"Cam, wait." Burke shook his head, apparently feeling the need to apologize. "I didn't mean to imply that you… look, I know we need intelligence agencies, law enforcement officers. Without 'em we'd be sitting ducks. I guess what I'm trying to say is we ought to do the right things for the right reasons. Maybe it's a poor analogy, but we need a little honor even among thieves."
"You're damned right it's a lousy analogy."
Burke planted his hands against his hips. "Well, I can't ignore what happened to me. I was… damn it, I was used. Sent out like a prostitute on the prowl. A hell of a lot of what I did wasn't for the good of the cause. It was simply to satisfy one man's inflated ego. I don't want to get caught in that whirlpool again."
Quinn stared his friend straight in the eye. "If you work with me, Burke Hill, you follow your own instincts, act as your own conscience dictates. I wouldn't want you under any other circumstance. Four days ago, I stood talking to a man, as close as I am to you, when he was blown away by a high-powered rifle shot. That tells me there's something damned important going down out there that I need to get to the bottom of. And conditions dictate that I use outside help. For lots of reasons I can't afford to fail on this one. I'd be grateful for your assistance, but I'm not begging."
Burke glanced back at the map, then at Quinn. He reached a hand up to stroke the gray-speckled thatch of beard. "What do you want me to do?" he asked.
Quinn's eyes snapped open wide. "You're in? You're sure about it?"
Burke's face softened into the beginnings of a smile. "In like Flynn. It might help to fill me in on some of the details."
"Hey, great." Quinn's broad mouth stretched into his best Irish grin. "You're getting a little ahead of me, though. There are a few minor points I need to clear up."
"Minor points? What the hell are you talking about?"
"My boss insisted that you be thoroughly vetted. I've had our Office of Security people digging into your background the last couple of days. During the time in Alaska and five years here, your record is spotless. But your FBI file leaves some questions after 1969."
Burke grimaced. "If you read that, I'm surprised you even bothered to come down here."
"I don't know if they sanitized it or not. I had difficulty getting it until our FBI liaison put the pressure on."
"Doesn't surprise me. I've thought about going through the Freedom of Information Act to get a look at it myself. How does it say I left?"
"There are some rather derogatory entries after you quit, but it only indicates you resigned from the Bureau in 1970. No reason given. There was a large print notice placed in the file there saying 'any inquiries regarding this file must be sent immediately to the Director or Associate Director-Investigative.'"
"That meant Hoover or Sullivan. I suppose you want to hear the story?"
"Let's save it until later. I think you'll pass muster with Hawk Elliott."
"Who?"
"Hawthorne 'Hawk' Elliott, chief of the counterintelligence staff. My boss. He wants to meet you before we seal the deal."
"I would be sort of a private investigator working on contract with the CIA?"
"Essentially."
"You know, I thought about giving the PI business a try several years ago. But I figured if I hung out my shingle, I'd be bombarded by jealous wives and divorce lawyers. I didn't want to get involved in that kind of messy affairs."
Quinn chuckled. "You won't have to worry about that. This will be a straight up investigative effort. Could you be in Washington tomorrow?"
"Hey, that's sort of pushing it. I've got some things to wind up here." He smiled. "How about day after tomorrow?"
"Let me know when. I'll meet you at National Airport."
"Can you tell me a little about the case now?"
"Sorry. Not until you talk to Hawk."
Chapter 10
As the 737 made its final approach along the Potomac, Burke got a brief glimpse of the rounded facade of the Watergate complex and the angular profile of the majestic Kennedy Center. It was a gentle reminder of the contrasts that marked this impulsive center of world leadership, the ugliness of power politics juxtaposed with the beauty of classic art. Old memories came crushing in on him, recollections not altogether pleasant.
When he had moved from one phase of his life to another, it was like pulling a curtain on the past. He rarely looked back. But since Cameron Quinn's surprising visit to his Smoky Mountain hideaway, past hopes and past failures had intruded mercilessly on his conscience. Maybe he had as much to gain from this as Quinn, he thought, a chance to redeem himself in the field, where he’d spent the better part of his adult life.
When he strode off the jetway just after eleven, Burke found an agitated Cam Quinn waiting in the crowded concourse. Having long ago learned to travel light, he avoided the baggage claim area.
"I'm facing a damned deadline three weeks off, and what do I get?" Quinn growled like the bear his build resembled. "I waste half my morning getting the runaround from some gray-haired bitch over a simple requisition."
"What were you after, an M-1 tank?"
"A real desk," he said. "One with drawers and all, for that ratty little cubbyhole I euphemistically call an office. I was fed up with using a computer stand. I'd get more respect from the KGB."
As they headed through the exit, the impassioned Irishman ranted on, lamenting in his colorful Boston brogue the frustrations of butting heads with an obstinate federal bureaucracy.
Outside the clamor of the terminal, the sun bore down in a merciless preview of what the summer would soon bring in earnest. Quinn appeared to conclude there was no use complaining further about matters impossible to change. He lapsed into silence after summing up, "You'd have thought I was asking for an increase in the national debt limit."
He had left his jacket in the car and now loosened his tie as they headed into the nearby parking lot reserved for government officials.
"I hope your boss doesn't object to my attire," Burke said. He wore a blue-striped knit shirt, gray poplin slacks, and gray pigskin loafers. "Photographers aren't famous as snappy dressers, you know."
"Hell, you're well coordinated. The pants match your beard.”
Quinn stopped beside a blue-trimmed white Cutlass Supreme of indeterminate age. Burke dropped his travel-weary soft-side bag into the back seat. "Thanks, buddy," he said as he slid into the seat.
"Listen, Hawk Elliott is anything but a clothes horse. He thinks dress up means to put your pants on before your shirt. Glad you got a haircut, though. That will probably help. Hawk’s a grumpy bastard who was once a star quarterback."
"Where'd he play?"
"Princeton. He would probably have made it in the pros if the military hadn't wanted him for the Korean War. A family friend saved his ass by recruiting him into the Agency first."
"That means he's been around about as long as you. Right?"
Quinn nodded as he checked the traffic and pulled out of the parking lot. "I guess Hawk was a little smarter than me. He kept his mouth shut, and they moved him up the ranks. You know I never was one to let my sentiments go unspoken. He probably won't have a whole lot to say today, but what he does say, it will probably rub you the wrong way. Just don't let him frustrate you."
Frustration was something the chunky Irishman had learned to deal with early on. Afraid he might miss out on the war, he volunteered for the Army at the end of his sophomore year at Harvard in 1943. His father, a prominent Boston attorney, was a close friend of General William Donovan. As a result, the young Quinn was quickly tapped for service in the clandestine Office of Strategic Services. By the end of the war, not yet twenty-one, he was a master at the tricks of the spy trade, but Donovan and his father prevailed on him to head back to Harvard and law school.