When the meeting concluded, the directors adjourned to an adjacent room for cocktails while the large, oval-shaped conference table was set for lunch. The meal was catered by a nearby hotel. By the time the cigars were passed out, mints for the sole female director, everyone appeared comfortable, relaxed and overfed.
Nate Highsmith was about to light up when a secretary advised him that he had a telephone call. He took it in the plushly appointed Chairman's Office.
"Nathaniel," said Bernard Whitehurst's smooth voice, "I trust I'm not interrupting anything. They said you had just finished lunch."
"Quite all right, Bernard. I would probably be better off if you had interrupted earlier. I'm feeling stuffed."
"Well, I hope it was the right stuff." Whitehurst chuckled at his witticism, then immediately turned serious. "What were you able to determine about Burke Hill?"
Highsmith frowned and breathed a deep sigh. He knew he had failed to rectify the problem with minimal damage. "I gave him a little lecture which I hoped would spur him to come clean and tell me what he knows. I regret to say I did not succeed."
"You learned nothing?"
"Nothing verbally. But his body language told me that he knows something about Adam Stern that disturbs him."
"I am afraid we have a real problem. These next few days are crucial. I can understand your desire to handle this with kid gloves. But if you cannot guarantee Hill's noninterference, I will have to give the job to someone who doesn't operate with gloves on."
Nate didn't like the sound of the threat, but from Whitehurst's tone it appeared there was a significant problem. One that called for drastic measures. Then Nate had an idea of a way to defuse things with no real consequences. "If I got him out of town, a long, long way out of town. Say for at least a week. Would that take care of the problem?"
"How far away?"
"Seoul, South Korea."
"You could manage that without creating suspicion?"
"We have an office there that Burke helped open when we were involved in that Poksu affair. I can send him over there to do an audit. That was what he was doing in Mexico City."
"How soon?"
"I'll have him on an airplane in the morning."
Burke had just returned from lunch when Roddy called. From the sound of his voice, Burke knew he was on the road this time.
"Where are you?"
"Cruising through Texarkana on I-30."
"Headed where?"
"According to the signs, Little Rock is the next place of any consequence."
"Have you seen any indication the Major knows you're back there?"
"Yuri says he can't be positive, but it looks like we're still in good shape."
Burke had a Southwestern States map on his desk and he spread it out to show Texas and Arkansas. "What time did you start out this morning?"
"Seven."
"From the looks of this map, by the time you get to Little Rock, you'll have been on the road at least ten hours. I'd think he would be ready for a little rest."
"I'm sure we will."
Burke refolded the map as he cradled the phone to his ear. "I'll check with Lori and see if her car rental contact could arrange to swap cars with you in Little Rock. If you're going to be stopping there, call me as soon as you're settled in."
The head of the Research Department had given Brittany Pickerel an assignment that required a trip to the Library of Congress. The neoclassical facility, which shared Capitol Hill with the Supreme Court and Capitol buildings, catalogued eighty-four-million items, a fact that absolutely fascinated her. But she quickly searched out the information she needed, then found a pay phone and called her data processing friend at the Presidential Plaza Hotel.
"I don't want to sound like I'm pushing you, David," she said apologetically, "but just wondered if you had anything for me yet?"
"The persistent Miss Pickerel. I knew you'd be calling. Matter of fact, I have it right here, if I can lay my hands on it." There was the sound of shuffling papers as he searched his desk. "Here we go. Adam Stern checked in at 2:45 p.m. on March seventeenth, St. Patrick's Day, and checked out on the nineteenth at 7:30 a.m."
The morning that Lt. Col. Juan Bolivar's body was found.
Brittany enjoyed working with Burke Hill. He treated her like a professional equal and gave her free rein to follow her instincts. Though she was not trained as an intelligence officer, she had been exposed to them enough to absorb their mindset. She decided it was time to renew a newspaper acquaintance from the days before she had left for Korea. His name was Stanley Dahlman. He was one of the better known investigative reporters in the capital. A prima donna with a highly inflated view of himself, Dahlman had taken to Brittany because she indulged his ego. His vanity wouldn't let him admit she only did it for the help he could provide her.
"Stan, this is Brittany Pickerel," she said when she got him on the phone. "I arrived back in town recently and noted your by-line still dominates the front pages."
"Bob Woodward is about over the hill, you know. Somebody had to take his place. How are you doing, girl? Where have you been?"
"I've been working in Seoul, South Korea the past couple of years."
"The hell you have. Been taking part in those student riots?"
She laughed. "You know that's not my style, Stan."
"Don't give me that. It's the quiet ones who can stir up the most trouble. Still water runs deep and all that."
"I'm not interested in stirring up any trouble, but I could use a little help."
"Lay it on me."
"The brother of a friend of mine from Texas committed suicide here recently. She doesn't suspect any foul play, but she wants to know exactly what happened. She asked if I would look into it for her."
"What do you need?"
"The medical examiner reported he died from an overdose of a sleeping pill. Dalmane, I believe. Any chance you could get me a look at the pill bottle they found beside his bed?"
"You like to make it tough on a guy, don't you?"
"Come on, Stan. I know an award-winning investigative reporter like you has all kinds of contacts and works miracles on a regular basis."
His voice turned smug. "I have built quite a reputation, haven't I? You still working the same place? What was it, Worldwide Communications?"
"Right. But I'm over at the Library of Congress now."
"Soon be lunchtime. You want to get a bite? Maybe we can go take a look at this pill bottle afterward?"
Brittany wasn't sure she was ready for that much of Stanley Dahlman. It could be as bad as an overdose of Dalmane, but the possibility of an immediate answer to her "friend's" request led her to accept the invitation.
The restaurant just off Pennsylvania Avenue was packed, but the air conditioning provided a welcome relief to the broiling sun on the sidewalk. Fortunately, the noontime din drowned out half of Dahlman's avidly detailed exploits. But Brittany grinned and nodded enough to keep him satisfied. Afterward, they took a cab over to a Metropolitan Police building where evidence from crimes and incidents of uncertain cause was stored. Dahlman knew the sergeant in charge and explained what Brittany wanted to see.
The officer was gone for a few minutes, then returned with a kraft envelope tied up with string. He opened the flap and poured the contents onto the counter.
"This is what the investigators took from the scene," the sergeant explained. "Probably the contents of the bedside table."
He pushed the objects around with a pair of kitchen tongs. Brittany saw a brown plastic pill container, a small, two-blade pocket knife, a five-ounce plastic cup and a small black penlite. Everything was smudged with black fingerprint powder.
"You can pick it up with this," said the sergeant, handing over the tongs.