Warfield looked at Quinn. Groveling didn’t become this man who was used to taking what he wanted without asking.
Warfield said quietly, “You know that’s not an option, Austin.”
“Goodwin?”
“Donald O. Goodwin, everything. All on the table when I meet Morgan tomorrow.”
Quinn walked out. Only the swagger was missing.
Quinn’s driver fought the storm all the way back to Langley. Hurricane Veronica continued to hover not far from land, dumping rain on D.C. — by the bathtubful, it seemed to Quinn. There was a chance she would blow right through the D.C. area once she cranked up forward movement, but now Veronica sat there building steam, taunting everyone within an incredible four-hundred miles of her center. Her winds had increased and the National Hurricane Center issued updates and warnings every few minutes.
Quinn checked his voicemail as soon as he got back to his office at Langley. He skipped half a dozen messages from members of Congress and two from his assistant, Angel Clawson. The one he listened to was from the attorney who represented Ana at her trial. He played it three times. “Mr. Quinn, uh, Director Quinn, Manny Upson here, Ana Koronis’s attorney. I’d hoped to speak with you. That U.S. attorney Joe Morgan called me and it sounds like Helen Swope’s going to retract her testimony. They’re meeting tomorrow morning at Morgan’s office. Swope and her attorney, a Filmore Dunstan. I thought you’d want to know because, well, I suppose because of Ana. Isn’t this great news?”
Quinn filled a bar glass with Glenfiddich Scotch, sat on the sofa across from his desk and set his drink on the coffee table. The hairline crack in the glass top reminded him of the day Leonard Magliacci visited him. It was Magliacci who started this. Quinn had invited him to his office at CIA thinking he could intimidate him or buy him off with a few dollars but the guy was smarter than Quinn anticipated. When Quinn paid Magliacci in return for the incriminating contents of Magliacci’s safe-deposit box, he buried them inside bags of cement from Home Depot for ballast and dumped them far out at sea, precluding any possibility they would ever be found.
The trees outside Quinn’s window bowed to the wind as huge raindrops blasted the glass. The room lights were off, and by the time Quinn finished another Scotch the room was all but dark. The lights from the courtyard below beamed through the rills of water trailing down the window and created a bed of worms on the ceiling.
Quinn looked up at the squiggling lines for a minute and flipped on a lamp to make them disappear. He poured another Scotch, played Epson’s message again, deleted it and looked up Judge Hartramph’s private home number. The judge answered.
“Austin Quinn, Judge. Sorry to bother you.”
“Austin? Well, it’s all right. But is there a problem? You sound tired.”
“No, I’m fine, Judge. Got a special request. Wanted to see if you’ll approve a leave for Ana Koronis. I’d like to take her out of the ADC for a couple days.”
Hartrampf paused before answering. “You’re asking a lot, Austin. That’s totally irregular.”
Quinn told Hartrampf he would be responsible for Ana’s return by Monday. He also said he’d get Cross to join in his request if that would make Hartrampf more comfortable with it. And he reminded the judge that Ana had not yet been placed in a federal prison. Taking her from the Alexandria jail would be less problematic.
Hartrampf agreed, but he didn’t sound comfortable with it. He reminded Quinn that he’d be charged with responsibility for her. “I’ll arrange it tomorrow morning.”
“Uh, Judge, I was thinking of getting an early start—”
“Sure. I’ll take care of it early for you, Austin.”
Quinn hung up, watched the rain pound the window and thought about the close call he’d been in years ago at the Golden Touch in Atlantic City, the night he’d murdered Karly Amarson in a fit of rage. The thought reminded him of an envelope he’d put in his personal floor safe. He took it out and looked at the photograph of Karly that he’d received at his office a couple of years ago in an envelope marked “PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL TO AUSTIN QUINN.” Someone had signed it “To Jag, from Karly” but there was no other inscription. Karly was long dead but it had shaken him. Fortunately, nothing had come of it since. Someone who’d known about Karly had sent it to him, but for what purpose? A sick joke, or was it Magliacci again with another blackmail scheme? It was a loose end that Quinn had never been able to dismiss.
Quinn turned to the phone and hit a speed-dial button.
“Biggers.”
“There’s a couple of problems.”
“Okay.”
“They gotta be fixed tonight.”
Warfield left the White House after meeting with Quinn and drove to his condo. He left his car in the driveway while he ran in to get some clothes to take to Hardscrabble. The phone was ringing when he walked in. It was Fleming, still at her office, and she suggested they go out to dinner. To hell with the weather. She said she’d swing by Warfield’s and pick him up.
Fleming got Warfield at his condo and drove them through the storm to Ticcio’s. Ticcio seated them and sent over a bottle of wine. Warfield couldn’t extricate himself from his thoughts and told Fleming some of his concerns without naming Quinn. After dinner Fleming suggested they drive to Hardscrabble instead of adding the trip back to Warfield’s in the weather. She could drop him off at his place to get his car tomorrow morning.
Warfield couldn’t sleep. It was as if he had left some important but unidentifiable duty undone. His restlessness woke Fleming and they talked for an hour while she massaged his neck and scalp. Her voice always soothed him. They finally fell asleep, their nude bodies intertwined, as the wind and rain pounded the windows.
Next morning, Warfield picked at a bowl of Cheerios while Fleming had coffee and an English muffin with honey. The rain continued and the century-old Hardscrabble house creaked and groaned to the tune of the wind. Veronica threshed schizophrenically offshore and continued to outfox forecasters, who had calculated the storm would have identified her prey by now. News on the kitchen radio said the maximum winds near the center were a hundred and twenty miles per hour this morning and showed signs of strengthening. The blow at Reagan National Airport was thirty-nine with gusts to fifty. Washington area schools and offices were prepared to act when necessary but for the moment it was business as usual.
Fleming studied Warfield as she sipped her coffee. “I know you, War Man. When you’re this deep into something it’s about to come to a head.”
“I don’t think I’m going to like it.”
Driving rain and pockets of water on the road made driving to Warfield’s condo torturous. When they were half a block from his condo, they saw the commotion around his place. Fire trucks and police cars were all over. As they drew nearer, Warfield could see that his condo was destroyed. He jumped out of the car before Fleming was completely stopped and ran through the yellow police ribbon to the nearest cop.
“What the hell happened here?” he yelled above the wind and rain.
“This your house?”
He started to say yes but caught himself. “Across the street,” he nodded. He surveyed the damage to his home. The fire was almost out with help from the rain but the pungent smell of charred wood filled the air. Smoke from two of the tires on his car curled upward and disappeared into the rain. The roof of his condo had crumpled into the building and burned, and two of the brick-veneered side walls had collapsed. The windows in the two teetering walls that remained had blown outward, leaving ragged holes. His townhouse-style home stood separate from others and was the only one with much damage. Probably because of the rain.