his people spend their lives weighing the greater good against lesser wrongs. It’s a dirty business. They don’t like it either. But they do it, and we’re all the better for it.”
“But the killer is just a hired gun. The responsibility for Lisa’s death lies with the people who paid him.”
“We all know that.”
“If you know that, how could you let them off?”
“Because I was being ordered to. Why do you think Clapper was there?” Some impulse made me add, “And I’ve got news for you-were Lisa, your sister, my friend, my sister in arms… were she in my shoes, she would’ve made the identical choice. Think about that.”
So she sat there a moment, looking into her beer, and I sat there unknotting my tie. I wished I knew what was going on inside her head. The truth was, I had become a bit smitten with her. Maybe very smitten.
Which I guess accounted for my hurt feelings and tantrum. I felt like I had lost something very precious, although the truth was, I never really had it. It probably would never have worked anyway, between George, her sister’s murder, the whole artificiality of what brought us together. But after that morning, all doubts were dispelled.
She said, “You mentioned the word ‘cover-up’ this morning.”
“Did I?”
“And I had the impression Peterson and his people side-stepped it.”
“Was that your impression?”
“What were you talking about?”
“Nothing. I was making a stab in the dark.”
“No, you had a very clear sense of something.”
“Ask your friend George.”
“Is George… I mean, do you think he’s involved?”
I finished my scotch. “Ask him. ”
Well, the next word was on the tip of her tongue, but a loud knock rattled the door. I went over and opened it, and two gray-suited thugs stepped inside, followed by Jack MacGruder, the honcho of Operation Trojan Horse, which was a shitty title, in my view. A code name is to supposed to hide the purpose of the operation, right? And if the bad guys ever heard that name, they’d be scratching their heads, saying, Trojan Horse?… Trojan Horse?… These CIA people are so bright and devious… what could that possibly, possibly mean? You know?
Anyway, MacGruder pointed at Janet’s drink and asked, “Got any more of those?”
I went to the minibar and retrieved a beer. The thugs stood by the door, MacGruder sat in the chair opposite Janet, and I returned to the bed.
His eyes strayed around the expansive room. He smiled pleasantly and said, “It’s a fairly nice hotel, don’t you think? You two could be here a long time. We want to be sure you’re comfortable and happy.”
I replied, “We’ve got a killer who wants our asses, my career’s in the shitter, Janet’s father is in the hospital, and her sister’s in the morgue. Spare us the happy hospitality bullshit, Jack. Tell us what’s going on, and get the hell out.”
MacGruder drew a deep breath. Had he thought we were going to be cheerful and polite passengers, he now knew better. He said, “Fine. You recall that the killer escaped from Boston in a car. The latest update from the FBI is they found the car stolen from a Mr. Harry Boticher in Boston. It was discovered in the parking lot of the Maryland House, which you might recognize as a roadside stop along 95. Another car was reported stolen there, and that one was found this afternoon, parked, of all places, illegally, one block from FBI headquarters.” He chuckled. “This fellow has a great sense of humor, doesn’t he?”
Screw you, Jack. But Janet said, “Any prints, hair, or fibers?”
“Fibers from a cotton shirt. But the cars were wiped down clean. He even used a solvent, if you can believe it.”
I asked, “And the bodies in my apartment?”
He shook his head. “Not helpful. One Caucasian male, and the other was of Latin extraction. No IDs were on their bodies, their prints aren’t on file, their photos were run through the FBI’s database and there’s no record. Both were carrying modified Uzis, and we’re unable to trace them. Also, there were some blood splatters on your porch, but nobody’s turned up in any area hospitals.”
I asked, “And our families?”
“The FBI has established clandestine surveillance nets around all of them. Everybody’s fine and healthy, and we’ll keep them that way.”
I asked, “How’s Spinelli?”
“He’ll be in a sling a few months. He was released from the hospital about an hour ago.”
I stretched and yawned. I knew I needed to hear all this, but I didn’t trust Jack MacGruder and I wanted him to disappear. I trusted and liked Janet, and I wanted her to disappear also.
I guess Janet read my mind because she said, “Jack, he’s exhausted. Why don’t I walk you out?”
“Uh… okay, fine.” I drained my scotch, fell back onto the bed, and the next thing
I knew it was morning. And Jack was back. And he brought George.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
I let them into my room, and while Meany called room service and ordered breakfast, I slipped into the bathroom to shower, shave, and dress. Just knowing MacGruder was nearby, I didn’t even bend over to wash my little toes.
When I walked out of the bathroom, I was squeaky clean, I felt rested, I still had my charge card and virginity, and was looking quite debonair in my blue serge Brooks Brothers rags. Meany was seated at the table with MacGruder, and somebody had obviously gone next door and invited Janet, who now sat beside George. A cart piled with plates of steak, eggs, bagels, pancakes, donuts, and so forth was parked next to them.
Meany smiled at me. “Thanks for breakfast, Drummond. It’s delicious.”
“What the hell did you order?”
“Everything on the menu. Relax. You’re rich.”
Hah-hah. Prick. The Agency was paying for it.
Meany pointed at a chair. “Why don’t you join us?”
“Yeah. My room, my food… I should definitely join you.”
So I sat. I filled a plate, and then Meany and MacGruder made me recount everything that happened the day before, and peppered me with questions about whether I’d been convincing, and was everybody buying my baloney. This went on for twenty minutes, and I must’ve made a pretty good case, because neither Meany nor MacGruder expressed any arguments, nor offered any suggestions.
Still, when I finished, Meany just had to say, “It’s just too bad we had to go through all this. If you hadn’t stuck your nose where it doesn’t belong, Drummond… none of this had to happen.”
“What does that mean?”
“Simple. You nearly compromised a very important operation that we worked a long time to build. You nearly exposed one of our agents. We really don’t appreciate ignorant clowns messing around in our business.”
Of course, Meany was posturing for Miss You-know-who. Also, I guess, that little incident on my back porch had left some bruised feelings. He was chewing his breakfast a bit gingerly. So maybe he couldn’t stop himself, but I’d had enough of him, and he’d called me a clown once too often, and I knew I shouldn’t but I said, “Did I make your job hard, George?”
“Damned right you did.”
“What is your job?”
“You know damn well what my job is.”
“I know what you said your job was. But in fact, that wasn’t your job, was it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But for a guy who was merely confused over semantics he did in fact look nervous.
I asked him, “Are you still telling the public you’re hunting the
