“You’re getting skinny,” she remarked, breaking into his thoughts.
“Being out of protection, I’m not standing around shoveling in hotel food, and I actually get to work out instead of sitting my butt on a plane for ten hours at a crack.”
He’d been coming here for over a month and chitchatting with the woman. He wanted to do more than that, though, and now tried to think of something that would hold her attention. He suddenly glanced at her hands. “So how long have you played the piano?”
“What?” Kate said in a surprised tone.
“Your fingers are calloused,” he observed. “A sure sign of a piano player.”
She looked at her hands. “Or from a computer keyboard.”
“No. Computer keys callous the tips only. Piano keys hit the full upper part of the finger. And that’s not all. You chew your nails down to the nubs. You have a dent in your left thumbnail, a scar on your right index finger, and your left pinkie is a little crooked, probably from a break when you were a kid.”
Kate stared at her fingers. “What are you? Some sort of hand expert?”
“All Secret Service agents are. I’ve spent a good chunk of my adult life looking at hands in all fifty states and a bunch of countries overseas.”
“Why?”
“Because people kill with their hands, Kate.”
“Oh.”
He was about to say something else when a group of FBI agents who’d just gotten off the last shift burst in, strode en masse to the bar and started ordering in loud voices. Alex, pushed away by their sheer number, took his drink and sat alone at a small table in a corner. However, his gaze remained fixed on Kate. The Bureau boys were giving the lovely bartender their fawning attention, which irritated the hell out of the Secret Service agent.
Alex finally turned his attention to the TV bolted to the wall. It was tuned to CNN, and a number of bar patrons were listening intently to the person speaking on the screen. Alex carried his drink over near the set so he could hear better, and watched a repeat of an earlier press conference held by Carter Gray, the nation’s intelligence chief.
Gray’s physical appearance instantly gave one assurance. Though short in stature, he had the weighty presence of granite with his burly shoulders, stout neck and wide face. He wore glasses that gave him a professional air, which wasn’t simply a façade; he was the product of some of the finest schools in the country. And everything the schools hadn’t taught him, he had learned through almost four decades in the field. He did not seem capable of being either intimidated or caught off guard.
“In rural southwest Virginia three alleged terrorists were found dead by a farmer looking for a lost cow,” the secretary of intelligence announced with a completely straight face. The mental image this conjured made Alex want to laugh, but Carter Gray’s grave demeanor extinguished any desire to chuckle.
“Forensic evidence suggests these men had been dead for at least a week and perhaps longer. Using the information database at the National Intelligence Center, we have confirmed that one of them was Muhammad al-Zawahiri, who we believe was connected to the Grand Central suicide bombing and is suspected of running an East Coast drug ring as well. Also killed were Adnan al-Rimi, believed to be one of al-Zawahiri’s foot soldiers, and a third man whose identity is still unknown. Using intelligence developed by NIC, the FBI has arrested five other men with connections to al-Zawahiri and confiscated a large quantity of illegal drugs, cash and weapons.”
Gray knew how to play the Washington game perfectly, Alex thought. He’d made sure the public knew that NIC was the one who’d done the heavy lifting, but he’d also credited the FBI. Success in D.C. was measured in budget dollars and extra scraps of turf. Any bureaucrat who forgot this did so at his extreme peril. Yet every agency occasionally needed favors from its sister organizations. Gray had clearly covered his bases there.
Gray continued. “One of the most interesting facets of this incident is that, based on the investigation so far, it seems that al-Zawahiri killed his two companions and then committed suicide, although it may turn out that his death was somehow related to his drug trafficking. Regardless, we believe that this latest development will send another shock wave through terrorist communities at a time when the United States is making clear inroads in the fight against terror.” He paused and then said in a crisp voice, “And now I’d like to introduce the president of the United States.”
This was the standard drill for these press conferences. Gray would report the actual details in straightforward language. Then the charismatic James Brennan would follow and knock the political baseball out of the park with a hyperbole-laced speech that left no doubt as to who could protect the country best.
As Brennan began his remarks, Alex turned his attention back to the bar and the lady there. He knew that a woman like Kate Adams probably had twenty guys gunning for her, and most of them were probably better prospects than he was. She also probably realized how he felt; hell, she’d probably known how he felt about her even before he did.
He squared his shoulders and made up his mind. Well, there’s no reason I can’t be the one guy out of twenty who sticks.
However, halfway to the bar he stopped. Another man had come in and walked right up to her. The immediate smile on Kate’s face was enough to tell Alex that this person was special. He sat back down and continued to watch as they moved off to the end of the bar where they could talk in private. The fellow was a little shorter than Alex, but younger, powerfully built and handsome. To Alex’s practiced eye the man’s clothes were very expensive. He was probably one of those high-priced corporate attorneys or lobbyists who plied their trade on K Street. Every time Kate laughed it was like a meat cleaver directly in the Secret Service agent’s skull.
He finished his drink and was about to leave when he heard his name. He turned and saw Kate motioning to him. He reluctantly walked over.
“Alex, this is Tom Hemingway. Tom, Alex Ford,” she said.
When they shook hands, there was such strength in Hemingway’s grip that Alex, who was pretty strong, felt a pain shoot up his arm. He stared down at the man’s hand, amazed at the thickness of the fingers and the knuckles that looked like wedges of steel. Hemingway had the most powerful set of hands the Secret Service agent had ever seen.
“Secret Service,” Hemingway said, glancing at Alex’s red lapel pin.
“You?” Alex asked.
“I’m with one of those places where I’d have to kill you if I told you,” Hemingway replied with a knowing smile.
Alex could barely conceal his contempt. “I’ve got buddies at the CIA, DIA, NRO and the NSA. Which one are you?”
“I’m not talking anything that obvious, Alex,” Hemingway answered with a chuckle.
Alex glanced at Kate. “Since when is DOJ mixed up with funny guys like him?”
Hemingway said, “Actually, we’re working on something together. My agency and DOJ. Kate’s the lead counsel. I’m the liaison.”
“I’m sure you couldn’t ask for a better partner than Kate.” Alex put his empty glass down. “Well, I better get going.”
“I’m sure I’ll see you in here soon,” Kate said quickly.
Alex didn’t answer her. He turned to Hemingway. “Hang in there, Tom. And don’t let it slip where you do your Uncle Sam time. I wouldn’t want you to get busted for having to kill some poor bastard who asked too many questions.” He strode off. With the eyes in the back of his head that all Secret Service agents seemed to possess, Alex felt the man’s gaze burning into him. What he didn’t sense was Kate’s worried look following him out.