“Well, listen, Charlie, if it makes you feel more comfortable, think of us as Special Collection on steroids,” said Karr.
He turned around and stuck out his hand. “Welcome to the club.”
Not sure if the kid was kidding or not — he seemed to be — Dean took Karr’s hand and shook it quickly, hoping he’d turn back around and pay attention to where they were going.
“We’re one big happy family,” said Karr.
“Pull-ease,” said Lia.
“Except for the Princess. She’s a loaner from Delta Force.”
“I didn’t know they let women in,” said Dean.
“They don’t. She’s a transvestite.”
“Hardy-har-har,” said Lia. “A lot’s changed since you were in the service, Charlie Dean. Who was your commanding officer, George Washington?”
“I think it was U. S. Grant.”
They had come to an intersection, the first Dean had noticed. Karr stopped the truck. “Okay, Princess, you need freshening up or what?”
“No.”
“Charlie, you got to take a leak?”
“No.”
“Good. Then we’ll go straight to Numto.”
Karr threw the truck back into gear and kicked onto the road, spitting mud and gravel as he did. Dean had learned by now to hang on, and managed to keep his balance as Karr steadily and quickly brought the van to cruising speed. Dean couldn’t see the speedometer from where he was, but he figured they must be going eighty at least.
And that was miles per hour, not kilometers.
“What’s in Numto?” Dean asked.
“We think a piece of our plane. Actually, it’s about ten miles beyond Numto,” added Karr. His voice had become subtly more serious. “We’ll stop in an hour or so and get some food. It will taste like shit, but you’re going to want to eat it. After that, you want to try and catch some sleep back there. We work mostly at night, except when we work during the day, so your body clock is going to be fried, if it isn’t already. Makes some people grumpy. Unless they were born that way. Oh, one more thing. I have a request.”
“What’s that?”
Karr turned around and grinned. “Don’t get bumped off, okay? I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“I’ll do my best,” Dean told him.
“Good man.”
9
William Rubens shifted on the ornate seat in the White House Map Room, doing his best not to glance once more at his Rolex. This was the reason he hated meeting the president, especially here; overbooked, Jeffrey Marcke ran perpetually behind schedule.
He had been summoned without explanation, though Rubens suspected it was for an update on the mission to check the Wave Three plane’s wreckage. Two senators had made a polite though terse request to the CIA for information on the Russian laser system that had been Wave Three’s target; the request had undoubtedly been kicked over to the White House, where the president himself would make the final call on what to tell the legislators.
A mountain of projects awaited Rubens back in Crypto City; Third Wave was the most prominent but hardly the only one. To have to kill a half hour sitting across from ancient but nonetheless tacky furniture and shellacked maps did more than waste Rubens’ time — it offended his sense of aesthetic balance.
George Hadash entered the room, sweating so badly that he wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “Decided to hold a press conference on the new Energy Bill,” said the National Security Director. “What a nightmare. Come on.”
Hadash led Rubens around and out to the south lawn, past a cordon of aides and Secret Service agents, and down to the horseshoe pit, which was not far from the tennis court. The president had doffed his coat and tie but was otherwise still dressed in his standard work clothes: well-tailored suit and broadcloth shirt with sturdy-soled, rather plain black shoes. The pit dated back several presidencies, though it hadn’t gotten much publicity until Marcke remarked in a
Which apparently he regarded as a special pleasure.
“Naturally,” said Marcke as his last horseshoe fell away from the post. “How are you, Billy?”
“Fine, Mr. President.”
“Better than me, I suspect.” Marcke smiled wanly, then retrieved his horseshoes. He pitched all four — he played without an opponent — before speaking again as he walked back to the other end of the pit. “We’re waiting for Bob Freeman.”
“Oh,” said Rubens nonchalantly.
Freeman was the head of the FBI. Meeting with him could mean any of a number of things — most deliciously, that the Bureau was trying to track a double agent in the CIA and needed technical assistance.
Of course, it could also mean that a member of his own agency had gone bad, but Rubens dismissed the far- fetched notion out of hand.
Marcke let the horseshoe fly, nailing a ringer. “Have we recovered Wave Three yet?” asked the president, sizing up another toss.
“Still working on it, sir.” He didn’t bother correcting the president’s misstatement — the mission was not to recover the Wave Three plane but merely to make sure it was sterile.
The president’s shot sailed high, bouncing at the end of the box.
“Here’s Mr. Freeman,” said Hadash, pointing back toward the lawn.
“Very good.” The president continued to pitch his shoes.
Rubens was surprised to see that accompanying Freeman was his own boss, Admiral Brown. Brown had just returned from South America. Rubens wasn’t sure whether he had been summoned to the meeting as well or was just stopping by to report on the trip.
Probably the former, Rubens decided. Undoubtedly Freeman had gone to him first, not realizing the way things truly worked.
“Mr. Freeman, hello,” said the president as the horseshoe clanked against the metal pole. “Admiral Brown — you’re back from your trip.”
“This morning,” said Brown. He nodded to Rubens.
“Did you catch the press conference, Bobby?” asked the president.
Freeman said something about how remarkably well it had gone.
“Very nice of you to lie,” said Marcke. He tossed another ringer. “It went over like a fart in church. They’re going to hammer me on the Energy Bill. Not a doubt about it. Bob, you know Billy Rubens, right?”
Rubens grimaced — the president’s use of “Billy” would now make Freeman feel as if he were entitled to use it as well.
“Mr. Rubens.” Freeman stuck out his hand.
“Mr. Freeman.”
“I’m a great admirer of the NSA,” said Freeman.
“The FBI does a fine job as well,” said Rubens.
The president retrieved his horseshoes. “Now that that’s established — Mr. Hadash?”
“There have been some questions raised about Congressman Greene’s demise,” said Hadash, starting in an unusually roundabout way. He paused to add a few qualifiers, then said something about Congressman Greene’s contributions to the country.
