I knew where in the complex the director’s office was, of course, although I had never before had occasion to visit the inner sanctum. The secretary in the outer office looked at my building pass and matched the photo to my dishonest phiz. I tried to look handsome. She had a nice jawline and good eyes, which I happen to like in women. Her long blond hair was tied up in a ponytail. Her legs were under the desk, so I couldn’t tell about them. Everything in sight looked great, though. She was at least a Goddess Third Class. Perhaps even a Goddess Second Class. Goddesses of any rank are rare, in my experience, especially in government service. The plaque on her desk said her name was Jennifer Suslowski.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Unfortunately—”
“Admiral Grafton is in conference right now. Perhaps—”
“I have just returned from Moscow with Putin’s evil plan for world domination. Send him a note that I’m around and I’ll go get a sandwich. See you again in a half hour or so.”
In the cafeteria I got a turkey sandwich and a cup of lukewarm coffee. While I ate, I eyed up some of the egghead chicks and the seminary crowd, who were huddled over their tables and talking about anything but shop. The guys at the next table were discussing the football fortunes of the Redskins, who were trying desperately again this year to rise above mediocrity. At the table on my other side they were talking about the demise of the late director — was his death accident or murder?
Murder? The word jolted me.
A television mounted high in one corner of the room was airing a news channel. Finally I began paying attention. There had been a fire in an apartment building in Georgetown in the wee hours this morning. At least seven people died, including Director of National Intelligence Paul Reinicke, a retired air force four-star general. Police suspected a gas line leak, they said.
The White House press secretary had some wonderful things to say about Reinicke, whom I had never met. By reputation, which was merely Company shop talk, he was a paper-shuffling boob who demanded that intelligence analyses be edited to conform to his view of the world, which, amazingly enough, mirrored the worldview of the White House and National Security Council staff. “He’ll be greatly missed,” the press secretary said. Nothing was known yet about the other victims. Three people were hospitalized in critical condition with burns.
The director of the CIA, now the DNI. Being a big weenie in Washington was getting unhealthy.
A half hour later I was back looking at the director’s secretary, the goddess without a wedding ring. She glanced at me as I seated myself in one of the three empty chairs, and kept on with whatever she was doing on the computer. After a minute her phone buzzed. She answered it and talked in a low whisper. When she hung up, she said to me, “You may go in now.”
I went. Gave her a smile in passing, a deposit for the future. She didn’t smile back.
Grafton was pounding the keys of his computer when I entered the director’s office and closed the door. He didn’t look up, just said, “Hey, Tommy. Grab a chair.”
The director had pretty good digs. A wall-to-wall carpet, of course. A flag on a pole behind the desk, oil paintings on two walls, drapes for the windows, three padded chairs and a couch, motion detectors mounted high in the corners, infrared sensors. There were three doors, the one I had entered and two others, both closed.
When Grafton quit typing and swiveled toward me, I said, “Congrats. Maybe. Can I have your old office?”
“This job is temporary.”
“I read that in the papers, but who believes any of that stuff?”
He passed over the secretary’s note. It was a printed form. The block labeled TO SEE YOU was checked. There was a handwritten note: “Mr. Carmellini with Russian plan for world domination. Will return at 7:50.”
I passed it back. “Is she demented?”
“Quite the contrary.”
“I’ll work on her in my spare time. If I have any.”
“You won’t. I want you to put surveillance cameras in my condo building and the garage where I park my car. Rig it up so Callie can look at it on her home computer.”
“Okay. I can requisition the stuff I need. I’ll need a signature on the form.”
“I can do that. I want it done as soon as possible. Callie is worried.”
“It’ll take me a couple of days if I do it by myself. If I can get some help, just a few hours.”
“Okay.”
“You going to want the system monitored by anyone besides your wife?”
“I was thinking of your friend Willie the Wire. And you and me.”
“Why not a tech-support dude?”
“The less talk around here, the better. And for what it is worth, Callie likes Willie.”
“She and I may be his only fans on this little round rock. I’ll see if I can get this chore done in the morning.”
“Fine. Then I have another little chore for you. Paul Reinicke, the DNI, and six other people were killed in an apparent gas explosion in his apartment building last night. Three badly burned, two less so. The explosion took out Reinicke’s apartment, the apartment above him and the two on either side. The fire department managed to save the building, but it was touch and go.”
“I saw a bit about it on the television in the cafeteria.”
“I want you to work with our FBI liaison officer. Mario Tomazic drowned, Reinicke blown up … It begins to smell to high heaven.”
“Can’t the liaison guy handle it?”
“It’s a she. And yes, she’s an FBI agent on temporary assignment to us and very competent. I want you right there beside her.”
I didn’t like anything about this. I didn’t know anything about law enforcement except how not to get caught. Hanging with cops wasn’t on my bucket list. “Why does she need help?” I asked.
“I don’t know that she does. You’re there as my eyes and ears.”
“Why me?”
“Because I’m giving you an order. I have transferred you to my staff.”
“Oh, wow. I’m floating upward through the goo toward the top. Is there a promotion or pay raise involved?”
“Ah, no.”
“You’re the boss,” I replied.
“Don’t you forget it.” That was the Jake Grafton I knew. The old attack pilot. Retired admiral. Warrior extraordinaire. A real softie.
I noodled it a bit. “How did this ace FBI female get to be the CIA’s liaison person?”
“Her name is Zoe Kerry. She was in a couple of shootouts. Killed some people. We had an opening and the FBI wanted to give her some easier duty for a while so she could get her head on straight, so they sent her to us.”
I was less than thrilled. “Zoe Kerry. By any chance is she related to Unbelievably Small?”
“I don’t know. Ask her.”
“How come I don’t get some easy duty occasionally?”
“You have my phone number. Day or night.”
“Just what am I supposed to be looking for?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t need you on this, Tommy. Use your head. Now I’ve got work to do. Beat it.”
“Aye aye, sir.” I stood, saluted and stalked out. Damn him anyway.
The secretary was still at her desk.
“You’ll be delighted to hear,” I said softly, leaning forward as if I were sharing a secret, “he was very impressed with my work obtaining Russia’s diabolical plan.”
“I am so happy for you.” She didn’t smile.
“And now I’m off to more fabulous adventures. I need the office number of the liaison people, please.” I flashed her a winning smile so that she would know I was a trustworthy son of the Red, White and Blue.
Jennifer consulted her Tippy-Top Secret list and gave me the info.
I decided today wasn’t the day to try to get better acquainted with Jennifer. There was always tomorrow, I hoped. I thanked her, blessed her with another gracious smile and made tracks.