center meridian and was heading in the other direction. She veered far to the right and got off the exit, pulling another sharp turn at the end of the ramp and sliding onto a road going under the highway.
“What are you doing?” Dean said.
“I don’t care to be followed.”
“That’s just going to tip them off that we made them,” said Dean.
“So?”
“If there’s a whole team, the other cars will move in. We won’t shake them.”
Qui took a quick succession of turns and ended up on another highway.
“We’re not being followed now,” she told him as she accelerated. “If we were being followed earlier.”
“We were,” said Dean.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Tommy Karr had just started looking for the white pickup truck when Rockman told him to stand by.
“Kinda hard to stand by when you’re driving a motorcycle,” said Karr.
“Dean’s off the road. I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Which way?”
“North of you. A mile.”
Karr leaned down close to his handlebars, urging the bike to go a little faster. He tucked past a pair of tractor-trailers and neatly bisected a pair of sedans.
“They went off that exit that’s coming up on your left,” said Rockman. “His driver is trying to shake them. Find a place to turn around.”
No place better than right in front of him, thought Karr.
He hit his brakes and skidded across the narrow meridian strip, power-gliding in the new direction. The bike wasn’t that familiar and his timing was off; he nearly went under the wheels of a large bus. But Karr managed to flick away at the last moment, squeezing between the bus and a van. He missed the exit but got off on the shoulder just beyond it, bumping down the rocky slope to the pavement.
“So I’m looking for a Toyota pickup?” he asked, following Rockman’s directions to the highway Dean and Qui had just gotten onto.
“White Toyota. That’s right.”
“Don’t see it.”
“They must have lost him.”
“Too bad,” said Karr.
Dean told Qui to drop him off at the riverfront. He didn’t want her going anywhere near the hotel — whoever was following them might be waiting for him there. As Qui wended her way around toward the water, she told him that they were being followed again.
“Big guy on a motorcycle,” she said. “He has a helmet with a dark visor.”
“Yeah, I know him,” said Dean. “He’s on my side.” Qui glanced at Dean but said nothing.
“You can pull in over there,” he told her.
“What is your real name?” Qui asked when she stopped the car.
“Charlie Dean.”
“Well, good luck, Mr. Dean.”
Dean grabbed his bag and began walking, looking for a place where he could plant a video bug to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Karr, meanwhile, had taken a turn behind him and was circling around, also checking for surveillance.
It took them nearly twenty minutes to make sure no one had followed. Karr drove up to Dean as he stood watching some small boats unload.
“Man, I’m starving,” said Karr. “Let’s go get some noodles.”
“Our hotel’s probably being watched,” Dean told Karr and the Art Room. “We can’t go back there.”
“Agreed,” said Telach. The Art Room theorized that the security people had been sent by Cam Tre Luc, who had made inquiries about Dean following their “meeting” at Saigon Rouge. “He may just want to keep an eye on you, but there’s no sense finding out.”
“You want us to get new digs, or are we bugging out?” said Karr.
“Probably leaving, but that’s Mr. Rubens’ call. Lay low for a few hours. Avoid the police.”
“Let’s go get some food,” suggested Dean, worried about Qui though he wasn’t sure exactly what to do.
“Now there you go,” said Karr. “For once, you’ve got your priorities straight.”
97
As he walked up the path to the tidy brick Georgian, Rubens nodded at the plainclothes guard. Dressed in a black suit despite the prospects of a blisteringly hot day, the man was the only visible component of an elaborate security team and system covering the upscale suburban Mary land home. Without him, the house would have appeared completely unre-markable, little different from the cardiac specialist’s home next door or the upper-level manager’s across the street.
That was the idea, though as Rubens rang the bell to Admiral Devlon Brown’s house, the thought occurred to him that it was perhaps slightly galling that the man responsible for the NSA should live in a house that symbolized only a moderate amount of achievement. Architecture reflected a man’s worth, at least in Rubens’ opinion, and while one might choose to be subtle, even subtlety showed.
Admiral Brown apparently did not share that opinion. He was waiting for Rubens inside the family room off the kitchen, sitting on a couch with his legs propped up on a nearby ottoman. He wore a blanket and his face was as white as the night Rubens had seen him in the hospital after the heart attack. But his voice was stronger.
“William, thanks for coming by. I hate doing business by telephone. I’ve come to hate it more and more,” said Brown, motioning him to sit. “Breakfast?”
“I had a bagel earlier.”
“Not with butter, I hope.”
“As a matter of fact, no.” Rubens chose a chair that had been borrowed from the dining room, pulling it close to the admiral’s legs.
“I’ve been listening to my doctor’s scoldings so much I’m becoming a scold myself,” admitted the admiral. “Coffee?”
“I’m trying to cut back.”
“Too bad. I’m not allowed any myself,” said Brown. “I have to live vicariously, smelling the aroma.” Rubens had come to discuss several matters, the most important of which was the investigation into the Vietnamese assassination plot.
Or, more accurately, non-plot.
“Whether the CIA plot was a figment of an agent’s imagination remains to be seen,” said Rubens, who suspected as much, “but in any event, neither the attack on Senator McSweeney nor Special Agent Forester’s death is related to it.
What they may be related to, however, is the theft of government money some forty years ago.”
Brown seemed to gain back some of his color as Rubens continued, briefly summarizing the story.
“Two suicides and an assassination attempt,” said Brown.
“They would all seem related somehow. But why is it coming to a head now?”
“I simply don’t know. I assume there is much more here than we have uncovered. The question is whether to turn this over to the FBI or to continue investigating it ourselves. The NSC finding is open-ended,” Rubens added. “It states that we should investigate the assassination attempt. But it was issued with the idea that a foreign government was behind the attempt. This would seem to be a domestic matter.”
“Have you discussed this with the President?” Rubens had a long-standing personal relationship with President Marcke. Nonetheless, Rubens felt slighted at the question, for it suggested that he might subvert his
