Thorne hadn’t driven much through D.C. and had trouble finding the address he needed on Connecticut Avenue. He had to circle the block a few times before he finally hit his signal and turned into a narrow alley between two commercial buildings. The one on the left advertised itself as an appliance store, while the one on the right-the one that proved to be their destination-had no writing on it at all.
“We’re here,” he announced.
Jake seemed unaware that they’d even stopped. Without a word, he refocused his eyes from the spot he’d been watching on the dashboard, to take in their immediate surroundings. Seemingly satisfied, he pulled on the door handle to let himself out.
“Hey,” Thorne said.
Jake paused. “What?”
“Relax. You’re about to win. You can smile now.”
Jake looked at him for a long moment, wondering if he should even bother to respond. Wiggins’s death, the disposal of the body-it still weighed heavily on him. Smiling was the last thing he felt like doing.
“He was an insect, Jake. A parasite. And we squashed him. Let it go.”
Jake nodded, not out of agreement but out of resignation, and emerged slowly from the car. He stood up straight, as if to walk away, then turned back again to lean into the driver’s-side window.
“Thanks, Thorne,” he said. “And thank Harry for me when you see him.”
The big man picked up the money bags from the floor of the front seat. “Here, don’t forget these.”
Jake waved his hand. “No, you keep it. One way or another, I won’t be needing it anymore.”
“You nuts?” Thorne scoffed. “Mr. Sinclair doesn’t need this back.”
“Tell him to give it to charity then,” Jake said. “I don’t want it.”
Thorne eyed him for a long moment, then shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said. He threw the shift lever into drive. “Say, when you catch up with Sunshine, you tell her to give us a call, okay?” he said.
“Sure,” Jake replied, and watched as the Grand Marquis pulled away from the curb.
He climbed the front stairs to the door, where he took a deep breath before ringing the bell. Instinctively, he avoided looking into the security camera, pretending instead to inspect his shoes. After a few seconds, the door buzzed, and he stepped inside.
As he crossed the threshold and waited uneasily for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room, he began to see just how wonderful a place he’d entered: a restaurant where the aroma of fine foods was every bit as opulent as the furnishings. Typical of Washington town houses of the Federal era, this one seemed to extend forever, from front to back, with a wide stairway interrupting the center hall about halfway down, on the right-hand side. Off to either side, in what would have been the living room, dining room, parlor, and library, he could just glimpse the white linen and exquisite crystal.
He stood in the entryway, his back to the wall, waiting for someone to greet him. “Anybody here?” he called softly.
A second later a tuxedoed maitre d’ appeared from behind the stairway and strode down the hallway. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said cheerily. “Mr. Donovan, I presume.”
Jake accepted the man’s firm and vigorous handshake. “And you must be Eddie Bartholomew.”
Eddie nodded. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Donovan.”
“Call me Jake.”
“And you can call me Eddie.” He led his guest as far as the reception lectern, then stopped. “I’ve spoken to Mr. Sinclair,” he said, “and he has vouched for you, but still, you must understand that we have rules here at the Smithville.” He removed an ornate wooden drawer from somewhere off to the side of his stand and placed it on top of the lectern. “Place your weapons here, please.”
Jake found himself suddenly on edge. Thorne had explained in the car that the Smithville was neutral ground-the local equivalent of Switzerland-but this guy Eddie Bartholomew was a bundle of conflicting images. Dangerous yet polite; gracious yet brutish. Nonetheless, Jake understood the rules, and he placed his Glock inside the box.
“Any ammunition, too, please,” Eddie said. “Saves us an anxious moment when we use the metal detector.”
“What, you don’t trust me?” Jake quipped. He meant it as a joke, but Eddie took it seriously.
“No, I don’t,” he said. “Nothing personal, you understand. I don’t trust anyone. Can’t afford to.” He smiled.
Jake didn’t bother. There was no humor in it, anyway. He dutifully produced the two extra magazines from his jacket pockets and added them to the pile in the drawer.
“Is that all? No knives? No backup pieces strapped to an ankle somewhere?”
Jake shook his head. “That’s it.”
Eddie made a face that showed surprise, but he didn’t argue. “Mr. Sinclair assured me there would be no violence this afternoon.”
Jake had to quash a brief rush of amusement as he realized that under the top layers of gracious suspicion, there lay within Eddie a bedrock of fear. “Don’t worry,” Jake reassured. “My mission today is merely to talk.” He glanced over his shoulders. “Where’s the rest of your staff?”
The maitre d’ shrugged and tossed his head to the side. “They’ve taken a few hours off. Given the guest list for your meeting, it seemed prudent for all concerned. Mr. Sinclair also assured me that you’d be finished before the dinner rush begins.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem at all,” Jake said.
The answer seemed to please Eddie, who closed the gun drawer and led the way around to the staircase. “Follow me, please,” he said. “I understand that you need a place where you can remain out of sight.”
Jake grumbled under his breath, “That’s the story of my life.”
This time Paul drove. In fact, by the time they’d taxied all the way to the midfield terminal at Dulles, and they’d ridden the bus to the place where they could catch a second bus to the car rental counter, Paul felt like he might as well have driven all the way from Arkansas.
With the zero notice they’d received to get here, they were lucky to have caught a flight as it was. Add that confusion to the disturbing lack of detail on the purpose of the trip, and what Paul had was a barrelful of question marks.
“I’m glad this makes sense to you, Irene,” he said as he navigated the treacherous, narrow lanes of Route 66 through Arlington. “Because it sure beats the hell out of me.”
She watched out the window, squirming with a desire to move faster through traffic. He drove like an old woman, sticking to posted speeds and prompting angry blasts from other motorists. “What’s to make sense? When the chairman of the Judiciary Committee tells you to come to a meeting, you come to a meeting.”
“Without telling anyone? That’s not right. It’s not the way things are done. Christ, we didn’t even tell the field office here.”
She shrugged, still avoiding eye contact. “He’s a senator. If he wants secrecy, we’ll give him secrecy.”
“That’s improper as hell, Irene. Who is this senator to be giving us orders to begin with? I’ll bet you a week’s pay this has something to do with his alternative-lifestyle crap, and when it surfaces in the press, we’re gonna get screwed.”
Finally, her head came around. “No, Paul. I’m gonna get screwed. You’re just sitting in the car, remember? Besides, he said it was about the Donovans. As case agent, I’m the one he should have called. Nothing improper in that at all.”
“Then why doesn’t he want me in the meeting?”
She rolled her features into a bored, condescending scowl. “That’ll be the very first question I ask,” she said, groaning. “Truthfully, my guess is that he’s turned up something on Frankel, and he’s as scared of his conclusions as we are.”
As they crossed the Potomac, Route 66 became Constitution Avenue, and from there, it was only a matter of navigating the one-way streets up to Connecticut Avenue, where Senator Clayton Albricht would be waiting. Given Paul’s cynicism, she didn’t bother to mention that she’d agreed on the telephone to surrender her firearm at the door. Frankly, she didn’t need any more of his shit right now.
By the time Clayton Albricht arrived at the Smithville at three-thirty, the luncheon crowd had come and gone, leaving the ornate cavern empty. Other than Eddie Bartholomew, he didn’t even see any service people.
