sailing under false colors. It’s true my name is Joselyn Cole. But I’m not with the bar. So you can relax. As far as I know there is nothing wrong with your client trust account.”
As soon as she says it, I’m like Bambi in the headlights.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
“I’m sorry for the deception but it was absolutely essential that I talk to you.”
She looks to be in her early forties, with blue eyes and shoulder-length sandy hair. There are just a few specks of gray, enough to let you know she is more interested in what she’s about than how she looks.
“I am with a group known as Gideon Quest. We’re a nongovernmental organization, an NGO.” She slips me a business card from across the desk.
“I don’t make contributions or respond to solicitations in the office.” I talk as I examine her card.
“I’m not here looking for money, Mr. Madriani. Our organization is involved in the international effort to stem weapons proliferation, both weapons of mass destruction as well as certain classes of conventional weapons. So I suspect you probably know why I’m here,” she says.
An electric chill runs down my spine, the kind of feeling you got as a kid when the nun called you to the front of the class with a ruler in her hand.
“No. I’m sorry, I don’t. And I have a very busy day, so I think we’re going to have to cut this short.”
“Part of my job involves incident inquiries, events that may represent a threat to public safety, and that may go undetected and unreported for any number of reasons.” She ignores me. “Events don’t always get covered in the general press.”
“It’s all very interesting, but as I said, I’m busy.”
“We’re one of a number of organizations that report on a regular basis to the International Atomic Energy Agency, the IAEA. I assume you’ve heard of it.”
I’m still looking at her card, trying to collect my thoughts to figure out whether to toss her out now or let her go on to find out what she knows, if anything.
“I’ve got some questions I’d like to ask you,” she says.
That cuts it. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for this.”
“It’s very important,” she says. “It’s not often that we see an incident like this. The fact is I’ve seen it only once before. And a friend was killed. They covered it up then too. I tried to warn people back then but no one would listen. The government made it sound as if I was crazy. So I did the only other thing I could do-I found others who shared the same concern and we founded Gideon Quest. Yes, accidents happen, but an attempted intentional detonation in a population center is a seminal event. You really have a moral obligation to talk about this.”
“Excuse me. You come here under false pretenses, scare the hell out of me with some story about problems in our client trust account. Then you tell me you’re with an organization I’ve never heard of…”
“I told you I was sorry, but it was the best I could do on short notice,” she says.
“No, you could have told the truth,” I tell her. I’m trying to shift from angst to indignation, so I can gain the moral high ground to get her back on her heels and out of here.
“If I’d told you the truth, you would have refused to see me.” The facts being what they are, she is dead on. So I try again. This time I get up out of my chair as if emphasizing my moral outrage.
“You come here misrepresenting who you are and what you want. Flying, as you say, under false colors, and you expect me to take time out of a busy day…Get out.” The words come out as if I’m trying to shoo some cat out the door. “Get out of my office. Now! Please.”
There is a moment of silence as she looks at me with a kind of quizzical expression, as if she has gas. It starts with a modest grin, then the laugh lines around her eyes begin to flex. A second later any attempt at composure evaporates in a wave of laughter. It seems my attempt at fury has waddled across the desk, rolled over in front of her, and died.
“What’s so funny?”
“You,” she says. There’s a tear running out the corner of one eye. “You should never try to do pompous, angry bastard. You’re terrible at it.”
“Is that so?”
“You lack the paunch and jowls.” She’s still laughing, wiping the tears from her eyes. “If you want to do anger, you should do silent and steely eyed. You know, quiet rage and maybe avoid getting out of the chair. I’m sorry, but the words just don’t comport with the picture. Pompous, angry bastard belongs to fat men. You just don’t make it. Besides, your eyes are all over the place. You’re looking at everything in the room except the object of your fury-me. You were avoiding eye contact. You know what that says to me?”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Man with a secret, trying to hide it under a bushel of feigned fury. And your body language…”
“What’s wrong with my body language?”
“It’s dead,” she said. “You’re supposed to be angry. You should be pointing at the door when you tell me to go, and you never, never, never end by saying please. It sounds like you’re asking permission to go to the bathroom. Trust me. I’ve been thrown out of better offices than this. I have a lot of experience. I know what I’m talking about.”
“Thanks for the dramatic critique,” I tell her. “Now you can go.”
“That’s better,” she says. “I mean I’m still not convinced that you’re about to turn the desk over on top of me. But at least you didn’t say please. It’s a step,” she says.
I stand there looking at her. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry.
“Now I’ve hurt your feelings,” she says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Listen, it was cute. Really. And I’m flattered that you would do it for me. To take the risk, I mean, to put yourself out there like that. That takes a lot of courage. Let me guess. I’m going to bet that you don’t have a lot of authority with little children or dogs. Am I right?”
“Now I’m starting to get angry,” I tell her.
“Good,” she says. “It has to be real. It has to come from the gut or no one’s gonna believe it.”
“I want you to go.” I point toward the door.
“Yes, but how badly do you want it? I don’t see any real passion.”
I try to hold a stern expression but I can’t. I start to laugh.
“There you go,” she says. “Back to my question now about children and dogs.”
I’m shaking my head as I laugh. She’s destroyed me.
“I thought so. They have a sixth sense for false anger. They can read it in a heartbeat.”
“Is that so?” I slump back into my chair.
“Children just laugh, but dogs will try to take advantage of you. They’ll turn you into a littermate.” The laugh lines come to life deep within her tawny complexion as she smiles at me.
“I’m not your enemy. Believe me. You can call the police and have me thrown out, or have me arrested if it makes you feel better, but do me the courtesy of answering at least one question.”
I would ask her what, but sound judgment tells me not to.
“I want to know why you haven’t told the press or the public what you know about the events in Coronado. Why you haven’t made any public statement about what was on that truck. You see, we already know the device was nuclear. What we don’t understand is why you haven’t said anything. People need to know how close they came. The next time they may not be as lucky.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Acting talent and confidence skills come from the same area of the brain,” she says. “Your gifts must be elsewhere because you don’t lie very well either.”
“Now that’s something you would know about,” I tell her.
“They put pressure on you, didn’t they? The FBI, NSA, the Justice Department? They’ve threatened you, to keep you quiet. What did they say?”
“I’m practicing being silent and steely eyed,” I tell her.
“You can trust me,” she says.
“Of course I can. You come with such sterling credentials.” For all I know she could be working undercover with Thorpe, sent here to test me, to see if I’ll talk. The way she’s holding her briefcase under her arm, pointed at me, it could easily be concealing a digital minicam and a mic. My face might be playing on a television at this moment in the back of a government van parked out in front.
