Watching Cherry on a portable television in an armory office, Toad Tarkington muttered to Jack Yocke, “He’s got a talent for rhetorical questions, doesn’t he?”
“It’s taken him far,” Yocke replied.
Twenty minutes later Jake Grafton saw the map. It had been there for days and three enlisted men were diligently annotating it with pins and little symbols, but when someone stepped out of his way, suddenly it was hanging on the wall in his full view. And the thing he saw as he looked at it were all the areas that were not divided into blocks to be searched. For the first time he saw the open areas.
It was possible. Not very likely, but possible.
“General Greer, do you have a company I can borrow?”
The major general looked at him askance. “A company?” he growled. He didn’t think much of naval officers — the damned boat drivers usually had only the vaguest grasp of real war, the land war. Just now he swallowed his prejudices. Grafton, he knew, was different. Liaison with the Joint Staff, Grafton had never tried to tell him how to do his job. Unlike fifty or so flag officers of all services who had been wasting huge chunks of his time with unsolicited advice.
“Yessir. A couple hundred troops. I want to walk them through Rock Creek Park.”
The company commander lined his troops up in a parking lot of RFK Stadium across the street from the armory. As the sergeants counted noses and checked gear, Jake turned to Toad. “Go get rifles and a couple extra magazines for me, you, and Rita. And three walkie-talkies.”
“What about Yocke?”
“He’s a civilian.” Right now the reporter was inside in the command post taking notes. If he didn’t get out here on the double he was going to be left behind. His problem.
“Aye aye, sir,” Tarkington said and trotted toward the armory.
The company commander, an army captain, asked Jake if he wanted to address the troops.
“No, you do it. Tell them we are going to be hunting a killer, the man who shot down the President’s helicopter. They are to take their time, go slowly, use their flashlights. We’ll do the Rock Creek Country Club first.”
“You want this man alive, sir?”
“I’ll take him any way I can get him. I don’t want any of your men killed trying to capture him. Anybody who fails to stop when challenged, they can shoot.”
“Your responsibility, sir?”
“My responsibility.”
The army officer saluted and went to talk to his men.
Ten minutes later, with the enlisted soldiers aboard the trucks, the officers consulted the maps. Just as Jake and the two navy lieutenants climbed into their car, Jack Yocke came running.
“Welcome to the party,” Toad told him.
The convoy moved slowly through the streets. Pedestrians were streaming in and out of the grocery stores, but the parking lots and streets lacked the usual glut of automobiles. The effect was jarring.
“I hear the stores are doing a land office business in liquor and contraceptives,” Yocke remarked.
“Can’t watch television all the time,” Toad agreed.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Rita said. “The glare of the boob tube doesn’t seem to affect your libido.”
Jake Grafton sighed.
Senator Cherry and his aide drove back to the Senate office building in Cherry’s car. Like many of the senators and congressmen trapped in Washington this close to the holidays — Cherry had told the majority leader a week ago that the chambers should adjourn early for Christmas and had been ignored — he had been issued a vehicle pass by the White House staff.
Two FBI agents were waiting in the hall outside Cherry’s office suite.
Hooper he remembered. The other agent was named Murray. “Your door’s locked,” one of them noted.
“That’s obvious,” Cherry thundered derisively. “They gave me one lousy pass for one vehicle and I have to drive the damn thing. You think my receptionist is going to walk ten miles through the streets of this open sewer to unlock the door so you can have a nice place to wait?”
“No, sir.”
The aide unlocked the door and the agents followed the senator into his office. After he had flipped on the lights and settled behind his desk, Cherry boomed, “Well?”
“Senator, we’re trying to get a handle on the activities of a certain lawyer here in the District, fellow named T. Jefferson Brody.”
Bob Cherry stared at them.
“It seems he made some campaign contributions that—”
“Did the White House send you over here?”
“No, sir. As I said, we’re—”
“You just got a call from Will Dorfman, didn’t you? Dorfman is trying to shut me up. That asshole! Well, it won’t work! I am going to continue to say what has to be said. If Dorfman doesn’t like it he can stick—”
“I haven’t talked to anybody at the White House, Senator,” Tom Hooper said with force. “I’m asking you, do you know T. Jefferson Brody?”
“I’ve met him, yes. I’ve met a lot of people in Washington, Mister … I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Hooper.”
“Hooper. I’m a U.S. senator. I meet people at parties, at dinners, they stream into this office by the hundreds. Just here in Washington I must have met ten thousand people in the last ten years. In Florida—”
“Brody. Jefferson Brody. He makes political contributions on behalf of people who want influence. Has he made any contributions to your campaign or any of your PACs?”
“I resent your implication, sir! You are implying that Jefferson Brody or someone owns a piece of me! You can haul your little tin badge right on out that—”
“I’m not implying anything, sir,” Hooper said without a trace of irritation. He had dealt with these elected apostles on numerous occasions in the past. It was one of the least pleasant aspects of his job. “I’m trying to conduct an investigation into the activities of T. Jefferson Brody. If you don’t want to answer questions or cooperate, your campaign finance statements are a matter of public record. We’ll get them.”
“I’m perfectly willing to cooperate with the FBI,” Cherry said civilly. “But your timing couldn’t be more … curious, shall we say? I appear on network television and take a strong stand against the administration about a matter of public concern. An hour later when I get back to the office the FBI is waiting for me. Nobody from the White House called you, you say. But what about your superiors? Did Will Dorfman call the director?
“I’ll be blunt, gentlemen. I think Dorfman is playing hardball, trying to use the FBI to silence someone who is speaking out against the administration’s handling of this terrorism debacle. I know how Dorfman plays the game. Next he’ll start telling lies about me. He’s done it before. He’s good at it. The slander, the invidious lie — those are Dorfman’s weapons against Bush and Quayle’s enemies.
“Now you go back and tell your superiors that Bob Cherry can’t be muzzled. You tell the director to call Dorfman and tell him Bob Cherry didn’t scare. No doubt that perverted little troglodyte will think of a filthy lie and find an ear to pour it into. But I’m going to keep telling the truth about Dithering Danny and that parasite Dorfman until the day I die.
“Now get out. Get out of my office.”