She measured Jake for a moment longer, then ended the encounter with a brief nod, before turning on her heel and heading for the coffee room.
He turned to the lawyer and shook his hand warmly. “Lucas, I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” As he spoke, he felt a twinge of remorse for what his newfound friend was about to go through. “You really saved my life, buddy.”
Lucas smiled broadly and clapped Jake on the shoulder. “No, Jake,” he corrected, “Agent Rivers over there is the one who didn’t shoot you. All I saved was your reputation.” They shared a chuckle. “I wish I could offer you a ride home, but I’ve got some paperwork over at the courthouse.”
Jake waived the offer. “God, no,” he said. “I’ll just walk uptown and get a cab.”
Chief Sherwood entered the conversation and placed a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Sorry for all the confusion, Mr. Brighton,” he said, extending his hand. “Peter Sherwood, chief of police. This guy fought like hell for you. I’m tempted to wreck my car just to do business at your shop.”
They all laughed. “We try to do our best,” Jake said, sloughing off the compliment. The clock buzzed again, and here he was, small-talking with the goddamn police chief! “Listen,” he said, as if unexpectedly struck with an idea, “I’ve really got to run. As much fun as I’ve had here today, I’ve got to get going.”
“Why don’t I get an officer to drive you home,” Sherwood offered. “Or back to your shop.”
Jake smiled but shook his head. “No, that’s okay. I’ll catch a cab.”
“The hell you will,” Sherwood huffed. “The least I can do is give you a ride, for Christ’s sake.” He called to one of the uniformed officers. “Jason! I need you to give Mr. Brighton here a ride.”
Jake’s stomach knotted tight. “No, really,” he insisted, hoping his voice wouldn’t crack. “You have bad guys to catch. I don’t want to be a bother.”
Sherwood made a show of walking away, not listening anymore. Jake was stuck. The nearest place to catch a cab would be out in front of the Sears store uptown, and that was nearly a mile away. No one would willingly walk that distance if they didn’t have to. Unless, of course, they had something to hide. He needed to be very careful here.
Young Jason-Officer Slavka, by his name tag-approached cheerfully, twirling his key ring on his finger. “Would you like to follow me, sir?”
Not on a bet, Jake didn’t say. As he trailed the young officer out the squad room door and down the front steps, he waved one last time to Lucas Banks.
With speed zones and traffic lights, the shop was a half hour away. No way could Jake risk that kind of exposure-in a police cruiser, no less! By contrast, the staging area lay just on the other side of the business district, maybe a ten-minute drive from the police station on a bad traffic day.
Excuse me, Officer, but would you mind dropping me off at a place where I can stage a more convenient getaway?
The absurdity of it all made him smile, even as his eyes stayed focused on the cruiser’s two-way radio. When the balloon went up, he figured that’s how the announcement would be made. How the hell was he going to bluff his way out of this one?
For years, he and Carolyn had planned for this moment as a distant, improbable “if.” If something happened, and they had to run, this is what they’d do. They’d developed endless checklists of ifs, each of which carried its own solution. By careful planning, they’d taken some of the edge off their fear.
Now, he realized, by obliterating that edge, they’d inadvertently opened the door to complacency. It had been months since he’d serviced the escape van; nearly a year since he’d been to the safe house. For all he knew, both had burned up or been stolen. In the context of a plan governed by ifs, he’d been able to justify these lapses, rationalizing that he could always catch up.
Now, though, the ifs had blossomed into whens, and the weaknesses of their plan were startlingly clear. By rights, the feds should have nailed him already. But for a random act of inattention by some midlevel clerk on the other end of a modem, they’d have identified Jake for who he was an hour ago. How pitifully ironic. All the planning, all the contingencies, all the clandestine trips and purchases, came down to stupid luck, in a game where the odds were hopelessly stacked against him.
And here he was joyriding in a damn cop car!
Think, Jake. Think.
As Jason navigated the traffic circle at Maple Avenue and Tobacco Trail, Jake saw the five-story hospital in the distance, and a plan materialized out of nowhere.
CHAPTER FOUR
For roughly ten months out of the year, from noon till two, Monday through Friday, the center of power in Washington, D.C., shifted from the halls of the Capitol and the Executive Office Building to a handful of elite dining establishments. When meeting with charity organizers, industry leaders, or sports heroes, the natural choices for lunch were the Washington landmarks: The Palm, Old Ebbitt Grill, and the Hay-Adams Hotel. In these places, where the press mingled freely with their prey, the rules of engagement were clear. Anything said to anyone-from one’s entree to a request for directions to the men’s room-was always on the record.
Those public watering holes provided extended research opportunities for gossip columnists-a place to be seen-but matters of substance were rarely discussed there. The real business of politics required privacy: a place where security was more important than the quality of the food, and the maitre d’ knew who could be allowed to sit in sight of whom. Eddie Bartholomew ran such a place, the Smithville Restaurant, on Connecticut Avenue near Woodley Park. Everyone who was anyone had passed through Eddie’s place over the years, on their way toward greatness or obscurity. Yet, when pressed for a name, Eddie could never remember a single one. Maple paneling covered the walls of the Smithville, with gorgeous Constable landscapes occupying the spaces reserved in the high-profile restaurants for autographed glossies of the owner shaking hands with his celebrity guests.
In the whole world, only 278 people could make a reservation at the Smithville, each of whom ponied up $15,000 a year for the right, with the understanding that even they might occasionally be denied. It wouldn’t do, for example, for the Democratic White House chief of staff to be seen dining with his mistress at the same time the Republican Speaker of the House was entertaining his special male friends.
Eddie paid big bucks to have his place swept daily for listening devices, and everyone- everyone — submitted to screening by a metal detector. Guests with bodyguards had to make a choice at the front door: either their security detail checked their weapons at the desk, or their master would dine alone. Eddie had learned long ago that firearms brought trouble.
Reporters and cops were persona non grata; they simply never got reservations. A couple of years ago, in fact, a reporter from the Post had tried to force his way past the desk to get a glimpse of the diners. The maitre d’ stopped him, of course, but the reporter somehow broke both ankles and his wrist on his way down the front stairs.
Currently, Eddie found himself in a tough spot. Clayton Albricht, chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, had been a very good customer for a very long time, and he knew the rules. In spite of this, the senator had invited Peter Frankel, deputy director of the FBI, to be his guest. When the news reached the kitchen that one of the top cops in the country was planning to dine in, several of Eddie’s staff took the day off. The owner tried to explain to the paranoid cooks and dishwashers what Albricht had explained on the telephone-that Frankel’s business was unofficial-but they refused to listen. Worse, following his own protocol when dealing with controversial guests of members, Eddie had informed everyone else who’d made a reservation that the heat would be there, and nearly a dozen had either canceled or postponed till after two.