the first ring.”
“He talks like we’re schoolkids,” muttered Klein.
Jones smiled, her full lips spreading flatly over her teeth. “Hmm. A schoolmaster.”
He wasn’t entirely sure they were taking this seriously enough, but Drummond had assured him that these were two of his best Tourists. They seemed to enjoy their roles-Klein, the grumpy dunce; Jones, the exotic seductress. “We’re going in order of suspicion, least to greatest.” Since there were only seven names, there was no need for note-taking. They knew who each was and where each lived, and all that was required of these Tourists was that they locate and follow each one, calling Milo if any strayed from his or her expected route.
Once they’d gone through the sequence, Leticia Jones called over a waiter and asked for a gin martini. In answer to Milo’s look, she said, “I’m not staying up all night without at least one drink.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Milo countered.
So Klein started waving for another waiter. “I’m having a beer, then.”
Milo resisted the urge, even as he stared jealously at Jones’s drink. At seven, he got up to pay the bill, then told them to go. Jones touched his arm as she left, saying, “Chill out, baby. Mommy and Daddy will take care of you.”
He watched her sashay around tables on her way out, garnering appreciative male gazes the whole way.
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Drummond left work early to take the Acela Express from Penn Station, which got him to D.C. by seven. Stuck on the crowded train, steamy from the heat of so many bodies, he kept wishing he’d taken his Jag. Even in light traffic, though, speeding whenever possible, it would have taken him nearly four hours. It wasn’t a day for chancing tardiness. So he endured the trip and waited in line for a taxi to Thomas Circle and checked into the Washington Plaza under his own name. On his way up to the room he called Irwin. “Room 620.”
The senator sounded rushed and uncomfortable. “You going to give me a hint, Alan?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“This better be worth the inconvenience.”
When he got to the room, Drummond removed a tiny Scotch from the refrigerator, and as he unscrewed it the room phone rang. Milo said, “Where?”
“Six twenty.”
The line went dead.
Drummond threw back the Scotch, then unpacked his briefcase. There were some loose files and, beneath them, wrapped in a gray bath towel, his pistol.
It was an M9 the service pistol the marines had handed him, which they’d switched to in the late eighties in order to create uniformity with NATO firearms. A good weapon, it had never jammed, though when he’d been issued it the etched metal grip had irritated him. That only took a month to adjust to, though, and when he picked it up it felt as natural as grabbing his other hand in prayer.
Yet once he’d rechecked the full clip and cleared the breech, he went back for the second, and last, Scotch. With a background that included two miserable years in Afghanistan, the prospect of using the pistol didn’t disturb him; using it in a D.C. hotel room on a senator did. Particularly when the reasoning was based on a single agent’s epiphany.
Yet the epiphany was too damaging to ignore, so he placed the M9 on the dresser, behind the television, and checked his watch. It was seven fifty-two.
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Downstairs, Milo had watched Drummond arrive, and, after asking the front desk to patch him through to his room and getting the room number, he took a position at the far end of the foyer with a bouquet of flowers he’d purchased at the gift shop. He checked his wristwatch continually so that the staff would imagine he was waiting on a late date and leave him alone.
Irwin arrived focused on the space in front of himself, so Milo didn’t need to hide behind his flowers. Irwin, crossing to the elevators, looked like a man with an unpleasant but necessary task ahead of him, someone who wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.
Milo waited. No obvious shadows had preceded Irwin, and for the next five minutes no one else appeared. He got up and went to the elevators, but stepped back to let a family go up alone. He waited for the next one and took it to the sixth floor. He knocked on room 620 and heard voices-Drummond: “Can you get that, Nathan? Room service”-then the door opened. Senator Irwin, shocked, stared back. Behind him, Drummond was moving to the television.
“What the hell?” said Irwin. “Alan? What the hell have you-” He stopped in midsentence, because he’d turned to find Drummond pointing a gun at him.
Milo stepped inside and locked the door. He said to Drummond, “You didn’t tell him yet?”
“Tell me what?” Irwin demanded.
Alan Drummond looked uncomfortable, but he held the pistol like a pro, his hand steady. “Sit down, Nathan. We just want you to make a few phone calls.”
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The first was Raymond Salamon. Despite the fifteen-minute fight the senator put up, threatening them both with things worse than expulsion, he finally called Salamon and put on his most authoritative voice. “Ray, you’d better get your ass down to Thomas Circle. Now. I’ve got some Company guys who need to talk to you.”
“CIA? What-what’s this about?”
“You tell me, Ray. What’ve you been doing that these thugs are looking for you?”
“I-nothing, sir.”
“Well, if that’s true, then there’s nothing to worry about. Just get down here five minutes ago, wait in front of the Washington Plaza, and we’ll get it all straightened out.”
“Okay.”
“And Ray? Don’t you dare tell anyone else about this. Not yet. We clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Salamon was true to his word. He arrived in a swift ten minutes, and Milo approached him in the drop-off area that was busy with taxis and bellboys. “Raymond Salamon?”
“Uh, yes,” he said.
“Right this way.”
He led the frightened aide into the hotel, and in the elevator Salamon tried to ask questions. Milo answered with hard silence. When they finally made it to room 620, Salamon relaxed visibly at the sight of Irwin, and Irwin gave him a grudging wink. “I knew you were a straight shooter, Ray.”
“Your phone, please,” said Milo.
“Go ahead, Ray. Give the man your phone. And settle down on the chair. We’re in for a long night.”
Because Maximilian Grzybowski and Derek Abbott lived together, Klein was stationed outside their apartment waiting for one to leave. When Abbott stepped out, Klein called in, and Irwin dialed Abbott’s number. The same sternness, but with a few more fraternal quips-Abbott was clearly one of Irwin’s favorites. The same orders, though: Come immediately to the Washington Plaza to speak to the CIA. Tell no one.
Fifteen minutes later, Milo was leading Abbott into the hotel, and Irwin was calling Grzybowski. While they waited, Abbott kept asking Salamon what he knew, and Salamon shrugged meekly. Abbott said, “What’s the deal?”
“The deal,” Irwin snapped, “is that I’m being forced to do this, and I’m not going to believe the charges until these men have proved them to me. And if they don’t prove them, then their careers are in the toilet.”
When Grzybowski joined them, though, he showed none of the patience the first two had been demonstrating. He, unlike them, had spent time in the Department of Tourism, and knew that the man holding the pistol was just another bureaucrat. “Didn’t I tell you, sir? Drummond couldn’t stand losing control of his department, and he was bound to get you back for the humiliation. Jesus. Like fucking high school.”
It was eleven o’clock by the time Milo met William Howington at the opening of the hotel’s looped drive, behind
