"Meaning what?"
"They're desperately hoping none of their people put up the money and none of their native criminal enterprises or terrorists are trying to collect it."
Right. America had changed since 9/11, and the rest of the world was experiencing a jolt of dislocation, not to mention anxiety adjusting to the new reality It's like waking up one morning and discovering your generous, happy-go-lucky next-door neighbor with that frisky Lab just moved out, a grumpy gun collector moved in, and his three Dobermans are pissing all over your wife's prize rhododendrons. It's a little scary. You really don't need your kids tossing eggs at his front door. The Pentagon was probably lit up like a Christmas tree.
Phyllis droned on a bit longer about the activities of our friendly counterterrorist people, who, she assured me, were working around the clock to figure out where all the known and suspected terrorists in America were at that moment, what they were up to, even scrubbing the immigration files to see if anybody dark and moody had sneaked across the border in the past few months.
Some interesting leads and developments were being considered, and they were still beating the bricks, hustling their sources, and squeezing their stoolies. But nothing had popped, so far.
I wasn't optimistic. In truth, the intelligence agencies are so fragmented and compartmentalized, one hand never knows what the other's doing. Often, one hand doesn't know what it's doing.
Another annoying reality was that my Top Secret clearance was so pathetically limited I could barely peek into my own desk drawer. This sucked. Intelligence agencies are so risk-averse that information is never released until it's been checked six ways from Sunday, massaged, dry-cleaned of conjectures and assumptions, and stuffed with so many maybes, possiblys, and on the other hands that you aren't even sure about the date at the top of the memo. So you find out on Friday about the terrorist attack coming on Saturday, only it was last Saturday. The point is, you have to see what's working when it's still called soft intelligence, because usually by the time it hardens, it's irrelevant.
Phyllis, on the other hand, had so many initials and suffixes attached to her clearance, she could sniff the Director's under-shorts.
Also it went without saying that the counterterrorist folks were targeting most of this gumshoe effort at Arabs, or, more broadly, those who practice the Muslim faith. This had become the venerable convention, and while it is politically incorrect in our tolerant nation to even allude to terrorism as a religious cause or crusade, try walking onto an airplane these days thumbing through the Koran. Right.
Yet it struck me that the people doing these killings probably weren't Arabs, jihadists, anybody who gave a rat's ass about Allah, or even anybody who glanced toward Mecca, except to watch a cool sunrise. This felt too secular and, in a way, either too personal or not personal enough.
But I didn't confide this thought to Phyllis. When you tell smart people obvious things they conclude you're not smart.
Anyway, we finished up, and I decided I should exercise my discretion and pass these latest updates on to Jennie. So I walked out the door, and to my surprise, George grabbed my arm and muttered, "You and I need to have a word-in private."
I stared down at his hand.
Two seconds of awkward silence passed before he released his grip and stepped back. He drew a few breaths, smiled, and suggested, in a more suspiciously polite tone, "I Just think we need to have a confidential discussion."
"Fine."
George led me down the hallway and around a corner where we were out of everybody's earshot and, more curiously, everybody's eyesight. He spun around and we ended up face-to-face, about a foot apart. He looked coiled and pissed off, and I wasn't sure if he was going to throw a punch or kiss me. For the record, I preferred the punch.
But George did neither. He gave me a hard stare and said, "Do I have to tell you how much I dislike being set up in front of Townsend?"
"As much as I dislike having my observations plagiarized?"
George was neither faintly embarrassed nor even interested in this accusation of rotten behavior. He said, "Look, I know it was her."
I yawned. "Busy day, George… bodies piling up. We through?"
George was obviously acting on an angry impulse, and it took a moment for his wits to catch up with his mouth. He offered me a chummy smile. "Look, Sean, I know you and I have a… a complicated relationship."
"What's complicated, George? We don't like each other."
"I like you."
I stared at him.
Even he laughed. "All right. But I admire you. I actually envy your sixth sense, and your understanding of the criminal mind"
"Should I say thank you?"
"You should consider it. You owe me a big one. I requested your assignment to this task force."
"How very generous of you."
My sarcasm hit the mark, because he replied, "It was, believe it or not. You'll get good exposure if you do well."
"I'll bet. Last time, I got you promoted, as I recall."
"There'll be plenty of credit to go around this time. Don't worry about it."
In fact, I wasn't worried about it. I thought of June Lacy, missing her wedding and her life; about the bodies on the beltway; about the newly deceased Supreme Court justice; and it struck me that the point where anybody should get credit was long past, regardless of how this turned out.
George, however, thought differently and informed me, "She wants my job. She's scheming… she's deliberately undermining me."
"Why would I give a shit?"
"Well, that's the spirit. You shouldn't. In fact, that's what I'm warning you. Back me up, and I'll back you up. You're a smart guy, right? Smart guys don't end up on the losing team."
"Warning me?"
He sort of smiled." I wouldn't want you to get confused or to misconstrue my meaning."
"Or what?"
The smile evaporated. "Get your head out of your ass, Drummond. I'm offering you good advice, and a good deal. Help me out, and I'll help you out. I'd just like an early heads-up on what she's up to-any discoveries. I don't need surprises."
I don't really like threats. And I definitely didn't like George. Also I doubt it escaped him-it certainly didn't escape me-that this was the second time a woman had come between us, so to speak.
Maybe if I watched more soap operas I'd have a better idea how to handle these things. Maybe not.
I said to George, "Thanks for the lecture… advice… whatever." In other words, fuck you.
He started to say something, but apparently thought better of it, spun around, and left.
I walked back to the conference room, where I saw Jennie speaking quietly into her cell phone. She saw me and punched off, but I must've looked guilty or something, because she asked, "Was that about me?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're a lousy liar."
"That really hurts Jennie. I'm a lawyer."
She laughed. "Cut it out."
"All right, truth-George wanted to know if I thought you liked him. I think he's… you know… a little infatuated with you."
She poked my shoulder. "He told you I'm a scheming bitch. He warned you to watch your ass around me. Right?"
I suppose I looked a little surprised.
She laughed. "I told you-I'm smart."
"But I-"
"Look, it's not the first time. Meany began playing this twisted game the day I started working for him."
"Why?"
She considered my question. She said, "How well do you know George?"
"I never drop the soap when we shower together."
She laughed.
She took my arm, an intimate gesture that surprised me, and began leading me down the hall. For some reason, my thoughts drifted to Janet up in Boston, and I felt a twinge of guilt I clearly did not deserve. I mean, this was perfectly innocent-just two professional colleagues who coincidentally had a few different glands, having an innocuous conversation in the hallway of a government building. Her attractiveness aside, our relationship was entirely professional, we both had enough on our agendas, and any thought of sex was trouble.