For now he would be forced to play along, but there were ways of breaking Gianelli's stranglehold when this was finished. He had written history before, with Farnsworth, and he would again. It mattered little that no authors had recorded their achievements for posterity; it was enough that Cartwright knew and understood.
For now it was enough that Gianelli felt self-satisfied, his confidence inflated to the bursting point, assured that Cartwright was his stooge. When it was time to break the news, it would hit him that much harder.
Cameron Cartwright would be looking forward to that moment when he saw the recognition dawn in Gianelli's eyes. The recognition that it cut both ways, that nothing in the world was settled while you had an enemy still living.
But there would be other business first. With Hal Brognola and his batboy out in Arlington. The Bolan reputation did not frighten Cartwright. He had lived through Vietnam, the Bay of Pigs, Grenada, and the enemy had never laid a glove on him. Not yet.
It wouldn't be a piece of cake in Arlington by any means, but it would not be Armageddon, either. When the dust had settled, there would be time enough for Gianelli and his files.
Cartwright was taking first things first and keeping his priorities in order. It was the mark of a professional.
14
A string of well-placed calls had finally provided Susan Landry with the name of the investigator handling Brognola's case. She had been forced to call in some markers, to promise favors where she had no running line of credit with the source, but it would all be worth it if the story broke as large as she expected. Hell, if she could document her own suspicions of a tight sophisticated frame against Brognola, she was sitting on the local story of the year.
Her target was a Justice middle-ranker named DeVries. She didn't recognize the name, but that did not surprise her. Quiet sources told her that DeVries was on the inside, well-positioned on the ladder for a shot at bigger things if he could earn a reputation for himself. Brognola's scalp would be a step in that direction, provided that the case was strong enough to stand in court or force a resignation. Hal would never quit, she knew that much, and so DeVries would be expected to produce substantial evidence of criminal complicity, enough to validate the frame and send Brognola to the penitentiary.
She stopped herself, aware that she was running on emotions instead of facts. She had not seen the evidence against Brognola. When she had seen and heard it all, she might be calling for Brognola's crucifixion as well.
But no. Her reading of the man was accurate. Susan trusted her innate ability to see through falsehood, smell a lie that festered under the veneer of partial truths. Brognola wasn't giving anything away, might well be hiding something of importance, but he wasn't covering a guilty conscience. Susan would have staked her reputation on the fact that he was clean. In fact, she was prepared to do exactly that.
Which left her with DeVries. His office had been closed, but further digging had disclosed an address in the northwest section of the city. Susan tried his number — she had been surprised to find him in the book — and he had answered on the second ring. A strong voice, tinged with self-importance, radiating confidence. He had surprised her once again by readily agreeing to an interview; in retrospect, she thought that he had almost sounded eager for the chance to share his information with the media.
There are at least a million information sources in the nation's capital. Perhaps two-thirds are open to the public, occupied around the clock with grinding out releases, statements, broadsides and position papers. The remaining third are lumped together in the trade as "leaks," the unofficial sources of official information that was not designed for publication in the first place. Congressmen and senators, their secretaries, members of the bar, policemen, countless bureaucrats and civil servants. Each possessed a private ax that he or she would grind at carefully selected moments for the benefit of friendly ears. Their motives varied widely, from the purest altruism on through every shade of gray and black, but there was always something in it for the leak.
Before she met DeVries, Susan knew that she would have to ferret out his motive for revealing information that was surely classified. His willingness to talk supported her belief that Hal was being framed; a solid case would be preserved in secrecy until the prosecution had its day in court, while weaker evidence might do more damage in the headlines than before a jury. If DeVries was talking now, she realized, he might not have sufficient ammunition for a public showdown where the rules of evidence were rigidly enforced.
The lady stopped herself before her own imagination could betray her. She could not assess DeVries until they met, until she saw his evidence against Brognola. Only then would she be able to expound upon his case with any real authority.
She overshot his street, a cul-de-sac three blocks from Stanton Park, and doubled back. The condos that surrounded her were not especially elaborate, but Susan knew the price range and she was surprised DeVries could meet the payments on his salary from Justice. Something else to think about when she began assessing motivations and intent.
She parked the Honda, locked it and made her way among the condominiums that were arranged like scattered children's blocks around a common green and swimming pool. DeVries was on the ground floor, separated from the pool by thirty yards of lawn. She punched the bell, and he was there before the tinny echo of the chimes had died away, all smiles, inviting her inside. She realized he had been waiting, watching for her since she called him on the phone, and something sour settled in her throat.
Too eager.
"Come on in." He took her hand and pumped it energetically. "DeVries. Just call me Erskine."
"Susan Landry."
She distrusted him at once, the plastic smile, the way his eyes slid over her like groping hands. In any other circumstances she would not have spent another moment in his company, but this was business. He had information that she needed, and he would not be the first man who had undressed her with his eyes.
"Sit down." He gestured toward a brace of chairs that clearly were designed for decoration more than comfort. Susan settled into one of them. "You like a drink? I'm having Scotch."
"No. Thank you."
"Hey, I'm easy."
I'll just bet you are, she thought, but kept it to herself and waited while he poured a double, settling in the chair that matched her own and scooting closer, so that their knees were almost touching. She resisted an instinctive urge to pull away.
"So, shoot."
She tried to meet his eyes, but they were fastened on her chest and finally she gave it up, referring to her notebook and a list of questions she had jotted down in preparation for the interview.
"As I explained before, I'm interested in background information on the case against Brognola. Assuming that there is a case."
His eyes quit mauling her just long enough to meet her gaze, a flicker of uneasiness behind the washed-out gray, and then they dropped back to her hemline, inching up her thigh.
"Oh, there's a case, all right." He sounded cocky, certain of himself. "We've got the bas... We've got him cold."
"And what, precisely, will he be accused of?"
"Well, they haven't drawn the charges yet. Somebody might decide to let him bargain down. From what I've seen, he's in the bag for multiples on bribery, releasing classified material, consorting, perjury, the works."
"As far as evidence..."
"We've got it up the ying-yang, babe. The guy is very photogenic, if you get my drift."