Leo Turrin waited while the officer on duty checked his ID card against the master list and finally returned it with a laminated clip-on pass marked Visitor. Although he was a paid employee of the org-crime branch at Justice, ranking just below Brognola in the bureaucratic scheme of things, his name and face were not well-known around the beehive office complex at Ninth and Constitution Avenue. No more than a half dozen people in the whole department knew his function, which was fine with Turrin. If his name became a household word in Wonderland, his usefulness would instantly evaporate. Security was everything, and so he was content to be a "visitor" among the staffers who, in actuality, were his subordinates.
The privileges of rank meant little to the stocky veteran lawman. He had seen enough of chiefs and Indians in Vietnam and later, as a "mole" for Justice in the upper echelons of the Cosa Nostra. Rank, which was bestowed by others, could as easily be swept away, and Turrin put no faith in others.
No, that wasn't strictly true. There were several individuals, a handful, really, whom he trusted with his life. His wife and family, of course. Brognola, who had signed him on at Justice in the first place, serving as his personal control and only contact while he burrowed from within the Mafia, ascending through the ranks to find a seat on La Commissione before the end. And Mack Bolan.
Always Bolan.
Turrin rarely passed a day without some thought of his clandestine comrade, once a lethal enemy and now his closest friend. Their first encounter had been touch-and-go, before the hellfire warrior was apprised of Leo's double role within the Mob. But they had worked some minor miracles together once they understood each other. Turrin owed his life, his family's survival to the man from Pittsfield, and he knew that there was nothing he could ever do to balance out that debt. Of late, they had been out of touch, the soldier fading into limbo after all the shit came down at Stony Man, but Leo tracked his exploits through the media, and through confidential files that found their way across his desk.
The Executioner was labeled "hit on sight," a designation normally reserved for CIA defectors and the sort of mad-dog psychopaths who roam cross-country, killing for the hell of it. In fact, the soldier did not fit in either category, and to Turrin's mind it was a goddamned shame that he had made the hit list in the first place. Still, his unofficial "resignation" from the Phoenix program, his rejection of the deal that had supplied a covert pardon for his other "crimes" had marked him as a renegade in the official view, unstable, dangerous to anyone and everyone.
It was a lot of bullshit, Turrin knew, but there was nothing he could do from his position. Nothing, anyway, unless the soldier got in touch and asked for information or assistance in his next campaign. When that occurred, it would be Turrin's duty to report him, set him up, if possible, and see him dead before he had another chance to cut and run. His duty, sure. Except that he would rather kill himself than help to bring the soldier down.
Goddammit, what a fouled-up world they lived in! Money-grubbing bastards were enthroned in politics, in giant corporations, sometimes with the blood still fresh and dripping on their hands, while heroes were reviled and hounded to their graves. Sometimes Turrin wondered if society had received its just desserts: besieged crime, inflation, chaos in the streets... and then he thought of Angelina, of the kids.
The momentary introspection was depressing Turrin, as it always did, and he dismissed the morbid thoughts, intent upon his morning's mission. He had called ahead and found out that Hal Brognola was, in fact, expected in his office on this Saturday. The girl had seemed confused; Brognola had been scheduled for a holiday through Monday, but his early call had let them know that he would be available by noon. To Turrin that meant Hal would probably be in before eleven, poring over files and working angles on a dozen operations simultaneously, and he timed his own arrival to connect with Hal before he broke for lunch.
His covert probe of cocaine sources serving certain senior congressmen and senators had borne surprising fruit, and Turrin knew that he should check with Hal before he forged ahead. There might be profit in avoiding scandal for a chosen few, providing they agreed to work with Justice on uncovering the pipeline. If they tried to stonewall, well, there were a host of ways to get the message out before election time, regardless of admissibility in court. No friend of politicians for the most part, Turrin theorized that some could still be salvaged, turned around in time, but he would need Brognola's go-ahead before he made the overtures. He half expected Hal to grumble at the interruption of his crowded morning schedule, but he had been grumbled at before by experts, and eleven months of digging gave the project top priority in Turrin's mind.
The elevator reached Brognola's floor, and Turrin moved aggressively along the corridor, a quarterback in motion, carrying the ball for one more touchdown.
He reached Brognola's office, brushed on through the open door and found two uniforms emerging from the inner sanctum, laden down with cardboard boxes full of files. It looked like moving day, and Turrin was about to challenge them when he made out the figure of a ranking Justice staffer bringing up the rear.
The staffer's name was Erskine DeVries, and Turrin knew him as a yes-man, recognized for his ability to kiss up the appropriate superiors. Adept at sniffing changes in the winds of office politics, he had survived three administrations, wobbling from left to right at need, a humanoid chameleon intent upon survival and advancement. Leo didn't like the type, and in his fleeting contacts with DeVries, there had been nothing to incline him toward an individual exception.
"Leo, hey! Long time, no see."
Turrin pumped the boneless hand and let it go, suppressing a desire to wipe his palm against the nearest wall. "What's going on?"
DeVries was grinning at him like a cat about to belch canary feathers.
"Mean you haven't heard? Brognola's checking out. The guy's as good as gone." DeVries was on a roll, unable to contain himself. "He's history. Got one foot out the door, and one on a banana peel. I mean, he's out of here."
"Since when?"
"Since someone figured out the guy was doubling his bets. You feature that? The asshole was a sellout."
Turrin felt the angry color rising in his cheeks, and he suppressed a sudden urge to drive his fist through DeVries's face. Instead he slid an arm around the weasel's shoulders, lowering his voice to indicate a bond of confidentiality between them, drawing him away and to one side.
"Hey, this is news to me," he said. "I was supposed to see the guy this morning. What's the skinny?"
Favored with an audience, DeVries waxed professorial.
"I can't go into too much detail here, you understand, but someone tipped us that Brognola has been playing footsie with the Families in Baltimore, New York, some other places. We got phone logs, videos, you name it. Primo stuff."
"What's in the boxes?"
"Cases, this and that. You know the drill. Whatever's pending, plus a few selected oldies for comparison. And this."
From underneath his coat, DeVries produced an address book that might have been procured in any dime store, bound in imitation leather.
"So?"
DeVries looked pained.
"So, buddy, this is just his trick book here, that's all. It's full of names and places, dates. Amounts."
"You're saying you've got evidence of payoffs?"
"Hey, what can I tell you, Leo? Some jerks like to write it down. It's like the Nixon syndrome, eh? That Watergate fiasco might have had a happy ending if he hadn't got a tape recorder for his birthday."
When he laughed out loud, DeVries reminded Turrin of a braying jackass. Wincing, Leo forced a grin and waited for the moment of hilarity to pass.
"So what's the deal?" he asked when he could get a word in edgewise. "Is the guy already out, or what?"