The two yes-men showed Paul the palms of their hands and grand smiles.
“I was hoping we could talk in private,” Paul said. “No offense, fellows.”
“These men are my most trusted confidants,” Robertson replied. “Surely we don’t have anything that secret to discuss, do we?” T.C. said, smiling broadly.
“This meeting has to be completely off the record,” Paul said. “Some of what I want to discuss concerns our mutual past and might prove… delicate. Things we have yet to discuss in front of anyone. But if you want them in, it’s no discomfort to me. I’m retired.”
T.C. searched Paul’s face and turned toward the men seated on the couch. “Go have a cup of coffee and I’ll see you in the cafe downstairs after the meeting. We wouldn’t want to bore you men with old war stories.” Paul saw that one of them tensed, and though the man tried to look unconcerned, it was clear he was. There’s the tape recorder. Paul might have smiled but didn’t. He had known T.C. would tape the meeting in case there was something he could put in the safe for leverage later. T.C. wouldn’t want any witnesses to this meeting, though.
Paul watched them leave. T.C. looked slightly uncomfortable. He loved an audience to play to and looked smaller after the other men left the room. He couldn’t pretend with Paul now.
Paul sat and lit a cigarette and took two large draws on it before he spoke. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Actually, I believe this is a nonsmoking suite,” T.C. said. “But you’re our guest. We can air out the room after you’re gone.”
“It’s strange being back in D.C.,” Paul said. “Couldn’t imagine being back in all of this again.” He watched T.C.’s eyes following the cigarette. “You used to smoke, didn’t you? Let’s see… those Dorals in the green package, wasn’t it? Low tar. Safe.”
T.C. waved at the air. “I believe you’re right. Foul habit, Paul. Times have changed. You could probably get ten years at hard labor for lighting that outside this room. Nobody who is anybody smokes anymore. The days of cigar-sucking senators sitting about plotting mass destruction and filling their pork barrels is about at an end. And good riddance.”
Paul took another pull. “I should quit.”
“So how have you been? Living a quiet life? We have a medal that belongs to you somewhere. You should take it back home when you go. When will that be?”
“How have I been? Not bad, considering I’ve been practicing to become a monk. I have the silence and celibacy down, and I’m working on getting used to the sackcloth.”
T.C. looked at him and then laughed out loud. “Well said,” he roared. “Very good. Still have that sense of humor.” T.C. picked at an imaginary lint speck on his knee. “Have you seen Jack?”
“Jack?” Paul knew exactly whom T.C. was referring to. “Which Jack, T. C?”
“Ah, same Paul, I see.” T.C.’s smile flat-lined. “If you’re thinking about coming back into the world you left, I should caution you that things have changed. Six or seven years is an eternity, career-wise.”
Paul crushed out the Camel, taking his time. “T. C, let’s cut to the chase and save the small talk for cocktail parties. I want to come back into DEA like I want a hubcap shoved up my ass pipe. I don’t want to live in this town again with the brand of creatures who inhabit it. Present company aside, naturally. I don’t ever want to command anyone again. I lost whatever it was I had that made me want to be responsible for other people’s actions, and I am truly sorry I was ever where I was. Things would have been so different had I gone to State instead of Justice.”
“Save that for the hicks. You love commanding. We all know you’ll be back unless someone buries you.”
“It takes self-confidence and a certain inner moral outrage that I can’t muster. Plus I don’t believe it, any of it, anymore. The old Paul is dead and buried. My days of believing the company line are over. That’s the first point.”
“Well, Paul-”
“Hear me out,” Paul said. “By now you know that Martin Fletcher has killed eight of your people’s family members.”
“Two were ex-agents,” T.C. corrected, holding up his hand. “I am aware. Just the other day… the Rainey incident. God, anyone who would kill children like that… If it was Martin, he will be caught and punished. Rainey said Martin, of course, but Rainey isn’t exactly reliable right now-suffered a complete breakdown. He’ll be out for months. Maybe for good. I’ve been looking at replacements just in case.”
“T.C., Rainey heard Martin’s voice. He left that note for me.”
“Martin probably had someone else do it. He would never return to the States. Too much to lose. Besides, the killer was an old man. Martin Fletcher’s my age.”
“Hear me out.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Let me assemble a team under the DEA umbrella to go after him. Give me carte blanche for a period of time and reasonable funds. Reactivate me as a special-team leader. If anyone fails, it can be me.”
T.C.’s eyes went cold as old steel. He crossed his arms. Paul was losing him. “You don’t want to return? Doesn’t sound that way from here.”
“One shot, T.C. You’ll get one hundred percent of the credit when we find him. He won’t be alive to remember the past. Anyone’s past.”
T.C. seemed to be weighing the proposition. “We’re not talking about a sanction here? Breaking and entering, shooting things up, rampant muscle? Keeping the man healthy was your calling in life.”
“We both know the DEA doesn’t plan deaths. Even planning the deaths of monsters like Martin Fletcher would have been illegal.”
T.C. looked uncomfortable. “Of course. I’d like to help you. But I really can’t see any advantage. And our budget is limited. Bastard senators on the Appropriations Committee have clipped my wings. They’re destroying this country, Paul. Drugs pouring in from everywhere. They don’t want them stopped because it would be bad for the law-enforcement business.”
“You don’t see a political advantage to letting me get Martin?”
“I’ll be frank. If Martin Fletcher is fool enough to be back in the country, we can find him without you. The FBI can deal with him, it’s their job. If you are back in the administrative saddle, you pose a political threat because people liked you-hell, they probably still do. There are a few people in high places who would do anything to help you.”
“Physically, T.C.”-Paul pulled the wounded hand from the pocket, and it trembled visibly until he returned it to the pocket-“I can’t do what I could.”
“Your apparent handicaps aren’t enough to keep you inactive. I’ve read your meds. The hand’ll get better. Besides, look at Bob Dole. Never one hundred percent, but who the hell is? A little plastic surgery and you’ll be good as new. And with Jack McMillan behind you-”
“I told you, Jack isn’t.”
“There are people who’d help you on the off chance it might please Jack McMillan. Frankly, Paul, I can see nothing but a downside for me, politically speaking, and I’m a political animal. Maybe if you could get Jack to help me be appointed director once and for all? That isn’t much for the man to do. One phone call to the right cigar-chomping dinosaur, and I’m a shoo-in.”
Paul sat up on the edge of his chair. “Jack McMillan is a friend of mine, and I don’t use my friends. If I did, he wouldn’t be a friend.”
“Jack McMillan is probably the most powerful man in this town.” He smiled. “If you’ll talk to him about me and swear you won’t come back into the DEA, I’ll give you my American Express card and my wife, and you can cut Martin Fletcher’s throat at high noon on the White House lawn with Robert E. Lee’s sword.”
Paul shrugged,
“You can do that, Masterson. McMillan owes you a life. Surely you haven’t used up that favor. Favorite son. I’m sure a word from you and-”
“I wouldn’t ask him for that.”
“Because he wouldn’t do it?”
“No, T.C. He would do it. Fact is I don’t need his help for this. You are going to do what I’m asking.”