The Columbus Code (15 page)

“Muchas gracias!”
the woman called after her.

“
De nada
, lady,” Maria muttered. She stuffed the scarf into her briefcase and walked to the Catalonia campus. Elena's situation crowded her mind, but there was room in there for Gump, Snowden and Meir's “situation” as well. If Snowden's original notes were for real—and why wouldn't they be?—was the firm into something it shouldn't be? She decided to find out.

Tejada glared at the small digital recorder on his desk. What did a man have to do to convince people that he didn't like recordings? Although he didn't believe it was true, he'd been assured it was the only secure way to get this information to him. It seemed more like laziness and lack of imagination to him.

He inserted the earbuds and turned his chair to face the window. Barcelona was treating them to a glorious day. It might do something to lighten his mood. He hoped the contents of the recording would as well.

The voice of Patrick McCarthy wasn't familiar to him, at least not on a personal level. He'd heard him on CNN, as he was a well-known political consultant. He spoke ironically, as if everything were fodder for satire. Sarcasm and cynicism snaked through every sentence.

“We need to discuss the pending congressional action to raise the debt limit,” the familiar voice said.

“Ahh, yes,” McCarthy replied, chuckling.

The chuckle was a sound Tejada rarely made himself and he didn't see the need for anyone but a clown to make it either. McCarthy, however, had always proven to be a very useful clown, having been financially rescued by Catalonia on more than one occasion.

“The regularly scheduled game of congressional charades,” McCarthy went on. “Who are you shilling for this time?”

“This time the issue will be handled differently. Our friends want to hold the line on spending.”

“Since when did they take an interest in our debt ceiling? I thought they loved our debt.”

Tejada thought he heard ice clinking in a glass. Bourbon might move the conversation along or slow it to a snail's crawl. So far it was the latter. He tried to push aside his impatience.

“Things have changed.”

“This isn't a budget debate, you know,” McCarthy said. “It's a debt debate.”

“It's all about spending, and Congress has proved unable to restrain itself, but if it limits the amount the US can borrow, then the spending side will take care of itself. They can't spend what they don't have.”

“Either have another drink or get to the point.”

Tejada nodded in agreement.

“No debt-limit increase.”

McCarthy's voice flattened. “You want Congress to refuse to raise the debt ceiling.”

“Yes.”

“Okay. They'll all talk about it. About fifteen or twenty of them will take a stand—for a while. But in the end, enough will cave on the issue to pass an increase bill. Half of these guys are up for reelection. They're not going to tank the economy and then go home to face the voters, so why are we even talking?”

“Because the group that wants this pays my fee . . . and yours.”

McCarthy was silent for a moment, then said, “Fair enough. But does ‘the group' have a plan for making this happen? Because I'll tell
you what's going to go down if they don't. The other side will trot out the debate rhetoric. Then one party will take the ‘hold the line' position, the other one will stake out the ‘default on the national debt would be catastrophic' point of view.”

“That's where you come in. We need a coordinated effort to educate the public that not raising the debt limit is not the same as default.”

“Too many ‘nots' in that statement.”

Again Tejada nodded.

“You have people who can make that argument in a more intelligible manner,” Tejada's man said.

“A zoo has animals who can do that,” McCarthy said. “But yes, we do.”

More ice clinked. The pace of this conversation was beginning to make Tejada want a drink himself—and it wasn't even 10 a.m.

“In the first month there would be a technical default.”

“A ‘technical default.'” Tejada could almost see the wry expression on McCarthy's face. “I didn't know there could be such a thing.”

“Something would be paid late—Social Security maybe, or government payroll.”

“Incidentals.”

“But after the first month the cash flow would catch up. There's easily enough to cover the debt service payment and most of the essentials.”

“I'm growing old here,” McCarthy said. “Cut to the chase. What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Go to the American people.”

“Not Congress.”

“No. Go to the American people. Make the argument for austerity. The government living within its means, just like every household
in the country. Come up with a campaign. Get the American people onboard. Make sure they know that our future rests on their willingness to do more than just go along with this. We face a crisis and we need them to call, write, e-mail their representatives.”

Tejada suppressed a grunt. The argument was factually correct but it lacked passion. Difficult to persuade anyone to do anything without emotion.

“We have to do something about our own financial condition before China's economy gets any stronger and they're no longer dependent on us. It begins with fiscal responsibility.”

“That's the message you want me to give,” McCarthy said.

Tejada didn't like the doubt in his voice.

“Yes, but in your own words. In a way that motivates voters to do something about it. Don't just give them numbers and information. Grab their hearts.”

“You're breakin' mine,” McCarthy said.

“Make them get up and act.”

“Okay.” Tejada imagined McCarthy shrugging. “But all of this will go nowhere unless Congress is willing to act. Or I guess in this case, they refuse to act.”

“Don't worry about Congress. Just focus on the people. Work it like a political campaign. Voter drives, the whole nine yards. When the people back home speak up, the reps will get in line.”

“You're talking about a big campaign. And I'm talking about substantial remuneration.”

Tejada didn't wait for the crackling of the envelope, the flipping of the bills. He turned off the recorder and pulled out his trash can just as his phone buzzed.

“
Señorita
Winters to see you, sir?”

“Send her in,” Tejada said.

He pushed the trash can back under the desk just as the door opened and Maria appeared. In spite of Abaddon's warning, Tejada found it difficult to take his eyes off her and even more difficult to send her away. Maria had made it plain she was not interested in him, which was perhaps another part of his fascination with her, but he was fine with merely enjoying the view.

“
Señor
Tejada,” she said. “I wonder if your offer to show me your Botafumeiro still stands.”

“It does indeed,” he replied.

“Lunch today? If you're free?”

“I will clear my calendar.”

“Fabulous. See you at two?”

“I will have my car waiting.”

“Oh, no,” she said, smile dazzling. “Let's walk, shall we?”

Was there any point in arguing? She was already halfway out the door and taking most of the air with her. “A walk it is,” Tejada called after her. “Any other requirements?”

“No. Well, yes.” She stopped in the doorway and glanced back at him over her shoulder. “No Molina. Just the two of us.”

And without waiting for an answer she was gone.

Fascinating
woman.

It seemed to Winters that there was more to getting ready to leave the country than there had ever been preparing a case. Reservations, packing, mail hold, and not least of all, trying to get in touch with his brother. He'd been e-mailing, calling, and texting Ben ever since Donleavy had visited him, and he'd been met with nothing but cryptic replies like,
Crazy busy, Secret Agent Man. Will get back to you ASAP
. Which he had yet to do.

Winters hadn't indicated why he wanted to talk so Ben shouldn't have any reason to put him off. In fact, Winters was surprised Ben didn't jump to the conclusion his brother knew something about his appeal to be re-interviewed by the Service and hop on the next plane from Phoenix to San Francisco. Every time Winters left to run an errand he half-expected to find Ben when he returned, hanging out in his living room with a bag of Cheetos. After all, he'd never returned the key Winters lent him the last time he was there.

When days went by and still there was no response, he decided to use Ben's desire for news of his application as bait and sent him a text message that said,
Got news about your interviews. CALL ME
.

Still nothing—and it was bugging him. What was Ben so “crazy busy” with that he couldn't punch in a number on the cell phone?
Winters Googled him to see if an association with a business popped up. All he found was a weeks-old Facebook status report that read,
Back from my mom's funeral. Life changing
.

After that, Winters was too ticked off to care about it anymore. Let Rebhorn get a restraining order. It might shake the kid up. Nothing else seemed to.

He was almost ready to depart for Barcelona—only needed to get a haircut and a good night's sleep before a zero-dark-thirty flight the next morning—when Donleavy called.

“Just getting ready to leave the country, buddy,” Winters told him. “Going to Barcelona—and I don't want to hear any comments about the professor.”

Winters didn't add that he and Sophia had been Skyping twice a week. Donleavy would have a field day with that.

“Wasn't going to make any,” Donleavy said. “Can you meet me at that dive where we used to get coffee?”

His voice sounded tense and Winters wondered why.

“Sure,” Winters said. “But when? I'm leaving in the morning.”

“I'm thinking now would be good.”

“Everything okay?”

“I'll see you in a few minutes,” Donleavy said, and he ended the call.

Now Winters was worried. There could be only one reason for him to insist on a meeting—bad news. His mind whirred as he struggled to figure out what that news might be. Maybe Rebhorn got Archer's report about him leaving the country. Maybe Ben had called the office one time too many and pushed Rebhorn over the edge. Or, maybe it was something else.

Donleavy was already at a table in back when Winters arrived.
He's been watching way too many movies
. They would have drawn less suspicion standing in line at Starbucks.

Winters ordered a cup of coffee and slid into a chair across from Donleavy. He looked more nervous than he had the day of the raid—perspiration gleamed on his shaved head and his thumbs rubbed his index fingers like they did at meetings when Rebhorn got long-winded. Not good. Winters decided to skip the small talk.

“What's this about?”