“I have no mind for trivia,” Presky agreed. Then, proudly, “Also, not watching TV all my life.”
A group of five men and three women awaited them in the lounge. As Dicken and his two escorts entered, the group lifted bottles of Bud Light in salute and gave him a rousing, “Hip, hip, hurrah!”
Dicken stopped in the doorway and rewarded them with a slow, awkward grin. “Don't scare me,” he admonished. “I'm a shy guy.”
“Wouldn't dream of it,” said a very young man with long blond hair and thick, almost white eyebrows. He wore a well-tailored gray suit that took a stylish drape on his substantial frame, and Dicken pegged him as the dandy. The others dressed as if they wanted covering and nothing more.
The dandy whistled a short tune, held out a strong, square-fingered hand, crossed two fingers, shook the hand in the air before Dicken could grip it, then backed away, bowing obsequiously.
“The secret handshake, unfortunately,” Turner said, lips pressed together in disapproval.
“It symbolizes lies and deceit and no contact with the outside world,” the dandy explained.
“That's not funny,” said a tall, black-haired woman with a distinct stoop and a pleasant, homely face with beautiful blue eyes. “He's Tommy Powers, and I'm Maggie Flynn. We're Irish, and that's the extent of what we share. Let me introduce you to the rest.”
They passed him a bottle of beer. Dicken made his greetings all around. Nobody shook hands. This close to the center, it was apparent people avoided direct contact as much as possible. Dicken wondered how much their love lives had suffered.
Thirty minutes into the party, Turner took Dicken aside, using the pretext of swapping the half-consumed Bud for a bottle of Heineken. “Now, Dr. Dicken,” he said. “It's official. How do you like our players?”
“They know their stuff,” Dicken said.
Presky approached, bottle of Becks lifted in salute. “Time to meet the master, gentlemen?”
Dicken felt his back stiffen. “All right,” he said.
The group fell silent as Turner opened a side door leading off the lounge and marked by a large red square at eye level. Dicken and Presky followed him down another corridor of offices, innocuous in itself but apparently rich in symbolism.
“The rest back there don't usually get this far,” Turner said. He walked slowly beside Dicken, allowing for his pace. “It's tough recruiting for the inner circle,” he admitted. “Takes a certain mindset. Curiosity and brilliance, mixed with an absolute lack of scruples.”
“I still have scruples,” Dicken said.
“I had heard as much,” Turner said, dead serious and a little critical. “Frankly, I don't know why in hell you're here.” He grinned wolfishly. “But then, you have connections and a certain reputation. Maybe they balance out.”
Presky tried for an ironic smile. They came to a broad steel door. Turner ceremoniously removed a plastic tag from his pocket and let it dangle from the end of a red lanyard imprinted with Sandiain white letters .“Never tell the townies you work here,” he advised.
He lifted his arms. Dicken lowered his head, and Turner slung the lanyard around his neck, then backed off. “Looks good on you.”
“Thanks,” Dicken said.
“Let's make sure you're in the system before we enter.”
“And if I'm not?”
“If lucky,” Presky said, “you are hit by Tazer before they use bullets.”
Turner showed him how to press his palm against a glass pad and stare into a retinal scanner. “It knows you,” Turner said. “Better still, it likes you.”
“Thank god,” Dicken said.
“Security isgod here,” Turner said. “The atomic age was a firecracker compared with what's on the other side of that door.” The door opened. “Welcome to ground zero. Dr. Jurie is looking forward to meeting you.”
5
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Gianelli swept through the waiting room of his office, accompanied by Laura Bloch, his chief of staff. His face was red and he looked just as Mitch had once described him: on the edge of a heart attack, with a big, friendly expression topped by shrewd eyes.
Kaye stood up beside the long wrought iron-and-marble coffee table that held center position in the lobby. Even though she was alone, she felt like a card being forced from a deck.
“They're wrangling,” Laura Bloch told Gianelli in an undertone. “The director is late.”
“Perfect,” Gianelli said. He looked at a clock on the wall. It was eleven. “Where's my star witness?” He gave Kaye a lopsided smile, his expression combining both sympathy and doubt. She knew she did not look prepared. She did not feel prepared. Gianelli sneezed and walked into his office. A young male Secret Service agent closed the door and stood guard beside it, hands folded in front of him, eyes unreadable behind smoked glasses.
Kaye let out her breath.
The maple-and-glass door opened almost immediately and the senator poked his head out.
“Dr. Rafelson,” he called, and crooked his finger.
The office beyond was stacked with newspapers, magazines, and two antiquated desktop computers perched on three desks. The huge desk nearest the window was covered with law books and leftover boxes of Chinese food.
The agent closed the door behind Kaye. The air was close and mustily cool. Laura Bloch, in her forties, small and plump, with intense, bulging black eyes and a halo of frizzy black hair, stood and handed papers from a briefcase to Gianelli.
“Pardon our mess,” he said.
“He says that to everyone,” Bloch said. Her smile was at once friendly and alarming; her expression reminded Kaye of a pug or a Boston terrier, and she could not seem to look directly at anyone.
“This has been my home away from home the last few days. I eat, drink, and sleep here.” Gianelli offered his hand. “Thank you for coming.”
Kaye shook the hand lightly. He let her determine the strength and duration of the grip.
“This is Laura Bloch. She's my right hand . . . andmy left hand.”
“We've met,” Bloch said, and smiled. Kaye shook Laura's hand; it was soft and dry. Laura seemed to stare at Kaye's forehead and her nose. Suddenly, irrationally, Kaye liked and trusted her.
Gianelli she was not so sure about. He had moved up awfully fast in the last few years. Kaye had become suspicious of politicians who prospered in bad times.
“How's Mitch?” he asked.
“We haven't spoken for a few weeks,” Kaye said.
“I like Mitch,” Gianelli said with an undulating shrug of his shoulders, apropos of nothing. He sat behind his desk, stared over the crusted boxes, and frowned. “I hated to hear about what happened. Awful times. How's Marge?”
Kaye could tell he did not really give a damn about Marge Cross, not at the moment. He was mentally preparing for the committee meeting.
“She sends her regards,” Kaye said.
“Good of her,” Gianelli said.
Kaye looked up at a framed portrait to the right of the big desk. “We were sorry to hear of Representative Wickham's death,” she said.
“Shook up everything,” Gianelli murmured, appraising her. “Gave me the boost I needed, however, and here I am. I am a whelp, and many kind folks in this building are bound and determined to teach me humility.”
He leaned forward, earnest now and fully focused. “Is it true?”
Kaye knew what he meant. She nodded.
“Based on what data sets?”
“Americol pharmacy tracking reports. Drop-in data collection systems in two thousand area hospitals servicing epidemiology contracts with Americol.” Kaye swallowed nervously.
Gianelli nodded, his eyes shifting somewhat spookily over her shoulder as he thought this through. “Any government sources?” he asked.
“RSVP Plus, Air Force LEADER 21, CDC Virocol, NIH Population Health Monitor.”
“But no sources exclusive to Emergency Action.”
“No, though we suspect they listen in on some of our proprietary tracking systems.”