Rubens folded his arms in front of his cashmere sweater, staring at the distant hills that undulated beyond the glass wall of his house. The dawn was just breaking, and from here the dappled hills looked like perfect little mounds of untouched greenery; if you discounted the odd pockmark or two, they presented an image of untamed and untouched nature. But Rubens knew there were houses and roads all through those hills, and if the area wasn’t nearly as developed as the geography immediately to the south and east, it was anything but pristine.
That, unfortunately, was an excellent metaphor for Representative Johnson Greene’s death. From the distance — even from the ten or fifteen feet away that Rubens had been standing when it happened — it was a bizarre, ridiculous, and ultimately coincidental tragedy. Up close, it was something more complicated.
Rubens had been interviewed by two FBI investigators in the presence of an NSA attorney and a representative from the agency’s Office of Security yesterday afternoon. It was clear from their faces that he told them absolutely nothing that they had not known already. It was also clear that they were very disappointed — obviously, they wanted to prove that the death had not been accidental. They undoubtedly saw the investigation as a ticket to better things, assuming they could prove it was something more than an accident.
This, of course, presented an enormous danger. Ambition was forever the wild card in Washington. At no level, in no walk of life, could it be ignored. Channeled, yes, but never ignored.
And so, having been blindsided once, Rubens had taken steps to find out everything he could about the investigation, his cousin, the band, and the congressman. Of course, he did not use the agency’s resources, most especially the black computers at Crypto City. Anything he did there could be tracked and recorded. He had even eschewed his home phone and computers, even the gray one, which was equipped with a scrubber program. (Powerful, but not quite at agency-level standards.)
Instead, Rubens — William Madison Rubens — had gone to a public library to conduct most of his grunt research over the Internet. It was a good exercise, the sort of thing he would encourage a young operative to do to stay sharp. Deriving information without Desk Three’s resources was a tonic, even an end in and of itself.
Actually, Rubens had gone to two libraries and made use of phone booths in three different diners. Were it not for the dishwater coffee he’d been forced to drink as a cover, the whole experience might have been considered oddly thrilling.
The results were somewhat less so.
The kid with the guitar went by the name of Trash, a fairly accurate appraisal of his station in life. Before joining the band his hazy history extended only as far back to his days as a teenage street person in New York City. He’d been recruited into the band when some of the members heard him playing guitar at a shelter they were volunteering at. A regular Horatio Alger story had ensued, Trash turning out to be a guitar genius with a special appeal to nubile prepubescent girls. Of course, to get the high gloss you had to ignore certain calculated self- promotional behavior, as well as a serious drug habit that leaned toward Ecstasy and an odd, if original, mix of Quaaludes, “crank” speed, and double-olive martinis. Rubens believed the martinis probably hinted at the young guitarist’s actual pedigree, though he hadn’t bothered to pursue that, and the young man’s credit reports contained no hint of rich relatives bailing him out.
Prowling chat sites dedicated to the music scene, Rubens had picked up considerable gossip on the band. The guitarist’s death had made the group a very popular topic of discussion in the extremely small world of people interested in following such things. Rubens was able to find a former devotee who called herself EZ18 but was actually a thirty-five-year-old schoolteacher in Edison, N.J. In an IM conversation that lasted three hours, EZ18 helpfully pointed out that the band’s rise began when a middle-aged woman had befriended them while they were playing at a small but obscure club in New York City’s East Village. She had given them considerable money, recommended a manager, and in other various and sundry ways pushed their career.
The middle-aged woman was Greta Meandes.
Rubens turned from the windows and began to pace. He was not shocked that there was a connection between his cousin and the guitarist. She was the family’s token liberal and probably saw him as a reclamation project. There might even be some sex involved, though frankly, Rubens had never had that high an opinion of her.
Rubens paused at the corner of his room, staring at the massive Matisse that hung on the wall opposite the windows. It was an unknown and uncatalogued piece from the dancer series; six red figures (not the five in the better-known paintings) swirled around the green-and-blue field. The painting always looked somewhat off-balance to him, which was one of its attractions.
One of his phones buzzed. He let it ring.
What he had not determined, however, was who was behind spreading the rumors. They appeared sourceless, which naturally led him to suspect Collins. He had heard that she had had lunch with Freeman two days before. His informant suspected a tryst; Rubens concurred — pillow talk was very much her style.
If Collins was involved — he was admittedly not 100 per cent sure of his source, a CIA underling who wanted her job — well then, perhaps she was doing more than whispering. Perhaps she had arranged for the guitar or pool to be tampered with, then drugged and hypnotized the idiot band member, programmed him to take the leap.
Child’s play.
Unlikely, surely. Ah, but if he could prove that — if he could find the smoking guitar, so to speak, he might be through with her forever.
The idea was too delicious to avoid. A ridiculous long shot, yes — but it would bring such indescribable joy.
Now he realized why poor people played the lottery.
His next step was to find out if the guitar or the pool had been tampered with. Obviously the local police would attempt to do so as well; quite possibly they already knew the answer.
Or not. He doubted their inquiry would be expert.
There were pedestrian reasons for finding out, reasons that had nothing to do with Collins. If he had a report that declared everything in order, it could be leaked to the press. It would end their interest abruptly. The rumors would dry up; there would be no reason for anyone to find out that he was at the scene, et cetera, et cetera — problem quashed.
How could he examine the guitar and the pool without involving the NSA?
He might suggest the idea to the police, arrange the technical help, then get access to the findings. That could be done quietly if he recommended the company, one that did work for him.
But the FBI would then get access to the report. Freeman would see it.
Of course. The FBI should do the work in the first place. He would hold Mr. Freeman close — very close.
Not quite as close as Ms. Collins was, certainly.
But then he wouldn’t want the lab to be easily connected to him. Hadn’t there been a Division D project to electrocute a KGB agent in a backyard pool during the 1960s?
That was before Collins’ time, but still, she’d know about it. She always did.
The phone rang again. This time the programmed ring pattern told Rubens that it was his driver, waiting outside to take him to Crypto City. He’d arranged to use the driver — who doubled as a bodyguard — for the duration of the mission to make sure the Wave Three plane had been destroyed.
Rubens walked to the kitchen and bent to the refrigerator drawer in the cabinets. He took out one of his bottles of Belden bottled water, then went down to meet the driver.
An hour later, Rubens passed through the security gauntlet and entered the Art Room, where Telach updated him on the progress of the Wave Three team. At the bottom of her eyes were hanging bags so deep, she looked like she was growing a new face. But if he asked her if she was tired she would have insisted she wasn’t, and she would have fought — probably with her fists — any suggestion that she catch a nap in one of the nearby “comfort” rooms. She never wanted to leave the Art Room, much less go off-duty, once an operation was under way. It was a quality Rubens prized highly in selecting Art Room staff.
“The wreckage at Slveck is ours,” Telach told him.
“Svvlee-veck,” said Rubens, correcting her pronunciation.
“The team is en route. They’re meeting with Fashona and the Hind.”
“The Petro-UK Hind?”
“We don’t have another, do we? Besides, they needed an acceptable cover. The weapons are boxed and hidden in the hold.”
