"The hell you say."
"The hell I say."
"Didn't the bio say he was around sixty?"
"So what? See those twins over there? He’s the father."
"So he's a stud."
"Christ," moaned Sarge. "I don't know why I agreed to work with you."
Art grinned. "Because you know I'll do your damned dirty work."
The older man shrugged. "Okay, if that's the case, it's time you got busy. Head around toward the catering truck. I'll give you a shout if I see any problem coming your way."
Both men wore "hearing aids" similar to the President's security detail. In addition to the inconspicuous earpieces, they were equipped with Dick Tracy-style microphone/transmitters built into their watch cases. With the innocent gesture of rubbing a hand against their face, they could transmit in a crowd without being noticed. It was just one small example of the high tech gear available to agents of Advanced Security Systems, a Washington area firm that provided such services as installing security devices, conducting private investigations, and carrying out surveillance activities. The company did practically no advertising, depending strictly on referrals. But Sarge had figured out that a lot of the work was funneled down from the boss's silent partner, an unnamed source who provided financing for all the sophisticated hardware.
His career as a sergeant with the NYPD had suffered a sudden death following a bloody confrontation with a smalltime hood. The guy had successfully thwarted police efforts to put him out of business until an informant tipped Sarge late one night to a big money stash. There wasn't time to go through a lot of Mickey Mouse with the DA and the courts, so he pulled a simple "black bag" job, a break-in, as the FBI had done for years prior to the inquisitions in the aftermath of Watergate. Too late, he learned his informant was pulling both ends of the string. The hood surprised him, there was a bloody fight, and Sarge wound up the target of an Internal Affairs investigation. Fortunately for everybody but the hood, the guy died of his injuries. But the Department feared a scandal if word of the sergeant's indiscretions leaked out. He was quietly bumped off the force, with information put in his record designed to keep him from ever being hired by any other police agency.
Sarge could have cared less. He was fed up with gutless police officials, corrupt administrations and councilmen who pandered to every petty crook, addict and queer who screamed "civil rights." They had created a system that had allowed the dope peddlers and street gangs to take over the cities. But the account of why he had been fired turned out to be just the right recommendation for the head of Advanced Security Systems. He was looking for smart cops who weren't afraid to push past the barriers thrown up by officialdom. And his two operatives at the fashionable home in Falls Church were prepared to do just that.
Sarge moved to the edge of the crowd where he could see the caterer's large truck parked beside the garage. They had carefully observed the comings and goings of waiters dressed in crisp white jackets, determining that the uniforms were stored in the truck. He watched Art stroll casually through a group of food service people around the terrace, nodding and smiling like he belonged there. They had noticed a few security types wandering about the perimeter of the lawn, apparently to keep out party crashers (their own invitations had been pilfered from Clipper's main office in Rossyln). No one seemed to be paying any attention to the muscular young man who was now almost to the truck.
"You're looking good," Sarge advised as he raised his left hand to his face.
A few moments later, Art reappeared around the truck in a white jacket. Speaking into his microphone, he muttered, "I'm going in."
A tent was set up just outside the kitchen, where the waiters filled their trays with drinks. Another adjacent to it contained a trailer used to store garbage-packed plastic bags. Art was checking out the tents when a short, chubby woman with flaming red hair grabbed him by the arm.
"Where's your damn badge, fella?"
Art gave her a surprised look and glanced down at his chest innocently. "Damn, it must have come off over near the London pub. Some nut ran into me and spilled a whole tray of drinks."
She shook her head and glared. "Go inside and get Dolly to make you another one. If one of the security people sees you without a badge, he'll throw your ass out."
Fat chance that, Art thought grimly. But he glanced at the name "Mavis" written on her badge, turned and headed for the kitchen door. It was just the entree he needed.
Inside, he found the kitchen being used as an operations center. Five women poured over clear plastic charts made up for each area, making grease pencilled changes under columns headed "Used" and "Inventory." A sixth stood by observing the others. She was a white-haired, grandmotherly looking woman. Art noted she wore a Clipper Cruise & Travel badge lettered "Brenda Beasley, Executive Assistant." Evidently she was keeping an eye on the catering crew.
A big-busted blonde wearing a badge with the name "Dolly" looked over at him. "What's the problem?"
Art twisted his face in his best expression of pain. "Mavis said you would make me a new badge. I lost mine when some dude ran into me and nearly knocked me down around London."
Dolly gave him a the-kind-of-help-you-have-to-put-up-with-these-days look. She fished into a plastic box and pulled out a blank badge with the caterer's logo at the top. "What's your name?"
"Fred Nelson," he replied.
Dolly was holding a felt-tipped marker, and she tweaked the tip of her nose with the non-business end. "Fred Nelson? I don't recall… hell, I guess we scraped the bottom of the barrel for this affair."
She wrote the name on the badge and handed it to him. The wall phone over the kitchen counter rang as Art pinned the badge on his white jacket. Brenda Beasley answered it, then held the instrument out toward Dolly.
"It's for you."
Dolly began to talk animatedly about supplies that should have been delivered already. She had obviously dismissed any further thoughts about "Fred Nelson."
Keeping clear of Dolly's field of view, Art approached Brenda Beasley. "Mavis asked me to call about a truck she needs. Is there another phone line?"
"Yes," replied the white-haired woman, "they have two lines. You can use the phone in the family room through that doorway." She pointed.
"Thanks."
Perfect. He hurried into the family room and found the phone on a table near the fireplace. There was a pass-through window between kitchen and family room, but it had been closed with a sliding panel. Working quickly with well rehearsed fingers, he placed a tiny transmitter around the wire just inside the base of the instrument. It would not only pick up telephone conversations on either line but anything said within the room as well.
When he had finished, he raised his arm and said, "All done. I'm coming out."
32
Worldwide Communications Consultants' Mexico City manager, Roberto Garcia, a handsome, polished Latino, met Burke Hill at the airport. Like Burke, he had an FBI background. They had, however, come from two different eras. Burke worked under Hoover, the dogmatic, legendary director, at a time when the Bureau and the CIA would hardly communicate with each other and agents often operated with few holds barred. Garcia was a product of the post-Watergate FBI run by Judge William Webster.