Jonathan’s mind raced. If Irene hadn’t been in the room, he’d have been out of there. But she had so much cred with him that he was nearly willing to ignore the warning bells in his head. At least temporarily.
“What about prosecuting the bad guys?” Boxers asked. Most of their conversations in the past had implied dire consequences for the Security Solutions team if they’d sullied evidence and therefore endangered the government’s case.
“Not all that much of a concern to us,” Miller said. “If you can find Mrs. Darmond, we don’t care what happens to the people who took her.”
Jonathan’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying you want us to kill them.”
“I’m saying that we don’t care one way or the other.”
Jonathan shifted his eyes to the White House chief of staff. “I want to hear you say that.”
Winters didn’t drop a beat. “We don’t care one way or the other what happens to the kidnappers.”
Boxers said, “Cool.”
Jonathan held up a hand for silence and drilled his gaze through Winters. “Then we’ll let them go,” he said. “We’re not assassins.”
The words hung untouched. The unspoken truth was that each of them knew people who were assassins, but no one wanted it on even this small a record.
“Are you in or not?” Winters said, finally.
“What happens in three or four days if we can’t make this thing happen?” Jonathan asked. “People are going to find out.”
“And if they do, we’ll handle it,” Winters said. “We’d prefer that it not get to that. If it does, then we can take over the whole operation. You’ll be off the hook and the world’s economy and security will be destabilized.”
Jonathan ears grew hot. It was a cheap shot to lay all of that at his feet. “I’ll shoulder the responsibility that I sign on for, Mr. Winters. I don’t do politics.” He turned to Irene. “What resources do I get?”
“Whatever you need. In fact, I’ve got something for you both.” She reached into the pocket of her suit jacket and produced two pocket-sized leather folders, which she handed to Jonathan. He recognized them as FBI credentials. “I believe you already have the appropriate badges. But you need new names.”
The old aliases were now permanent fixtures on the Interpol list of fugitives. Jonathan thumbed open the first folder and saw Boxers’ picture. “Here you go, Jason Kaufman,” he said, passing it over. He noted that his own read Richard Horgan. “Are these real?” he asked.
“Real enough to get you through a background check, but not enough to get you a pension.”
Jonathan craned his neck to get Boxers’ vote.
“I’m in,” Big Guy said.
This was a mistake. Enough of the circumstances didn’t make sense, and the fingers of the kidnapping reached far too high into the world power structure for any good to come of this, but Irene had never once said no to him when he needed her.
“Fine,” he said with a sigh. “Start at the beginning and tell me everything you know.”
CHAPTER FOUR
David knew he was in trouble the instant he heard his cell phone ring. He’d gone home to his apartment at the Watergate after work and scarfed down the rest of last night’s Stouffer’s lasagna. After a pair of Yueng-lings, he’d decided to lie on the sofa to watch the news.
And now it was 8:05.
Shit, shit, shit.
David snatched up the phone from the coffee table and swiped the virtual slide bar to answer it. “Deeshy,” he said. “I’m sorry I’m late. I’m on my way.”
“Jesus, David, this is scary shit, okay? I’m not kidding. How close are you?”
“I’m driving out of the garage now,” David said, pushing his left foot into his black Ecco loafer.
“No shit? You’re not like just waking up, right? Promise me?”
“No, dude, I’m like ten minutes away. I swear.”
“David, this is important,” DeShawn said. “You’ve got to hurry. I think I might’ve bit off way too much on this one. I’m in serious deep shit.”
David snatched the key fob off the Kirkland dresser he’d bought to fill the empty spot in the foyer. Its drawers were empty, but the long, wide, faux ebony — inlaid surface made a terrific key fob holder. “I’m turning out of the garage now. I’m surprised you can’t hear the traffic noise.”
“Just hurry, okay?” DeShawn sounded close to tears.
For the very first time since their conversation this morning, David wondered if the big black cop might actually be in trouble. Real trouble, not the imagined crap that he usually conjured up for himself. “What’s wrong, Deeshy? I mean, truly. You’re like really spun up. What’s going on?”
“Not on the phone.”
“Jesus, Deeshy.”
“Get here, okay? Just get here and bring your whole fourth estate with you.”
God pulled that string at the base of David’s spine that launched a shiver through his body. “Dude, you’re a cop—”
“Not for this, I’m not. This is about cops, okay? Feds. Secret Service. I’m gonna hang out in the Smithsonian Metro Station where there are people and it’s a little warmer. Call me when you’re close. For real close. Earn a ticket for this one, okay?” DeShawn hung up.
Deep in that cynical place where David preferred to live his life, he wanted to dismiss this as bullshit. DeShawn so wanted to break the big case, and the sensible part of David’s brain told him that this was mostly a made-up emergency.
Then there was the other part that heard the impending tears in his friend’s voice, the genuine fear. It turned out that fear begat fear, which pounded like a drum in David’s temples as he fast-walked to the elevator. He’d have loved to believe that his fear was rooted in an empathetic, philanthropic concern for his friend, but who was he kidding? David was scared shitless of getting into the middle of anything that scared a gun-toting officer of the law in a city as corrupt as Washington, DC. Hell, ex-mayors got to smoke crack before they’re reelected to the city council, and then don’t have to pay speeding tickets or federal income tax after they beat their wives and watch kiddie porn. If a cop in that environment is this scared, what the hell business did a Radford journalism grad have getting involved?
The elevator took David to the parking garage, where his black Honda Civic sat waiting in the parking space that came with his rent. The car chirped as he pushed the unlock button, and David climbed inside. The door was barely closed when the engine roared to life. Two minutes later, he was clear of the garage and on his way to God only knew what.
Earn a ticket.
David Kirk knew the streets of Washington as well as anyone, and he made good time. By this time of night, the congressional staffers had all gone home, and the lobbyists were done feting their clients in the big-name restaurants along the K Street corridor, leaving the city looking like someone had dropped a neutron bomb on the place — all the structures were there, but no one was inside. Visiting businessmen might be cramming the lobby bars at the Mayflower or the Saint Regis, but in the wide swath of real estate known as the National Mall, homeless vagrants outnumbered everyone else three to one.
That meant there was plenty of parking.
David punched DeShawn’s speed dial as he swung the turn onto Jefferson Street SW to tell him that he was only a quarter mile away. After five rings, the call went to voice mail and he hung up.
David nosed into a space twenty yards past the swollen phone booth of a building that marked the entrance to Ripley Center, more or less splitting the distance between the carousel and the Smithsonian Metro Station. If he hadn’t already slept through the meeting time, he might have waited in the car with the motor running while Deeshy climbed the steps from the Metro platform, but as it was, he owed his friend the courtesy of meeting halfway. He pulled the brake and killed the engine.