“That man of yours has never liked me,” Paul said.
“Macklin’s been real good to me,” Jack said. “He’s a lousy judge of character, though. If he doesn’t like or trust someone, I know I’ll like ’em. He’s just jealous because I don’t enjoy his company.”
“I need a favor.”
“You do?” Jack slipped the casserole into the oven and set the timer. “What’s on your mind, Paul?”
Paul leaned against the counter while Jack stirred garlic into something he was sauteing over the flame. He told him what had happened to the families of the other agents. Jack asked no questions. In fact, it appeared that he wasn’t paying the story any attention at all. But Paul knew he was listening and analyzing every word. He described what he wanted to do.
“You’ve never asked me for a favor before, Paul.”
“I know. You’re my only hope. Seems no one is returning my phone calls. I know the people I want to talk to are busy, but at one time they did return my calls.”
“Politics is a twisted business, Paul. Guess people need reminding.”
“I don’t think T.C. will cooperate unless I can apply some measure of pressure.”
“T.C. is a horse’s ass.”
Jack sat on a stool and took a sip of his Scotch. “Paul, I’m not saying I can do anything about this. But I got an idea. Let me call a couple of friends of mine. If I were you, I’d go on over to La Cote d’Or for a late lunch. Ask for Raymond, he’s the owner. I’ll call and arrange a nice meal. You’ll love the food. Come back when I got some time, so we can sit down. You need anything else?” He put a hand on Paul’s shoulder and squeezed lovingly.
“Thanks, Jack. Nothing else.”
“If you need anything else, you call me.” Jack was dismissing him.
Paul finished his drink and put the glass in the sink. “Tell Terry I said hello.”
“I will.”
“Thanks, Jack,” Paul said.
Jack hugged him again at the door.
“Stay upright,” Jack said as he opened the door.
Paul turned and walked down the street, and Jack watched him to the end of the block. Then he shook his head. The thought that Paul was probably going to get killed this time out made him sad. He closed the door and went back to his kitchen.
Paul took Lee Highway to the restaurant. The owner of La Cote d’Or was expecting him and showed him to a table in the rear. It was early afternoon, and there were only three people dining in the front by the bar. Paul had the entire dining room to himself.
He sipped a glass of wine, which the owner had personally delivered to him, and lit a cigarette. As he turned his head, he recognized the short, round man who was entering the dining room as the aide of a well-known senator. He strolled to Paul’s table and sat down.
“Mr. Masterson, it’s been a long time. How delightful to have run into you here.”
“Mr. Palmer. Would you care for a drink?” Paul asked.
“That would be great. I understand you called the senator’s office. I’m sorry he was out of pocket.”
“No problem,” Paul said. “No problem at all. I know how busy the senator is with elections looming.”
The aide stared at Paul as though he were the most important man on earth.
Paul looked around at his bedroom in the Willard Hotel, drinking in the decor. As he gazed out of the closest window, he could see the sharpened top of the Washington Monument glowing golden in the early-morning sunlight. After six years in the cabin the suite’s elegance was sobering. I could get used to this again, he decided after inspecting the well-stocked honor bar and refrigerator. Paul had called T.C. Robertson, acting director of the DEA, and asked for a face-to-face, and Robertson had agreed. T.C. owed him, and Paul meant to collect.
Paul looked at the Rolex Submariner that he was wearing for the first time in six years. He was pleased that all it had needed was a winding. In Montana the only clock he’d paid attention to had been his own body’s. The suite he was in was leased by the government and used for visiting VIPs. It was a multiroomed affair with lush carpeting, silk walls, expensive furniture, and views of the capital’s more impressive buildings. There was a living room, a kitchenette and dining area, two bedrooms with large bathrooms, and an office complete with computer, fax, and a secure line. He was impressed by the hospitality of the DEA under T.C. Robertson.
Thorne Greer and Joe McLean were putting the preliminary plans he had given them into operation, approaching the men that he wanted for his team. Most of the names on the list were old-line pros, and Paul had been out of touch with them for years. The talent search was not going that well. They had talked with some old friends, but six years changes people’s priorities. A volunteer mission without funds, which could involve days, weeks, and maybe months of work around the clock, wasn’t a great lead-in. Then add the constant risk to life and limb and the fact that to join might cost a career and pension if anything went wrong, and it didn’t exactly make for a great close on the offer, either.
His idea of a team had changed out of necessity. The team would be young and would have to make up in enthusiasm what they lacked in experience. Paul would rather have seasoned pros, but he had no choice. Now he had to get T.C. Robertson’s approval and support.
As Paul checked his new haircut in the mirror and adjusted the eye patch, his thoughts moved to Laura, Reb, and Erin sitting like clay targets in New Orleans. They were under close surveillance by a fairly good team, but “fairly good” was just a low wall for Martin to step over on his way inside.
Paul had just slipped his left hand into the pocket of his navy blazer when there was a light tapping at the door. He opened it to find T.C. Robertson standing there with two aides who looked like young, successful attorneys. These guys wouldn’t know a kilo of coke from a sack of flour. They averted their eyes when Paul stared at them. T.C. looked right into Paul’s eye, pumped his hand like a long-lost brother, and swept into the room with the two men in his wake.
Paul had learned from Joe McLean that T.C. was having problems with ATF and FBI. The FBI’s director, George Sharpe, wanted to absorb the other two agencies into the Bureau, and he had the ear of the President. T.C. was fighting him but for the wrong reasons. He wanted to do the same thing Sharpe wanted to do but with T.C. Robertson ruling the roost. A flight of fantasy as far as Joe could tell. But in D.C. nothing was impossible… It was all information, timing, and alliance.
Thackery Carlisle Robertson had more gray in his hair, and his eyebrows had whitened. He looked vastly more distinguished than the last time Paul had seen him. He had been assistant to the director when Paul was shot and had moved up only when it was clear that Paul wasn’t after the post. He stood taller than the five seven he had been before, thanks to lifts, no doubt. He looked like a senator or a judge, which was surely his aim.
He slapped Paul on the shoulder and smiled his best “God, it’s great to see you” smile. “Paul, it’s been too long.” He seemed earnest, which was his real talent. Paul knew the man had all but danced naked around his desk when Paul had chosen to leave DEA.
Paul motioned T.C. to a chair. “Please,” he said.
T.C. tucked the tail of his coat under his buttocks as he sat. He crossed his leg, right over left, tugged at his cuffs as though he were sitting for a formal portrait. The other two men sat on the couch, as Paul had seized the only remaining chair for himself. He and T.C. were eye to eye, and the other two seated slightly lower. Perfect.
“Well, well. Boys,” T.C. said grandly, “this man here is an honest-to-God national hero.” His teeth looked as if they had never been used. “Highest-ranking DEA officer ever wounded in the field.”
The men, who hadn’t been introduced, nodded their heads in thoughtful unison.
“Drinks, sodas, coffee?” Paul asked.
“No, Paul, I for one have a full day ahead of me. Please, help yourself. Scotch drinker of some ability, if memory serves.”