“Alden pitched retirement to you?”
“Twenty-nine years. And I’m still alive. Kinda miraculous when you think about it,” John observed with a moment’s sober reflection.
“Well, if you need something to do, I have a number for you to call. Your knowledge is an asset; you can make money off it. Buy Sandy a new car, maybe.”
“What sort of work?”
“Something you will find interesting. Don’t know if it’ll be your kind of thing, but what the hell. Worst case, they’ll buy lunch.”
“Who is it?”
Hardesty didn’t answer the question. Instead he handed over another slip of paper with a phone number on it. “Give ’em a call, John. Unless you want to write your memoirs and get it through the people on the seventh floor.”
Clark had himself a laugh. “No way.”
Hardesty stood up, extended his hand. “Sorry to cut this short, but I have a ton of work to do. Give ’em a call-or don’t, if you don’t feel like it. Up to you. Maybe retirement will agree with you.”
Clark stood. “Fair enough. Thanks.”
With that, it was one more elevator ride and out the front door. For their part, John and Ding did stop and look at the wall. For some of the people at the CIA, those stars did represent the Honored Dead, no less than Arlington National Cemetery, though tourists were allowed to go there.
“What number, John?” Chavez asked.
“Some place in Maryland, judging by the area code.” He checked his watch and pulled out his new cell phone. “Let’s find out where…”
Jack’s daily electronic traffic scan took up the first ninety minutes of his day and provided nothing of substance, so he grabbed his third cup of coffee, picked through the bagels, then returned to his office and began what he’d come to call his “morning troll” of the myriad intercepts the campus received from the U.S. intelligence community. Forty minutes into what was amounting to an exercise in frustration, a Homeland Security intercept caught his eye.
He was in Jerry Rounds’s office five minutes later. “Whatcha got?” Rounds asked.
“DHS/FBI/ATF intercept. They’re looking for a missing plane.”
This got Rounds’s attention. The Department of Homeland Security had something of an event threshold system in place that generally did a good job of keeping trivial inquiries off its intelligence plate. The fact that such an inquiry had climbed this high on the food chain suggested that another agency had already done the routine legwork and confirmed that the plane in question hadn’t simply been misplaced by a sloppy charter company in an administrative shuffle.
“ATF, huh?” Rounds muttered. Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms also specialized in explosive-related investigations.
“What kind?” Rounds asked.
“Didn’t say. Has to be small, noncommercial, or the news would have it.” Missing 757s tended to generate buzz.
“How long ago?”
“Three days.”
“We know the source?”
“The routing looked internal, so FAA or NTSB, maybe. I checked yesterday and today; not a peep from anyone.” Which meant somebody had clamped a lid on the subject. “Might be another way to go about this, though.”
“Tell me.”
“Follow the money,” Jack said.
Rounds smiled at this. “Insurance.”
32
IT WAS 10:47 when his phone rang. Tom Davis had just finished a fairly large bond trade, one that would earn The Campus $1,350,000, which was not bad for three days’ work. He grabbed the phone on the second ring. “Tom Davis.”
“Mr. Davis, my name is John Clark. I was told to give you a call. Maybe do lunch.”
“Told by whom?”
“Jimmy Hardesty,” Clark replied. “I’ll have a friend with me. His name is Domingo Chavez.”
Davis thought for a moment, immediately cautious, but it was more an instinctive reaction than a necessity. Hardesty didn’t hand out these introductions to hacks. “Sure, let’s talk,” Davis replied. He gave Clark directions and said, “I’ll look for you about noon.”
Hey, Gerry,” Davis said on entering the top-floor office. “Just got a call.”
“Anybody we know?” the boss asked.
“Hardesty at Langley sent two guys to see us. Both slotted for retirement from the Agency. John Clark and Domingo Chavez.”
Hendley’s eyes went a little wide. “
“So it would appear. He’ll be here around noon.”
“Do we want him?” the former senator asked, already half-knowing the answer.
“He’s certainly worth talking to, boss. If nothing else, he’d be a hell of a training officer for our field people. I only know him by reputation. Ed and Mary Pat Foley love the guy, and that’s a hard endorsement to ignore. He doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty, thinks on his feet. Good instincts, plenty smart. Chavez is cut from the same cloth. He was part of Rainbow with Clark.”
“Reliable?”
“We have to talk to them, but probably.”
“Fair enough. Bring them over if you think it’s worthwhile.”
“Will do.” Davis made his way out.
Left here,” Domingo said as they got within a hundred yards of the light.
“Yeah. Must be that building there on the right. See the antenna farm?”
“Yep,” Chavez observed as they took the turn. “Get a whole shitload of FM with that.”
Clark chuckled at that. “Don’t see any security. Good sign.” Professionals knew when to play harmless.
He parked the rent-a-car in what seemed to be the visitors’ lot, and they got out and walked in the front door.
“Good morning, sir,” said a uniformed security guard. He was in a generic uniform, and his name tag said CHAMBERS. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see a Mr. Davis. John Clark and Domingo Chavez.”
Chambers lifted his phone and punched some numbers. “Mr. Davis? Chambers here in the lobby. Two gentlemen here to see you. Yes, sir, thank you.” The phone went back down. “He’s coming down to see you, gentlemen.”
Davis appeared in just over a minute. He was black, of average size, about fifty or so, Clark estimated. Well dressed, shirtsleeves rolled up, tie loosened. The busy broker. “Thanks, Ernie,” he said to the security guard, then: “You must be John Clark.”
“Guilty,” John admitted. “And this is Domingo Chavez.” And handshakes were exchanged.
“Come on up.” Davis led them inside to the elevators.
