'Not much.' Jenna shrugged. 'Just the usual prattle around the watercoolers at Firehawk. I heard it was very fast… And I heard that they brought a demonstrator in to Andrews Air Force Base last week.'
'That can't be good,' Troy said.
'There's a fine line between paranoia and—' 'This ain't paranoia,' Troy insisted.
'What do your CIA spook friends think of Harris trying to kill you?'
'I haven't told them.'
'What? Why not?'
'I've been back in the United States for less than eight hours… I wanted to see you first.'
'I'm touched.' Jenna smiled.
Chapter 46
'Hi,' the voice said cheerfully. 'I can't come to the phone, but please leave your name and number and the time you called, and I'll get back to you.'
Eight times in four days, Troy had found a pay phone and had made a call. Eight times in four days, Troy had listened to the message and hung up without leaving one of his own.
Where was Nagte, or whatever his name was?
Ifthe CIA was so damned anxious to be contacted, why didn't they do a better job of manning their phones?
If he could have, he would have done as he had with Jenna Munrough. If he had known where Nagte was, or any of the other, nameless CIA spooks, he would have staked them out and contacted them face-to-face.
Troy had left Jenna's apartment with a distinct sense that she still considered him a paranoid nutcase, interpreting the noble intentions of Raymond Harris as a sinister scheme.
She had agreed to tell no one of their meeting, and he trusted that she would not — at least most of him trusted that she would not.
She had not, however, invited him to stay the night. When he had gone to see her, at least part of him had been yearning for that, but the frostiness of their previous meeting still remained as a barrier to the renewal of the sparks that once had flown between them. Hal Coughlin was still the unseen but strongly felt third presence in the room whenever Troy and Jenna were together.
Today, however, Troy was not in the room with Jenna. He was in a crowded elevator in an office building on Washington's 'Lobbyist Gulch.'
Hardly anyone noticed Troy — not that people do anything but conspicuously ignore one another in crowded elevators — but he could tell that they all were noticing what he was carrying. It was nearly lunchtime, and he was carrying two large, steaming pizzas with extra meat and extra cheese.
Once, the U. S. Air Force had trusted him with eight figures' worth of high-tech airplane. Today — his second on the job — Mr. Mahmud had trusted him to deliver two large pizzas.
There are actually many places in Washington, D. C., or any major city, where someone who doesn't want to share his true identity can find a job. Such was the case with Troy when he realized that his money was running short, and he saw the HELP WANTED sign in Mr. Mahmud's window. It was a small place with just three tables, but being in the proximity of K Street, it did an enormous takeout business. The only question Mahmud asked was, 'When can you start?'
Troy wondered if he had made the right decision to come to Washington. If he had chosen to keep the Los Angeles ticket, would things be any different? He would still be dead — unless he wanted Harris to know that he wasn't. At least his parents had access to his bank account — they had inherited it — and he wouldn't have to be delivering pizzas.
He made the decision to come to Washington because he was obsessed with confronting and stopping Harris, but he had no plan.
How?
When?
Where?
Troy wished that he had gone to the Capitol on the day when Harris was testifying before Congress. He could have just walked up to him in front of a dozen television cameras.
He could see the headlines, and he could imagine the creepers on the news channel screens.
Firehawk Hero Confronts Firehawk Boss.
Did Firehawk CEO Attempt to Murder Firehawk Hero? Would they even bother to figure out who Troy was before Firehawk security hustled him away?
Unidentified Pizza Man Assaults the Great Raymond Harris.
Would they even notice Troy before Firehawk security hustled him away?
Journalists Ignore Another Nutcase.
The lobbyists who'd ordered the two large pizzas were discussing the PMC takeover of the government as Troy arrived. While lie was making change, he overheard them talking excitedly about the business opportunities that would present themselves. There were so many rules and restrictions involved in the red tape of lobbying government agencies. Now that they would be lobbying private companies for essentially the same business, it would be much easier. They were excited and in a buoyant mood. Troy walked away with a twenty-dollar tip.
'THAT DUDE HARRIS, HE'S GONNA KICK SOME ASS tomorrow,' Vicente observed a few days later, as he rolled pizza dough with his eyes glued to the television set that was bolted to the wall high above the counter.
'You think so?' Troy asked.
It was a slow time of day, just before the lunchtime rush, and the two men were taking care of their prep work. 'Yeah, man.'
Like Troy, Vicente had a past that he didn't talk about, but Mr. Mahmud didn't care. He paid them in cash, and he paid them pretty well. They made pizzas, and they made them pretty well. Who would have thought that a guy from Sinaloa who probably had felony warrants in his name on both sides of the border would take such an interest in American politics.
'I hope he does, man,' Vicente continued in accented English. 'This dude Fachearon ain't got no cojones, man. I like this dude Harris.'
'You think he's gonna kick Fachearon's ass?'
'Don't you?' Vicente asked. 'That's what they're all saying on TV, y'know.'
'Where did you get your interest in American politics?' Troy asked.
'It used to be so boring, man. I been here eight years… first time I've seen all this excitement, man. Back in Sinaloa, you get somebody like Fachearon who can't do nothing… he's in deep shit. Even if he don't wanna be gone, he's gone, man. This is cool, man. This Harris is cool. What he's doin' to Fachearon, man, is cool. I like to watch it. Up here… really boring…. until now.'
'So you like Harris?'
'Fachearon's a weak man. Everybody can see that. America needs a strong man. You need a strong man to show the world who's boss. Everybody says he's the man.'
News and political gossip are the lifeblood of Washington, D. C. The flow of such chatter was the sustenance that underpinned the politicians, the journalists, the pundits, the news junkies, and the anonymous guys who made the pizzas that kept them going. Each day, Troy saw this lifeblood grow more and more bizarre as President Albert Bacon Fachearon fought an uphill battle against the rising tide of the PMCs. For Troy, the most bizarre thing about it all was that nobody else seemed to find it strange that Congress was on the verge of privatizing the executive branch. Some opposed it on its merits, but none on the sheer peculiarity of the concept.
Congress was doing what it does best. It held hearings while its members were taped doing sound bites and appeared on morning talk shows. What Congress had not done — at least not yet — was take a vote.
An impatient Raymond Harris complained, telling an interviewer that in the private sector, decisions were made quickly — especially important decisions like this. The pundits quickly did what they do best, criticizing Congress for dithering. Like Harris, with whom they had become captivated, the journalists waited impatiently for
