Those who filled the pews inside were mostly CIA colleagues of Cameron Quinn. A few key employees of Clipper Cruise & Travel joined them, along with three of Lori's closest friends and two relatives whose aloof manner indicated their presence was a mandatory exercise in attempted civility. One was an officious cousin who held some sort of international trade position with the Department of Commerce, the son of Quinn's younger brother who had died a few years before. The other was a stooped octogenarian great uncle from Boston. Due to family financial shenanigans that Cameron had purposely left clouded, providing Lori with no real understanding, the Washington (and various other points) Quinns had effectively cut themselves off from their Boston kin following the death of Cam's father. The surprise appearance of the aging uncle was evidently the family's token acknowledgment that Cam had indeed departed the scene. CIA officaldom was represented by CI Chief Hawthorne Elliott, DDO General Frederick Palmer and the DCI himself, Judge Kingsley Marshall.
Several cars bearing neatly dressed, athletic looking young men were parked about the area. A few unlucky ones stood watch outside the chapel, holding black unbrellas to ward off the shower. Lori noted that Hawk Elliott exhibited the bored look of someone who had rather have been elsewhere. Judge Marshall, on the other hand, appeared the very essence of concern. In fact, he delivered the eulogy.
The Judge was a tall, slender man with the savvy look of a skilled politician. It was political connections, of course, that had brought him to the federal bench and, ultimately, to the rarefied atmosphere of Langley's seventh floor. Standing before the small group, he held his gray head high, though his shoulders seemed to droop perceptibly with the weight of the occasion.
"Cameron Quinn was a dedicated public servant," he said in a judicious tone, "one of those all too rare among us who seeks no self-aggrandizement. Power, wealth, position, reputation were all sacrificed to the anonymity of his calling. The nation's unparalleled security, and its highly regarded ability to counter potential enemies, are due in no small part to the unsung achievements of men such as Cameron Quinn.
"He was a complete person… a loving husband, a devoted father, a loyal servant of his fellow man. Few people are aware of the countless hazardous assignments that he readily accepted on behalf of his country. And in a field where only one's mistakes are trumpeted publicly, even fewer are aware of the significant successes that he achieved. We, lovers of liberty who share in his legacy, owe to him our gratitude for a job well done."
The shower had hardly diminished by the time the burly, graying priest completed his final prayer beneath a green canvas enclosure that surrounded the grave. The flag that had covered the coffin was folded and handed to Lori. The priest gave her a fatherly pat on the arm and departed.
Her friends, a tall black couple with whom she had been sailing on Memorial Day, and a short, plump woman who had once been her college roommate, gathered around like cheerleaders after a disheartening loss.
"Would you like me to come stay with you tonight?" asked Sara Lawson, the former schoolmate.
"Thanks, but I'll be okay. I imagine I'll get to bed early tonight. I'm afraid I haven't shaken off the jet lag yet."
"Why don't you have dinner with us, doll," said Chloe Brackin, squeezing one of her hands. She was an attractive, statuesque black woman with a controlled intensity in her voice.
"Yeah, I'll pick you up and get you back early," added her husband, Walt. They were both physicians, he specializing in neurology, Chloe a gynecologist.
Lori smiled at them. "I love all of you, and I really appreciate what you're trying to do. But, honestly, I'm fine. I think I need some time to myself, a chance to gather my thoughts and try to put things into a little better perspective. I'll take a rain check on that offer, though."
They frowned unhappily but knew that when she had decided upon a course, further argument was useless. They exchanged farewell kisses and left. Lori looked around to find Judge Marshall patiently waiting. Without comment, he held out his arm and she took it. As they walked out into the rain, he raised a large black umbrella to shield them from the continuing downpour.
She looked up with a fragile smile. "Thank you for those remarks, Judge. It was beautifully said."
"It was said from the heart, Lori. Your father had his problems, but he never wavered from what he saw as his duty."
"That's how he died," she said with a nod, her eyes taking on a troubled look. "He wasn't drinking the night of that accident. He was pursuing his assignment."
Judge Marshall regarded her indulgently. "I guess we'll never know for certain what happened, Lori. But don't compound the tragedy. Don't torment yourself in an attempt to unearth some hidden cause and effect. By the way, have you heard anything from Mr. Burke Hill?"
She shook her head silently.
"We can't have people going off on a tangent, possibly jeopardizing Agency operations. He could easily endanger our people, as well as himself."
Lori fought to contain her temper. "Mr. Hill was a very close friend of Dad's," she said. "He was quite disturbed by what happened in Hong Kong. He thought Sam Allen should have done a thorough follow-up, checked to make certain no foul play was involved."
The Judge's tone was implacable. "Sam Allen contacted the proper authorities. He reviewed their reports, found the evidence overwhelming."
She gave a shrug of clear disgust. You couldn't fight city hall. She wished now that she hadn't destroyed that letter her father had written to Burke. It might have helped convince Judge Marshall. As it was, he would believe his chief of station over what he considered vague suppositions by uninformed outsiders. Nevertheless, she said, "Burke Hill and I were hardly convinced."
"Lori, my dear," he began in a fatherly tone, "please believe me when I say this, if I had the slightest inkling, any idea that there was something more here than meets the eye, I would insist on pursuing it to the bitter end." Then his voice changed to that of the tough jurist who brooked no interference with his decisions. "Also please believe that I am quite serious about protecting the sanctity of CIA operations. If you hear anything from Mr. Hill, I suggest that you contact me immediately. I would like to continue the cooperative relationship that we have enjoyed in the past."
That stung. They had reached her car, and the Judge opened the door for her. She slipped into the seat and looked up at him soberly. She spoke slowly, deliberately, in a voice coated with frost. "I'll do what I can, sir."
Lori switched on the stereo and put in some of her favorite compact discs, symphonies by Beethoven and Brahms, Rimsky-Korsakov suites and, to liven things up, Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. She wasn't hungry, but she forced herself to eat a salad and a bowl of beef stew.
With the rain, darkness came early. Standing in front of the kitchen window with its bright, flowered curtains, washing the few dishes she had used, she wondered why she had felt so edgy ever since returning home in the late afternoon. Then, slowly, it came to her. She had been subconsciously worrying about Burke Hill. After hearing Judge Marshall's remark on protecting the sanctity of CIA operations, she knew the effort to apprehend Burke extended all the way to the top. She was certain the Judge would be abhorred by even the thought of such an assassination scheme as Sydney Pinkleton had described, but if he gave the order to put Burke under wraps until Jabberwock had been flushed out, there was no way to predict where it might lead.