a demo on TV, with the double-tiered freeways all over the place. But somehow the city ran out of money after completing just the northwestern part of the road, and the second level over Stephenson never got built. Thanks to that, Brome now had to suffer through the unending ten-foot spasms of a Chicago traffic jam, alone with his thoughts. He had no idea how people managed without pills. He felt like he was about to lose it, especially since the annoying, persistent voice in his head kept reminding him that his divorce thoughts only started when he stopped taking his medicine.
Brighton called, and for once Brome was happy to hear him.
“Are you almost here? The cops lost Whales again.”
“Where?”
Brighton, full of disdain, relayed what he heard from the police.
“They brought a dog,” he concluded, “and the dog showed them where he got in the car four blocks away.”
“Are they sure he was armed?”
“There are bullet holes in one of the cars.”
“Did they see anybody else?”
“No. Where are you, anyway?”
“Stuck in traffic.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Fine,” Brome replied, swerving out of the lane. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Accelerating his sturdy, respectable Chrysler — driving an American car to work was more than a semi-official policy at the Bureau — Brome pushed down the window. Cold wind wrapped around his face, sliding inside through his nostrils and lifting the earlier thoughts and frustration away. He felt capable again, acquiring suddenly that occasional clarity of mind, which kept him from going back on the pill. At the same time, though, he was worried. If Whales was getting into gunfights with the cops, then stopping the pills may cause more damage than he expected. He had seen Whales’s diagnosis and treatment logs. Not identical, but pretty similar to his own. He did have Whales beat by a few days as far as going pill-free, however. And of course, no one was trying to shoot him on sight. He was fine. The stupid divorce thoughts aside, he was fine. But still, Brome was worried. He had a nagging feeling that instead of catching the bad guy, he may have to shoot one.