“He might be.”
Epstein drank some more of his martini. He looked affec tionately at the glass while he swallowed.
“I have worked with you a couple times,” Epstein said, “and know you to be a big pain in my tuchis.”
“Nice to be remembered,” I said.
“You been a tough guy so long, you forgot how to be anything else.”
“But sensitive,” I said.
“My ass,” Epstein said.
“Wow,” I said. “Two languages.”
Epstein finished his drink and gestured for another. The bartender looked at me. I nodded.
“What we got brewing here,” Epstein said, “is a fucking impasse.”
“We do,” I said.
“Which is not going to do either one of us any good,” Epstein said.
“True,” I said.
Our drinks came. We both allowed them to sit untouched for a dignifi ed moment. Then we both took a swallow.
“You got any thoughts on how to resolve it?” Epstein said.
“I do.”
“Thought you might,” Epstein said. “Keep in mind that counterterrorism is not grab-ass. One of my agents gets compromised, people may die and some of them may not deserve to.”
“I know,” I said.
“Your plan?” Epstein said.
“I’ll fi nd out,” I said.
“What?”
“Everything, and I’ll keep you informed on anything you need to know.”
“And you decide what I need to know?”
“We’ll collaborate on that,” I said. “If I find that your agent is compromised, I’ll give him to you.”
“I agree to that and the bureau finds out, I’ll be working the teller’s window at a drive-in bank in Brighton.”
“If you can make change,” I said. “I was never good making change.”
“When you say everything, do you include Blue Squall?”
“Not unless I bump into it,” I said. “I’ll investigate my client, his wife, and her lover.”
“Perry Alderson,” Epstein said.
I hadn’t mentioned Alderson’s fi rst name.
“Yep.”
“Last Hope,” Epstein said.
“Yep.”
“We’ll look into it from that end,” Epstein said.
“Maybe we’ll meet in the middle,” I said.
“We fuck this up,” Epstein said, “and I go down in flames.”
I shrugged.
“Think of it as a blaze of glory,” I said.
“And if I do,” Epstein said, “I’ll take you with me.”
“No pain, no gain,” I said.
12 .
Isat at the counter and sipped a scotch and soda, tall glass, a lot of ice, to support the two I’d had with Epstein. I liked to drink alone in the quiet room. This was widely held to be the hallmark of a problem drinker, but since I rarely drank too much, and since I could drink or not drink as circumstance dictated, I was able to relax about it, and have a couple of drinks alone, and have a good time.
Susan was in New York overnight for a conference and Pearl was visiting me. I had fed her when I got home, and taken her out, and now she was on her couch looking at me without censure. Pearl II was a solid brown German shorthaired pointer like her predecessor. Thanks to the magic of selective breeding, she was, in fact, very much like Pearl I, which was sort of the idea. A way to manage mortality a little. She loved Susan and me, and running, and food, and maybe Hawk, but it was never clear to me in what order. I raised my glass to her.
“Here’s looking at you, yellow eyes,” I said.
She thumped her short tail a couple of times.
