The chairman’s glance at Reitz had steel in it. “You are aware, my friend, that six government employees are already fatalities.”
“Nothing wrong with your math, Mr. Chairman. Only... why not two more?”
Blount’s intake of breath seemed to consume half the air in the room; when he let it out, nearby napkins rustled. “You would have us liquidate an FBI agent, a female one at that, who has generated positive publicity for the Justice Department in recent years? Then there’s the national hero who saved one president’s life and now is more popular than another one.”
“Accidents do happen,” Reitz said.
The chairman shook his head; there was a finality about it. “Too many red flags have already gone up for us to risk such behavior. Their deaths would bring more questions, more agents. But, yes, we can and will deal with these two, if necessary. For now, we have control of the situation. Killing that pair would relinquish our control. Doesn’t that make sense, gentlemen?”
Morris found himself nodding. To his surprise, so was Reitz, and the rest of the board, too.
“That’ll be all for you this evenin’,” Blount said to the GAO man pleasantly.
Then no one, not even the chairman himself, spoke a word as Morris rose and left like another member of the club’s staff, just not as well dressed. He slipped out the door, leaving behind the muffled sounds of the meeting continuing without him.
Alone on F Street, Morris felt he’d done well tonight. The chairman appeared impressed, the other board members, too. Big things were in the air, and in his future, and he was too exhilarated to want the night to end.
He didn’t have a significant other in his life right now, and hadn’t for a while — these days, he just didn’t have time. But tonight, as on many nights, he wanted female company.
He would use (as he had so many times) Aphrodite’s, a discreet escort service that could be reached only by text message — 911 for a blonde, 912 for a brunette, 913 redhead, 914 Asian girl, 915 black and so on. No haggling, and no hags — these women were all attractive and bright, fulfilling a man’s desire like delicious items on a fine restaurant’s menu.
Ducking into the recession of a doorway, Morris on his phone sent his message: *911, usual, 30 minutes*.
“Usual” meant the bar within the Hotel Mont Blanc, which happily was just three blocks away. The management knew him and looked the other way; he was a good customer, two or even three nights a week at his most ravenous. And tonight he would be there in plenty of time for his after-dinner delight.
The Mont Blanc, which occupied a former post office, was a reasonably priced hotel by DC standards, rooms in the four-hundred range. Kepler’s, the bar off the lobby, was a plushly appointed, dark-wood-and-red-leather establishment catering for the most part to the hotel’s guests and foreign dignitaries — a good place for Morris to meet his purchased conquest, with little chance of running into anyone he knew.
They would go up to his room after a couple of drinks, have their romp, then Miss 911 would be sent on her way, unless of course he felt he could manage seconds, with room service cocktails tiding them over till he was able. He would chat with them about their lives, though most would lie to him (college girls — right!), and he would spin his own tale of high government service that had nothing to do with his reality at the GAO.
He checked in, got his key, then turned his attention to Kepler’s. Entering the bar, he found it decidedly underpopulated, just as he’d expected. Just as he’d hoped. Three men at a table, their suits worthy of the board members with whom he’d recently dined, were speaking with an apparent Kuwaiti in traditional kandura with a one-button collar and a ghotra worn in cobra style. Oil business, most likely.
At another table, a couple, possibly tourists, were in close conversation. Behind the oak counter, a tall African American bartender in a white tuxedo shirt and black tie smiled at Morris, who sat down at the bar.
The bartender brought Morris a napkin, and Morris ordered a Johnnie Walker Blue.
The bartender’s practiced smile became a genuine grin as he poured. “Man knows his Scotch.”
Morris sipped it.
“Not your first time here,” the bartender said.
“No.”
“Thought you looked familiar.”
“Yeah. I remember you, too.” Vaguely.
Motion at the entry, caught from the corner of an eye, turned Morris that way. A blonde, a pretty blonde in a form-fitting red dress, obvious but enticing, here already! Aphrodite’s didn’t fool around.
She walked right up to him with fluid confidence and eyed the Johnnie Walker, licking lipsticked lips and saying, “That looks good. Could I have some?”
Morris nodded and waved for the bartender to bring another drink. “Glad to. I’m Lawrence. And you are...?”
“Diane,” she said, which was the name the confirmation text from Aphrodite’s had promised.
“Pull up a chair, Diane.”
The blonde smiled, displaying pretty white teeth, and slipped up onto the stool beside him. Her dark eyes were bright, despite the dim light. Those long legs and that nice rack were fine even for Aphrodite’s buffet.
They talked for a while. She was in college — grad school, and she was old enough for that to be true. He told her all about working as the aide to a well-known senator. She pretended to be impressed, just as he had pretended to believe her college crap.
“You know,” Diane said, “it’s not often a girl gets the chance to spend an evening like this with... don’t get me wrong... someone she would’ve spent it with anyway.”
He gave her a sly smile. “Well, you don’t have to charge me.”
She shrugged, smiling in a chin-crinkly way. “Not up to me, I’m afraid. Aphrodite’s has your Visa on file, remember?”
“I remember.”
“But I tell you what. Things go nicely, I won’t let you leave me that nice cash tip you’re planning to.”
He laughed a little. “That’s nice of you. Ready to go upstairs and have some fun?”
“One more little drink, okay?”
“Sure.”
They had that drink and then were walking arm in arm across the lobby when he stumbled a little.
“You all right?” she asked.
“That... that second shot isn’t settling right.”
“Let’s get you up to the room.”
They were at the elevators now. She was propping him up, strong for a girl, just using one arm as her other hand extended to push the DOWN button.
“No,” Morris said, “up.”
The doors opened onto an empty car and she hauled him in and hit the door-close button, enclosing them. It took that long for Morris to know he’d been had. He flailed at the woman, whose expression was cold, and he got a fistful of hair.
Then he had a blonde wig in his hand.
“No,” the 911’s male voice said, “you’re going down.”
Rogers had been furious at first, when Reeder suggested enlisting Kevin for this duty. But obviously she couldn’t play the role since the drone knew her all too well, and Nichols was in the hands of the enemy, so...
And the information about Morris and his habits that Miggie had come up with made the Aphrodite’s sting a tempting prospect. The idea was to flash credentials at the bartender and send him to the backroom till further notice, while Wade took the man’s place and kept Kevin safe.
It had begun at Nichols’ apartment, with Reeder talking Rogers through it, assuring her that they’d be right there to back Kevin up, should her roommate agree to play.
And he had.
She’d hoped that Kevin might have already disappeared into the world of his Virginia Plain friends, but Reeder had caught him at her apartment, still packing up... and eager to help.