to my car, before they questioned me. But I hadn’t reported it to Dubette security. During the day, there must be what, three, four hundred cars in the lot. Maybe more. How come they knew about my car, among all the rest?’
‘How indeed?’ echoed Dingley.
‘You discovered the damage on the Thursday?’ queried Benton.
‘Yes.’
‘In the lot?’
‘Yes. When I went to get into the car, to go home.’
‘What time was that?’ took up Dingley.
Parnell shrugged. ‘I can’t be precise. Late. Seven thirty, eight o’clock.’
‘Half-light?’
‘Getting that way. The lot’s lighted, of course.’
‘What about paint on the ground? Anything at all?’
Parnell shook his head, recalling the courtroom examination. ‘I don’t remember seeing any. Looking even. I just thought it was a car-park knock. One of those things.’
‘It was certainly that,’ said Benton. ‘You go through this with the deputies?’
‘Maybe not in quite so much detail,’ said Parnell. ‘You going to talk to them?’
Benton smiled at the question. ‘We’re going to talk to just about as many people as we can. And maybe it was worthwhile letting you in on the preliminary forensic findings after all.’
‘You are going to find out who did it, aren’t you?’ said Parnell.
‘We’re going to try our damnedest,’ promised Dingley.
Parnell felt self-conscious, embarrassed, concentrating upon everyone around him as he left the FBI field office and went into the multi-storey car park to retrieve his car, checking the mirrors before and after driving out, trying to establish whether he was being followed, which he couldn’t. Remembering what one of the Bureau agents had said, Parnell decided it was just like being in a B movie, but tried to convince himself that it was the sort of precaution they were advising, but couldn’t do that either. How long would it have to go on? Until the unknown they were caught, he supposed. What if they weren’t? Howard Dingley’s parting remark hadn’t sounded particularly hopeful. Parnell didn’t think he could maintain the vigilance forever – wasn’t sure he could maintain it even over days or weeks. It was a frightening conclusion, frightening enough for it to stop being embarrassing and become unsettling reality. Parnell tried to check his mirrors all the way to McLean and, with the Dubette building in sight, came close to hitting a suddenly braking car in front because he was studying the reflection of vehicles behind.
He reached the pharmacogenomics division – still an object of attention as he walked the windowed corridors – disorientated, knowing it would be difficult to keep his mind undividedly upon the priority work in which he’d decided to involve himself. Initially, however, he didn’t try. He shook his head against Kathy Richardson’s gesture that she had some messages, and securely closed against interruption the office door he recalled telling the staff would always remain open. He dialled Barry Jackson’s office number. Parnell was connected immediately.
‘I just got back from an FBI interview. I don’t think I did very well.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going? Ask me to come along?’
‘It didn’t occur to me. Didn’t think it was necessary.’
‘Why don’t you think it went very well?’
‘I couldn’t tell them anything!’
‘Of course you couldn’t.’
‘It sounded like… oh, I don’t know what it sounded like, as if I could even have been hiding something.’
‘I should have come with you.’
‘You’re probably right. But wouldn’t it have appeared that I did have something to hide, needing my lawyer beside me?’
‘Representation’s your legal right. We’ve already proved in a court that you’re not involved.’
‘In murder. They’re concentrating on terrorism! They said they’ll probably need to speak to me again.’
‘Next time I’ll come along.’
‘They said something else, too. That I might be in physical danger. Not from the Metro DC police, although they agreed with your warning. From whoever killed Rebecca. They told me to be careful.’
‘Sounds like good advice.’
‘You agree with them, that it’s a possibility.’
‘Of course it’s a possibility. I would have thought that was obvious.’
‘It hasn’t been, until now. It’s not a very comforting thought.’
‘It’s not intended to be. It’s intended to be advice you should take.’
‘I’m trying.’
‘Don’t stop. And don’t try going alone any more. Talk to me. That’s what eventually you’re going to pay a lot of money for.’
Parnell was conscious of Kathy Richardson through the glassed separation, intently watching for him to replace the telephone, so he turned the movement into a welcoming gesture, opening his closed door to admit her.
The woman said at once: ‘Dwight Newton wanted to see you, the moment you got back…’ She offered a strong, sealed manila envelope. ‘And this came from Dr Spacey.’
Parnell weighed the choices as well as physically testing the envelope, and decided upon the vice president first. On his way further into the Spider’s Web, he thought he should have telephoned ahead but continued on anyway. He was admitted immediately, to a reception in distinct contrast to the previous day. The white-coated man remained hunched forward over his desk and said at once: ‘You didn’t tell me you were going to the FBI!’
‘When we spoke, I didn’t know I was.’
‘I should have known! Been told! Dubette are being dissected in the media, in connection with it all. I should have known.’
‘It was my oversight. I’m sorry.’
‘What was it all about?’
‘They wanted to interview me, obviously.’
‘Someone from Dubette should have been with you.’
‘I don’t think so, Dwight, do you?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘The lawyer you chose for me would have railroaded me into God knows what sort of situation if I’d let him represent me. If I’m accompanied for any further meetings, it’ll be by the man who got me freed, on the spot.’
‘Rebecca Lang’s tape would have been found,’ insisted the other man.
‘Not by me. Or a court official.’
Newton coloured. ‘So, how was it? The interview, I mean.’
‘Still very preliminary. There wasn’t a lot I could tell them.’
‘What was said about Dubette?’
‘Nothing, specifically. As I said, everything was preliminary.’
‘They got any leads?’
Parnell looked steadily at the other man for several moments. ‘Preliminary,’ he repeated, for the third time. ‘No leads, no nothing. Just mystery.’ The greatest of all was when and how – and by whom – will an attempt be made to kill me, he thought, and wished he hadn’t, because he was back into a B-movie mindset.
‘Your people working on the flu request?’ abruptly switched Newton.
‘The current samples were only due today. I haven’t yet had time to check if they’ve arrived. I’m going to head it up, with three others.’
‘I want everyone involved,’ insisted Newton. ‘And I want to be kept in the closest touch. About everything.’
‘I hear the message,’ said Parnell. It would be difficult not to, so often had it been repeated.
Back in his office, the door secured again, Parnell sat for several moments gazing down at Barbara Spacey’s sealed report, wondering if the man he had just left had read it before their confrontation, confused by Newton’s pendulum mood swings. Impatiently Parnell tore open the envelope, not expecting the brevity of the woman’s assessment. In Barbara Spacey’s opinion the events to which he had been subjected had profoundly affected him
