D.C. Dead (12 page)

Lance, it is clear, longs to replace the director with himself, with the resulting elevation of yourself to the highest realms of the Agency and the government. He may well think it is not the time to indulge in off-the-books missions.

And as for you, there is only one person you could appoint to replace young Todd, someone with the wit and the moxie to pull it off, and that is your own sweet self. You have already had one very good shot at pulling it off, of course, but that was, at best, a near miss, and one does not build a career at the top on a structure of near misses.

I hope you are able to make or at least influence the right decision. I am living quietly, now, with no great wish to be a bother to anyone, but as you might imagine, if my nest is disturbed, I might be annoyed enough to sting again. I am fond of you, in my way, and I hope you will not be the one to receive the stinger.

Should you and Lance wish to put an end to all this, please insert a small display advertisement in the Arts section of the National Edition of tl Eld he New York Times on the last day of this month, to read: NANCY, ALL IS WELL, CALL HOME.

Should the ad not appear, I shall assume that peace is not possible, and shall resume making a nuisance of myself.

With kind
thoughts,
T.

HOLLY BARKER SLIT OPEN the plain white envelope with no return address. It would have already been subjected to X-ray and chemical analysis before reaching her desk, so she did not fear it. She read through the letter once, not stopping to analyze what was written, then she folded it, returned it to its envelope, and walked to the door that separated her office from Lance’s suite. She rapped on the door, sharply, twice.

“Come in, Holly,” Lance responded.

She opened the door and entered.

“And have a seat,” Lance said.

Holly handed him the envelope.

“Something to brighten my day, I hope,” Lance said. He seemed in a good mood. “What is your take on whatever this is?”

“I have no take,” Holly said. “No point of view, no recommendation. Nothing.”

Lance peered at her over his reading glasses. “That is very unlike you,” he said.

“The letter presents the situation as well, or better, than I could. It is not particularly flattering to either of us, and it is, of course, self-serving of the writer, but you have to see its contents. Go ahead, read it.”

“Right now? It’s a busy morning.”

She wanted to see his face when he read it. “I think right now would be the best time.”

“So it’s time-sensitive?”

“Read the fucking letter, Lance,” she said, as evenly as she could.

Lance gave her a long look, then turned his attention to the letter. He read it slowly and occasionally winced or glowered or lifted his eyebrows. He finished it and laid it on his desk. “Has this been processed?”

“It has had the usual scrutiny inbound; it did not appear to have been opened.”

“Have you taken any steps to process it further?”

Holly shook her head slowly. “No. Process it, if you like, but I can recite the report now.” She looked at the wall above Lance’s head. “‘This document has been processed to the fullest extent by this department. It is written by hand, in felt-tip ink, on widely available twenty-five-percent cotton paper and presents no fingerprints, fibers, DNA, or any other evidence that would profit from further analysis.’ In short, it’s clean.”

Lance leaned back in his chair, rested his feet on his desk, and ruminated for a moment. “I am having lunch—let’s see, the day after tomorrow—with the director of Technical Services. I will suggest to him that I have a well-qualified officer in my bailiwick who cannot be promoted further, and that it is my belief that he would make a fine addition to the Tech Services team. If that doesn’t work, I’ll speak to someone in analysis, and if that doesn’t work, you will reassign Mr. Bacon to a subordinate position at a station in an uncomfortable climate, remote from suitable women or other entertainment.”

“I understand. And derinate pothen what?”

“Would you be willing to replace Bacon on his current assignment?”

“I would not,” Holly replied. “Not under threat of transfer, of discharge, or of death. I would rather eat my gun than pursue this any further.” Lance began to speak, but Holly held up a hand. “And let me say this, before saying nothing further: his allusion to the hornets’ nest is a threat, and not an idle one, and I do not think now is the time to provoke him.”

Lance returned his feet to the floor and the letter to Holly. “All right, shred this and put the paper in a burn bag. Recall Mr. Bacon and his team for reassignment, and see that each of them is individually debriefed in such a way that he would not dream of speaking to anyone, even in his prayers, of his past duty with regard to this person.

“When Mr. Bacon returns to this office I will see him, if I have been able to procure for him a decent reassignment. If not, you will throw your body across my office door, see him in my stead, and give him his new assignment and a month’s paid leave during which to contemplate his future with the Agency. Also, place the ad in the
Times.
Is there anything else?”

“Shall I notify the director?”

“You shall not. I shall do that at an appropriate time. Good day.”

“Good day, Lance,” Holly said, rising and returning to her office. Her forehead was damp, as were her armpits and her crotch, but she felt the relief of having dodged a hellfire missile aimed at her head.

24

HOLLY PLACED THE AD IN THE
TIMES,
THEN COMPOSED AN e-mail to Todd Bacon at an e-mail address that required a ten-digit password to access. “Call off your party immediately, as the guest of honor is permanently unavailable. You and the kids come home and see me at seven A.M. Friday. Bring your own breakfast. Barker.”

She looked at Teddy’s letter for a long minute, then disobeyed orders: she made a copy and put the original in her briefcase, then she shredded the copy, emptied the shredder into a burn bag, and gave it to her secretary for disposal. She was determined that this was not going to come back and bite her on the ass.

Todd Bacon, still on the West Coast, opened the e-mail on rising and read it. “Shit!” he shouted, waking up the man in the other bed.

“What?” the man yelled back.

“It’s over, goddammit. They’ve pulled the plug. Call everybody now and tell them we’re due at Langley Friday A.M., first thing.”

“Worst fears realized,” the man said.

“Maybe not,” Todd said. “I’m not dead yet.”

ON THE APPOINTED DAY, Teddy drove to a little bookstore in D.C. that stocked the New York, Washington, and National editions of the
Times,
bought a paper, then went back to his car and opened the Arts section. His tight face spread into a grin. The ad was there.

He drove slowly home and found Lauren making breakfast. “I think it may be over,” he said.

“Your letter worked?” she asked, incredulous.

Teddy handed her the newspaper, folded back to the ad.

“I don’t believe it,” she said.

“Neither do I,” he replied, “at least not yet. We’ll give it a while, and if we have no further problems, we’ll pick us a spot and go live happily ever after.”

“And if we have further problems?”

Teddy sighed. “We’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.”

STONE WAS STILL WORKING on the
Times
crossword when the phone rang. “Hello?”

“Mr. Barrington?” A woman’s voice, silken.

“Yes?”

“This is Milly Hart.”

“Good morning, Ms. Hart,” he said.

“I would be pleased if you would come to lunch today at my apartment, if you’re available.”

“May I bring my colleague?”

“I would prefer to see you alone.”

“I’m available.”

“One o’clock, then?”

“One o’clock.” Stone hung up, got out of bed, and went into the living room, where Dino was reading the
Wall Street Journal.
Dino had become interested in financial matters after the multimillion-dollar divorce settlement arranged by his former father-in-law, Eduardo Bianchi.

“Who was on the phone?” Dino asked.

“Milly Hart.”

Dino looked surprised. “Yeah? That sounds interesting.”