during the week, his heart broke all over again, and thoughts of their courtship and early years together would flood through him like a riptide, threatening to spin him away on whatever mysterious current had snatched her away from him. For an insane moment, he had contemplated the unthinkable: defying the president, sitting with Louise, holding her hand, willing the puzzlement out of her eyes and mind, willing her back to him. But then his survival instincts, honed by decades inside the Beltway, came to the fore and saved him.
Paull was about to say something but caught himself in time. He was standing on the blue carpet that led to the Oval Office. He was surrounded by polished wood paneling, cream paint, and the hushed sounds of a staff that ran like a well-oiled machine. Like the emanations of magnetic north, he felt the waves of power so close to the Oval Office. He was not fooled, however; the power lay in the office, not in the man who temporarily inhabited it. He strode down the hall, and then ducked into a small room, an extra office that was deserted. His phone was specially designed by the magicians at DARPA, ensuring that his conversations would sound like gibberish to anyone picking up the bandwidth. Nevertheless, he was cautious about his own voice being overheard.
'You're sure they're dead,' he said into the phone.
'They had no time to get out,' the man on the other end of the line said. 'And believe me, no one short of Superman could have survived that blaze.'
'How the hell did this happen?'
'The best I can tell, McClure pissed them off. He got on to them; he sicced his ATF pals on them. They couldn't believe it, so they went after him.'
Paull rolled his eyes. Why did he have to suffer these incompetents? But he already knew the answer. Incompetents were who this Administration hired. 'And,' he prompted.
'They got a little overzealous.'
Paull had to count to ten before he could say in a low voice, 'You call firing handguns on the parkway 'overzealous'? This wasn't a termination mission, for the love of Mike.'
Silence on the line.
Paull felt as if his eyes were bugging out of his head. 'It sure as hell wasn't a termination mission.'
'Sir,' the disembodied voice replied, 'they sure as hell thought it was.'
WHAT ABOUT your car?' Nina said.
Jack drove south on Kansas Avenue. Considering the gray BMW, he thought it best not to be driving his car the rest of the day. 'After we're done, you can drop me back here.'
'It may be nothing but a burned-out husk by that time,' Nina said.
'Or it might not be there at all and I can requisition a new one.'
'Har-har.' Nina banged down her door lock. 'Where are we going, anyway?'
'Take a look at the list.'
Nina took up the two sheets Armitage had given them, her eyes scrolling down the list of names. 'What am I looking for?'
'Known criminals.'
'Let's see.' Nina ran her forefinger down the list on both sheets. 'Nope. Nothing shouts out at me.'
Jack made another turn, onto Peabody Street NW. He checked the rearview mirror. He was justifiably paranoid about tails. 'Try the second sheet, fourth name from the bottom.'
'Joachim Tolkan? What about him?'
'Twenty-five years ago, his father, Cyril, was a notorious criminal in this section of the District.' Jack put on some speed. 'Ran numbers, drugs, and explosives out of the All Around Town bakery.'
Nina laughed. 'That's where I get my croissants and coffee. There are maybe a dozen of them throughout the District.'
'Back in the day,' Jack said, 'there was only one.'
Perhaps Nina heard something in his tone. 'You knew the father, this Cyril Tolkan.'
'He murdered someone.' Jack slowed as they approached the old tenement, home of the original All Around Town bakery. 'Someone close to me.'
Nina frowned as Jack pulled to a stop on Fourth Street NW between Kennedy and Jefferson. 'This isn't some kind of personal vendetta, is it, because we have no time for extracurricular activities of any nature whatsoever.'
Jack was sorely tempted to describe in detail Hugh Garner's manhandling of Peter Link, but decided against it. Instead, he said, 'I have a hunch. If it doesn't pan out, I'll drop it and we'll be back to square one.'
He knew he was on edge. Why would any of the four order him tailed and attacked? Was it Armitage they wanted silenced? The state of unknowing was not a pleasant one for him. He resisted the urge to call Bennett; he knew the chief would contact him as soon as he had dug up anything of substance.
A bell sounded as they entered the bakery. The place was much as he remembered, full of the delicious swirl of butter, sugar, yeast, baking bread. He remembered in vivid detail the first time Gus had taken him here. In his mind's eye, he could see Cyril's goons standing around, reading the racing forms, waiting for their orders to dispense drugs or weapons, pick up payments, and if the envelope was a little light, to deliver a bloody payment of their own. He remembered the balding man behind the counter who gave him a chocolate-chip cookie. And Cyril himself, with his dark, olive eyes, his Slavic cheekbones, and his sinister air. Today, however, there were only a couple of elderly ladies buying their daily bread. They smiled at him as they walked out with their sweet-smelling purchases.
'Name's Oscar. Can I help you?'
A short, squat man in a baker's apron, with a monkish fringe of hair around the circumference of his milk chocolate scalp and a wide flat nose that must once have been broken regarded them with curious eyes and a welcoming smile. The current All Around Town bakery was a couple of light-years from the shop Cyril Tolkan had presided over.
'I'll take a square of crumb cake.' Jack turned to Nina. 'And you, sweetheart?'
Nina, unfazed, shook her head.
Jack grinned at Oscar. 'The missus is a bit shy in this neighborhood.'
'I understand completely.' Oscar had a spray of freckles over the flattened bridge of his nose. He placed Jack's crumb cake in a square of paper on the top of the glass case. Addressing Nina, he said, 'How about a chocolate-chip cookie?' He picked one out of the pile, held it out. 'No one can resist one of our chocolate-chip cookies.'
Jack remembered. Even stale it was good.
Nina gave a tight smile, took the cookie.
Jack took out his wallet.
'The cookie's on the house,' Oscar said.
Jack thanked him as he paid. He bit into the crumb cake, said, 'Delicious.' As he chewed, he said, 'I wonder if Joachim is around.'
Oscar busied himself arranging a tray of linzer tortes. 'Friend or business?'
'A little of both.'
Oscar seemed to take this nonanswer in stride. 'The boss'll be back tomorrow. He's in Miami Beach, for his mother's funeral.'
Jack looked around the room, munched on his crumb cake. 'You know what time he'll be in?'
'First thing in the morning,' Oscar said. 'I just got off the phone with him.' He took a tray of butter cookies from a thin lad who'd appeared from the oven room. 'Any message?'
'No.' Jack finished off the crumb cake, brushed his fingertips together. 'We'll be back.'
Oscar held aloft a couple of cookies. 'Something for the road?'
Jack took them.
TWENTY — SEVEN
THE RENAISSANCE Mission Church is more than a place of worship for Jack; it's his schoolhouse. It doesn't take long for Reverend Taske to unearth the root of Jack's reading difficulties. As it happens, he's studied a bit
