“Go on with the report. I don’t have all day.”
“Well, Warfield was at the White House until four-fifteen. No visitors. Then he drove to Langley and met with Quinn for twenty-two min—”
“Whoa, Gilbert! Did you say Quinn again?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well what th’ hell was that about?”
Gilbert swallowed hard. “I don’t know that, sir.”
“Well, where’d they meet, Gilbert?” Fullwood half-stood out of his chair now as if he was about to lunge over the desk at her.
“In the Director’s SUV. They just drove around. Twenty-two minutes to be exact.”
“Well, tell me what was it about, Gilbert.”
“We, uh, they were in Director Quinn’s vehicle.”
“You said that. So what?”
“We don’t have the CIA director’s vehicle bugged, sir.”
Fullwood frowned and looked out the window. “Damn that Warfield,” he mumbled. “He doesn’t give up.”
“What was that, sir?”
“Get Warfield off the mole hunt, Gilbert.”
“I’ve told him before to stay out of Bureau business.”
“Apparently that hasn’t worked, Gilbert!”
“What would you like me to do. He works for the president, you know.”
“But we don’t, do we Gilbert? Your tellin’ Warfield didn’t get the job done, now did it? Hell, you’re in the FBI now, Gilbert. Th’ dep’ty director. If you can’t figure out how to get rid of a problem like Warfield—”
Gilbert’s throat lumped up. “Yes sir. I’ll take care of it.”
Back in her office, Rachel closed the door and propped her feet on her desk. During her years at the Bureau, she’d seen Fullwood become more and more impossible. He’d always been tough, but now he was unbearable. It seemed to be related to Warfield now. Fullwood spent most of his time worrying about his whereabouts and activities instead of directing the fight against terrorism and corruption. It was almost as if Fullwood himself had something to hide, Rachel thought.
She drew in a deep breath and swung around to her phone.
Warfield sat in his office at the White House staring into space. He had to find a way to look into the CIA director’s whereabouts on the date Seth’s man met the American in Paris. He didn’t want to attract attention to Quinn or to himself. That could embarrass or even alienate his closest ally, President Cross, even if there was no truth to what Quinn had said about Cross in the car. Warfield couldn’t care less about some high-level appointment, but he didn’t want to scrap his name in Washington and in the intel community. He picked up the phone and punched in Paula Newnan’s number.
“Well, it’s Cameo again. What good fairy do I owe for all the attention I’m getting these days from my favorite eligible bachelor?”
“You always make things look better, Newnan.”
“What’s your problem now, Cameo?”
“Ah, no problem. Need to know where to find a little information.”
“Like what?”
“How about a beer after work. I’ll tell you then.”
“Well-l-l-l, I think I’m supposed to say I’m busy, but this time I’ll make an exception! May be the only way I’ll ever get you away from that gorgeous Fleming DeGrande.”
Paula walked the four blocks from the White House and had commandeered a table when Warfield arrived. Castrogiovanni’s was noisy because of all the hard surfaces. Walls, floors, doors and the bar itself were finished in polished cherry veneers that bounced the sounds all around the room.
They both ordered a draft.
“My staff thought I was sick when I walked out at six,” she said.
“Oughta take more time off.”
“I’d probably spend it in some place like this. I like it here.”
Warfield looked around. He’d been to Castro’s a few times. Something about the place reminded him of Rawlings, Texas.
“The drug store in my home town, Trane’s Pharmacy, we used to go there after ball practice, catch the girls hanging out at the soda fountain. Had a high tin ceiling like this place. We’d get a couple burgers, double fries, big shake, put quarters in the jukebox, flirt with the girls while we pigged out. Old man Trane would come around and turn down the music. As soon as he was back filling another prescription, we’d sneak behind that Wurlitzer and crank it up again.”
“That’s probably the least bad thing you did in those days.”
Warfield chuckled.
He signaled the waitress to bring another round.
“Speaking of trouble, Cameo, wanna know about Seth? Your mythology question. I had a chance to look it up.”
“Give it to me.”
“Okay, he’s got a long story, but the short version is Seth was a god in charge of storms, violence, disorder, unrest, usually drawn with slanting eyes, snout. A composite of various animals. If he wasn’t sufficiently appeased by his people, so it goes, they were hit with violent sandstorms, something like that. Not a popular god.”
Warfield didn’t spend much time thinking about it. “Need some info, Paula. Who keeps track of the comings and goings of the wheels?”
“I get the president’s itinerary, of course. Who are you talking about?”
“Quinn. I’d like to keep it quiet. Cross doesn’t need to know.”
“Quinn? You’re snooping on the head snoop?” Paula laughed. “That’s funny, Cameo.” Then she frowned and said, “but it’s also very dangerous.”
“How about it? Can you help?”
“I get Quinn’s itinerary if he’s traveling with the president, or if they’re going to be at the same place at the same time. That’s not often.”
“So if I gave you a certain date…”
“You haven’t changed since those drugstore days, Cameo. Still pressing the envelope, except the stakes are a little higher these days. About all Mr. Trane could do was run you out.”
Warfield nodded.
“Tell me the date and I’ll check.”
“Last year, 22 April.”
“Have some work to do at the office tonight. After everyone leaves I’ll see what I can find out. Call you first thing tomorrow.”
“Tonight.”
It was midnight and Fleming had gone to bed when his phone rang. Warfield answered in the great room. Paula said, “I know it’s late, but I wanted to call you from home.”
“What’ve you got?”
“Your man was at the New York Four Seasons Hotel on the night you asked about. Nothing unusual. According to the itinerary in the file, the president was there to address the U.N. He returned to Washington that day but your man stayed overnight. Looks like he was speaking at some committee meetings.”
“How long did he stay?” Neither of them used Quinn’s name.
“Checked in on the twenty-first, a Tuesday. Made a speech at eight the next morning, the twenty-second. Then another speech Thursday the twenty-third at noon. Checked out of the hotel that day.”
“Thanks, Paula.”
“No thanks necessary, Cameo. By the way, I heard that Fleming DeGrande has a contagious fatal disease. Wouldn’t go near her.”
“I’ll check it out.” Paula was a good-looking woman. Fortyish. Smart. Damn responsible. Worked all the time, which he figured was the reason she never remarried. After her husband died in a car accident years ago she seemed to turn all her energies to her work. She joked around with people she liked. She worked for Cross even before he entered the government sector and was the administrative standard of excellence by which others could evaluate themselves.
Warfield eased into bed and contoured himself to Fleming’s nude body without waking her, and tuned in to her breathing pattern. It was slow and peaceful, strangely in sync with the old grandfather clock that stood at the end of the hallway outside the bedroom, ticking off the seconds with undisputed authority as if it were the Chief Clock over all others.