Not even yourself. Don’t worry. She’s nothing like Lo.”
“She?”
“You have a problem with women?”
Dean shook his head.
“You won’t be able to use your same cover,” Tang told him. “You’ll have to say you’re an aid worker. It will arouse less suspicion. With her. She doesn’t like conglomerates.
It’ll be easier.”
“OK.”
“How soon do you want to leave?”
“As soon as possible. Today would be good.” Tang frowned. “I’ll do the best I can. No guarantees.” Dean took a sip of tea, then nibbled on the sugared pastry he’d ordered blind off the menu. It was made of very thin layers of what he thought was phyllo dough and enough sug-ary syrup to send a dentist’s entire family to college. Karr would have loved it; Dean found it far too sweet but was too hungry not to eat.
“I heard there was some excitement in District Four last night,” said Tang.
“Oh?”
“There were some explosions in a house of ill repute. The police were even called.”
“Don’t know anything about it.”
“I’ll bet.”
Tang smiled, then reached across the table and put her hand down on his.
“You’ll be careful?” she said.
“Sure.”
“I like you, Mr. Dean. You’re old-school.” Tang patted his hand, then got up. “Check your phone messages in about an hour.”
Dean thought about the soft tap of Tang’s hand as he walked back to his hotel.
“Are you coming for me, Charlie?”
Dean blinked his eyes open. He’d dozed off.
“Charlie?”
It was Longbow, calling him. He was in the sniper nest, waiting for Phuc Dinh.
“Charlie? Are you coming? Charlie?” The air began popping with gunfire.
Charlie?
“your driver is downstairs,” said Rockman, talking to Dean via the Deep Black com system. “Charlie — are you awake?” The phone rang. Dean jerked upright in the bed. He’d lain back to rest and drifted off.
He’d seen Longbow in his dream. And Phuc Dinh. They were both alive.
Nonsense.
“Answer the phone, Charlie,” said Rockman. “Are you there?”
“I’m here, Rockman.” Dean picked it up. “Yes?”
“Mr. Dean?”
“I’m Charles Dean.”
“You need someone to take you to Quang Nam?”
“Yes.”
“I’m in the lobby.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes.”
63
Lia paced around the hotel room, unable to sleep though it was going on 1:00 a.m. After meeting with Mandarin, she’d spent the day and much of the night with an FBI agent who was checking on three different disgruntled constituents of McSweeney’s, in and around New York City and Westchester. The only thing she’d learned was that FBI agents had a particularly poor sense of direction.
More and more, the whole thing seemed like a wild-goose chase.
Then again, what Deep Black assignment hadn’t?
Maybe tomorrow would be better. Lia had an appointment with the doctor who’d examined Forester’s body the night he was found.
She sank into the chair at the side of the room and flipped on the television. The volume blared, even though she had her finger on mute.
The person in the next room banged on the wall.
“Sorry,” Lia said, turning it down.
Lia trolled through the channels. There was nothing on that interested her. She left it playing and went to the window, staring out at the stars, thinking of Charlie Dean.
Vietnam was eleven hours ahead — it’d be around noon.
“Hope you’re doing better than I am, Charlie,” she whispered to the night.
64
Originally, Jimmy Fingers thought of it the way he thought of any grand election strategy: a story for the voters. It had an arc and a hero. It also had a set end point, which they’d reached.
But like all good campaign strategies, this one had been overtaken by events. It had succeeded incredibly. Yet there were also signs of problems. Not only were Secret Service people everywhere; now there were FBI agents and U.S. marshals and for all he knew CIA officers combing through the files and shaking the trees for suspects. With that many people involved, someone was bound to stumble onto something that would upset the overall campaign. They might begin focusing on the wrong things. He could easily lose control of the narrative.
“Another Scotch?” asked the bartender, pointing at Jimmy’s glass.
There was a shout and applause from the other room, where several hundred campaign workers had gathered to watch television coverage of the primary results. Senator McSweeney, upstairs taking a shower, would be down in an hour to declare an unpre ce dented victory in the Super Tuesday polls. With the exception of Arkansas, where he’d taken a close second to the state’s favorite-son candidate, McSweeney had swept.
It was all due to the assassination attempt. Not so much because it had made McSweeney seem sympathetic as well as important, but because it had given people a chance to listen to his message. So maybe the senator had been right after all — maybe sticking with the issue spots at a time when there was plenty of “soft” news about his personality was the right thing to do.
He’d mention that, Jimmy thought, glancing up at the television screen to see that the media had just put Florida in the McSweeney column. Jimmy Fingers lifted his Scotch in a toast to the state and its electoral votes.
Jimmy Fingers’ phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, knowing it was McSweeney.
“So?” asked the senator. “What do you say?”
“Have a quick drink and come on down,” said Jimmy Fingers. “I’d invite you to join me at the bar, but I’m not sure you’d make it through the crowd.”
“I’m coming down right now,” said McSweeney. “Meet me backstage.”
“You got it.” Jimmy Fingers snapped the phone closed and downed his drink before getting off the stool.
Yes, the story definitely needed a new direction, just to keep it going.
