boss. It was the sort of thing that Bing would accuse him of.
“I don’t see a need to go directly to the President,” said Rubens. “I’ve briefed Ms. Bing, and as far as the missing money goes, there’s no proof that it’s a consideration here.
And in any event, I would come to you first before briefing the President,” said Rubens.
“I appreciate that.”
“I have another concern,” added Rubens. “The National Security Advisor is trying to build a case against relations with Vietnam. She wants our operations there to continue, even though I’ve told her there is no point.” Brown put his fingers together in front of his chest, pushing them back and forth as if they were an old-fashioned bellows, generating air for a smith’s forge.
“If Senator McSweeney stole the money, who would be trying to kill him? One of the Vietnamese who was supposed to get it?” Brown asked.
“Maybe someone who was double-crossed,” said Rubens.
“Or perhaps the person who is trying to kill him is worried that the senator will expose him in some way.”
“Hmmm.”
“There is also the possibility that it has nothing to do with the theft of the money. Both the FBI and the Secret Service say the attempt fits the profile of a disgruntled or disturbed individual.”
“All assassins are disturbed, aren’t they?” said Brown.
Unless they work for us, thought Rubens, though he didn’t say it.
“Do you think McSweeney is a thief?” A sly smile broke across Brown’s lips. “Any more than the average politician?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know him well enough to judge,” said Rubens.
“The NSC finding did not say you should stop if Vietnam was not involved. Close down what ever part of the operation isn’t helping you.”
“And Ms. Bing?”
“I’ll deal with her when the time comes. A good wrassle will do me a world of good.”
Rubens nodded, then moved to the next item he’d come to discuss.
98
“Jimmy Fingers!”
James “Jimmy Fingers” Fahey turned to his left and spotted Eric Blica coming down the steps of the exposition hall.
Jimmy Fingers immediately veered away from the campaign people he’d been walking with.
“Eric, howareya?” he said, pumping Blica’s hand.
“Your nickname’s a liability in a place like this,” said Blica. “Looked to me like half a dozen people were ready to pull out handcuffs and arrest you.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” said Jimmy Fingers.
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s a law enforcement conference. FBI needs to be represented, right?” Blica was a deputy director at the agency; he ranked third or fifth in the hierarchy, depending on the whim of the director.
“The FBI is involved in law enforcement?”
“Yuck, yuck. What’s your boss up to?”
“Sitting on a panel and hoping to get an endorsement from the sheriffs’ association, among others. I think there’s still time to work in something about the Bureau into the speech,” added Jimmy Fingers. “How their bud get ought to be cut.”
“Hey, come on. We’re working for you.”
“You haven’t found that shooter yet,” said Jimmy Fingers.
“We’re working on it,” said Blica. “There’s a theory that the Vietnamese are involved.”
“The Vietnamese?”
“I don’t have any details. I’m not in the working group.” “I thought you were in charge.”
“That’ll be the day.”
“Well, if Bolso retires, you’ll be a top candidate,” said Jimmy Fingers. “And there’s always the McSweeney administration.”
“Give me a break. You guys have so many IOUs out, you’re going to have to triple the size of the government to pay off.”
There was actually a lot of truth in the remark, and Jimmy Fingers smirked good-naturedly. “So tell me more about this Vietnamese thing,” he said.
“You didn’t get it from me.”
“You? I don’t even know you.”
The crazy Vietnamese conspiracy theory was so good, so de-licious, that Jimmy Fingers wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t some sort of ruse. He decided to call Jed Frey, the head of the Secret Service, to see if he could smoke anything else out.
Frey had an assistant call him back. While technically that was the proper etiquette — aides dealt with aides — it still angered Jimmy Fingers.
“What’s this rumor I hear that the Vietnamese were trying to assassinate my guy?” said Jimmy Fingers.
“I’m not prepared to discuss that,” said the aide.
“Well, what the hell are you prepared to discuss?” said Jimmy Fingers, tongue-lashing the assistant. The senator deserved to know what was going on, the Ser vice was not unassailable, the American public deserved better, blah blah blah. When he finished, Jimmy Fingers actually caught himself feeling sorry for the poor sap, who could only sit there and take it.
Having softened him up, Jimmy Fingers moved in for the kill.
“So, listen, between you and me,” said Jimmy Fingers.
“Is this thing true or not? Should I tell the security guys to screen out anyone from the hall with squinty eyes or not? I don’t want to give this guy another chance, you know what I’m saying?”
“It is a valid theory that’s being pursued,” said the aide.
“But it’s not the leading theory.”
“What is the leading theory? The nut-job assassin?”
“I wouldn’t quite put it that way.”
“And you’re still looking at those e-mails, right? You know we got that other one the other day. You never told us what came of it.”
“We’re definitely investigating. If you don’t hear from us, it’s only because we have nothing of interest to say.” By the time Jimmy Fingers hung up the phone, he was convinced that the Secret Service had no idea what was going on. He was also convinced that the Vietnamese theory, as off-the-wall as it was, would benefit McSweeney im mensely.
Which reporters, Jimmy Fingers thought, thumbing his cell phone’s phone book open, did he want owing him a big favor?
99
Dean and Karr were just finishing dinner when Telach told Dean to stand by for a communication from Rubens.
“Mr. Dean, Mr. Karr, it’s time for you to leave Vietnam,” Rubens told them.
“Aw, and I was just getting used to the place,” said Karr.