Smooth Operator (Teddy Fay) (11 page)

T
eddy frowned. “Who is this man?”

“Sam Snyder,” Holly said. “He’s a Democratic congressman from Maryland, and a personal friend of the President. He should know as much as anyone about the workings of Congress.”

“Including why they’d be important to Middle Eastern terrorists?”

“Let’s not hope for miracles.”

Holly’s phone rang. She answered, said, “Show him in,” and hung up. “He’s here.”

“I should probably be seated at the conference table,” Teddy said. “I don’t know why it makes me look more official, but it does.”

Teddy went into the conference room and sat down. Moments later Holly ushered Sam Snyder into the room.

Teddy sized up the elderly congressman, and figured him for friendly and verbose. He was right on both counts. Just the introductions threatened to bore Teddy to distraction. He managed to cut the old man short and urge him toward the point.

“I’ve never understood the workings of Congress,” Teddy said, “and I appreciate your expertise. The veterans aid bill, for instance. What can you tell me about that?”

“Do you have all afternoon?” Sam Snyder said. His eyes twinkled. “You want to know the effect of the assassination on the veterans aid bill.”

Teddy smiled. “Why do you say that?”

“Why else would you bring me here? You’re wondering if I have any insights, being a friend of the President. I know Kate, and she isn’t thinking in those terms. She’s horrified by the death of Congressman Drexel. She’ll deal with it, of course, but she’s not glorying in the fact that the death of a Republican congressman makes it easier for the clean bill to pass.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Teddy said.

“But of course. Congressman Drexel was one of the chief opponents of the bill.”

“With him out of the way, will it pass?”

“The chances are certainly better. It really depends on what Speaker Blaine does. You know he’s been meeting with the President. That’s a very hopeful sign.”

“What would happen if he came out in favor of the bill?”

“It’s hard to say now. Congressman Drexel would have leaped into the breach, mounted a countercharge. With him
gone, Congressman Herman Foster might step up, but he’s a lesser light. The bill would have a strong chance of passing.”

“I see.”

“But it can’t be the reason for the assassination. Why would the terrorists care about the bill? The one thing can’t have anything to do with the other.”

“He’s absolutely right,” Teddy said, after Sam Snyder had finally made a lengthy exit. “Why would the terrorists care if the bill passed or not? On the other hand, it’s all the kidnappers seem to want. By rights, the kidnapping and the assassination shouldn’t be connected at all.”

“Except the kidnapper’s Middle Eastern.”

“Let’s not fall into a racial profiling trap. They’re both Middle Eastern. That doesn’t mean they’re working together.”

“It would be nice to be able to prove they’re not.”

“I’d be happy either way,” Teddy said. “It’s not knowing that’s driving me crazy.”

T
he bell over the door chimed as Teddy entered the secondhand bookstore. He closed the door behind him and squinted in the near dark. It was a dusty, musty place, the type where old paperbacks that could be had four for a dollar on the city sidewalk were packed in plastic sleeves and went for five, ten, or even twenty bucks apiece. The type of store where a tattered volume of worthless text sat side by side with a priceless signed first edition of an early Ernest Hemingway.

Teddy pawed through a stack of books, waiting for the shopkeeper to emerge from the back.

The owner, a little old man named Saul, had greedy eyes. He sized Teddy up, said, “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like a first edition of
The Maltese Falcon
.”

Saul practically salivated. His look became shrewd. “How much are you willing to pay?”

“Depends on the condition.”

“But of course.”

“Do you have one?”

“You have to understand. No one has a copy of a first edition of
The Maltese Falcon
lying around. But I can make a few calls and facilitate the transaction. If my shop were full of rare books, I would be robbed. So my shop is not full of rare books. My shop is full of books that are not worth stealing.”

Saul realized he’d gone too far. “I don’t mean they’re not worth stealing. I mean they would have to be stolen in bulk to generate the type of revenue a rare book such as you mention would bring. How soon do you need the book?”

“Actually, I have some time. There’s something else I need right away.”

“What’s that?”

“CIA credentials.”

Saul’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

“You don’t know me, Saul? Good.”

“Teddy?” Saul was amazed. “I thought you were dead.”

“Good thinking. Keep thinking that and we’ll have no problem.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re a smart man, Saul. You’ll figure it out.”

Teddy and Saul went way back. Teddy had stepped in and saved Saul’s skin when the little forger was trapped between an irate client on the one hand and the U.S. government on the
other. The solution Teddy came up with would have done justice to a Solomon. Saul had paid him back by teaching him some of the techniques Teddy had put to good use in the course of his checkered career.

Saul sized Teddy up. “You want credentials? Of course you don’t want credentials, you could make them yourself. You wouldn’t come to me unless you had no access to the equipment, a position you would not place yourself in, unless you were in trouble. In which case you would not be here in D.C., because you’re dead and you’d like to stay dead. So what do you really want?”

“Information.”

Saul raised his hands, grimaced. “This is not what I sell. I would not stay in business long if my transactions weren’t secure. How would you like it if I made you a passport for two thousand dollars and sold that information for five? You would not like it, and you would be inclined to let me know of your displeasure.”

“How old are you, Saul?”

“Eighty-nine.”

“Like to make ninety?”

“Teddy. We’re friends. We go way back. I help you, you help me, it is a nice arrangement. I thought that arrangement had reached a natural conclusion. I was obviously misinformed. I am delighted you wish to renew our friendship. Please, how can I be of assistance to you?”

“Tell me about the CIA credentials.”

“The ones you don’t wish to buy?”

“The ones you already made, recently. Assuming you made only one. Or did you make more?”

“No, no. Just the one.”

“Who did you make them for?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s less than helpful, Saul. That’s not the answer of a friend.”

“I know the name on the credentials, but I doubt if it’s his.”

“What would that be?”

“Martin Stark.”

“Martin Stark?”

“Yes.”

“So you immediately traced the name to see if there was a Martin Stark of his description, and, if so, if there was anything in his background to be worth some money.”

“Teddy. Would I do that?”

“I know you would. I’m asking if you did.”

“There is no Martin Stark. That’s why I feel confident telling you I don’t know him.”

“So. When you made the ID for him, did he give you a photo, or did you take one?”

“He had a photo.”

“Did you make a copy?”

“I tried. He watched me too closely.”

“What did he look like?”

“Clean-cut. Middle Eastern features. Well-dressed. Could easily pass for CIA. He had that cold, brusque manner, like he expected people to do what he said.”

“Is that how you see us, Saul?”

“No reason to get huffy. That’s not you anymore. You quit.”

Teddy slid the photo of the man with the SUV across the counter. “Is this him?”

Saul peered at it, shrugged. “Could be. It’s hard to tell from that picture.”

Teddy picked it up and put down the photo of Lance’s shooter suspect. “How about him?”

Saul picked it up. His hand trembled. He put it down and shook his head. “Wasn’t him.”

“Have you seen this man before?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Are you sure, Saul?”

“This man was never in my shop. Of that I’m sure. It was probably the other one.”

“Uh-huh. Do you know who this man is?”

“Is he the shooter?”

“Why do you say that, Saul?”

“Teddy. It’s me, Saul. You think I don’t know a surveillance video photo when I see one?”

“He’s a person of interest, Saul. I’d like to know more about him. Are you sure you’ve never seen him before?”

“Teddy, I swear.”

“Don’t make me cross-examine you, Saul. The photo shook you. Have you ever seen this man’s
photo
before?”

Saul sighed. All the resistance seemed to ooze out of him. “The man who was in my shop. He gave me this man’s ID photo.”

“You made
two
CIA credentials?”

“No.”

“What did you make?”

“A driver’s license.”

“I see. So ever since the shooting you’ve been sweating bricks. If you didn’t know everything there was to know about this man then, I’ll bet you moved heaven and earth to find out.”

“There’s nothing to find. Believe me, I tried.”

“What’s his name?”

“The name on the driver’s license was Nehan Othman. But it’s not his name.”

“How do you know?”

“If it was his own name, he wouldn’t need me. He could simply get a driver’s license.”

“Unless he couldn’t drive.”

“I suppose. Still, it is not as easy to get a license for a man who doesn’t exist.” Saul laughed. “As if
I
should be telling
you
.”

“But you checked it anyway?”

“Of course. There is no one by that name.”

“No, there wouldn’t be.”

“Are you sure he is the shooter?”

“It looks like it.”

“I’m sorry if I helped him in any way.” Saul shrugged. “But how was I to know?”

Teddy shook his head. “I’m sure it helps you to believe that.”

S
peaker Blaine was determined. He had spent the day steeling himself for what he had to do. What Stone Barrington said made good sense: he had to demand proof of life. He had to know one way or another whether his daughter was alive. By rights she had to be. If she wasn’t, they got nothing. They had to prove she was.

His cell phone rang. He jumped at the sound. He had left it out on the table so he wouldn’t have to fumble for it in his pocket. The ring echoed loudly in the silence. He snatched it up, clicked it on.

“Yes?” he said breathlessly.

It was the voice he’d come to dread. “You must not care about your daughter.”

The demands he had been forming died in his throat. “What?” he stammered.

“You clearly don’t care if she lives or dies, or you wouldn’t be doing what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“Everyone knows you’re making bipartisan overtures to the President. But you haven’t made a statement. You haven’t been explicit. You need to go on TV and come out in favor of the veterans aid bill.”

Speaker Blaine was horrified. “I can’t do that.”

“Oh, I think you can,” Abdul-Hakim said.

And the line went dead.

The congressman stared at the phone in horror. What had he done? He hadn’t demanded proof of life, and he’d refused their demands. And there was no way to reach them, to make things better, to straighten this out. Even if he did what they demanded, went on TV, created a political firestorm, it would take time, and they wouldn’t know he was going to do it.

What would they do to his daughter?

K
aren Blaine lay on the mattress in the tiny cabin and tried to free herself. In the locked room they hadn’t bothered to tie her, because they thought she couldn’t escape. Here, they kept her tied all the time.

The knot on the rope around her wrists wasn’t a good knot. She knew that from summer camp. Not that she’d tried to tie knots in camp, but that dweeb Ralphie did, the one all the kids knew was a loser. When Ralphie tried to tie a square knot he would tie a weak granny knot, which was like a square knot only it would come undone. And that’s the type of knot this was. She figured the big man must have tied it.

Karen fumbled with the knot, but it was hard working behind her back. With her wrists tied she could barely reach the rope, and she could only use one hand at a time.

What saved her was her fingernails. Her nails were backed
by acrylics, a luxury she’d pampered herself with after breaking up with her boyfriend. It hadn’t made her feel better, but it was helping her now. She’d used her reinforced nails to get a purchase on the rope, and the badly tied knot was finally loosening. There was suddenly room between her wrists. Before she knew it she was slipping her hands out, rubbing her wrists to restore the circulation.

She drew her legs up to where she could reach the ropes around her ankles. She had them off in a minute. She placed them quietly on the mattress, sat up, looked around.

The Arab came in the door.

Karen flinched, expecting punishment, but he didn’t seem concerned. “Ah, you’re up. Good. We won’t have to untie you.”

The Arab was carrying the black satchel. He set it on the floor, stooped, and took something out. His back was to her, so she couldn’t tell what it was.

He stood and turned, and she gasped.

He had a scalpel!

And in horror Karen suddenly realized why they had brought her here to this remote spot.

No one would be able to hear her scream.

A
nn Keaton was hassled. It was tricky enough just being chief of staff. Being chief of staff during a national emergency was murder. Everybody wanted something. The speechwriters wanted to know what to say and the press secretary wanted to know what
not
to say and everybody else wanted to know what was happening, whether they needed to or not.

Sorting them out was her job, and no one was going to thank her for it. Oh, Kate would in the long run, but in the short term no one would appreciate what she was doing and everyone would blame her for what she wasn’t.

Yesterday had been bad, and things hadn’t eased up much today. It had been a tough morning. For the most part she’d managed to make Kate’s secretary field requests for appointments with the President, but even so, Ann’s nerves were
frazzled. When she finally got a moment’s respite, she groaned as her secretary opened the door.

Ann smiled when she saw who was being ushered in, however.

Paul Wagner was indeed a handsome man. Late forties, wavy black hair slightly flecked with gray, decked out like a fashion model in a stylish blue suit, Paul only had to smile to make Ann’s troubles fade away.

Ann twined her arms around his neck. “What a pleasant surprise! I’m glad it’s you and not someone else who wants something.”

He kissed her, said, “I only want to take you to dinner.”

Ann laughed. “You sure picked a great day.”

“You canceled our last dinner.”

“I know, I’m sorry about that—I’d much rather have dined with you than the congressman. And with everything that’s been going on . . . well, it’s been crazy around here.”

“Any news about the shooting?”

“Not you, too.”

Paul put up his hand and smiled. “Sorry. It’s just everyone’s talking about it. Of course you don’t want to. It’s your job. I’m here to take you away from all that. Have dinner with me. I promise we won’t talk about anything job-related.”

“That sounds wonderful. I wish I could.”

The phone on Ann’s desk rang. She looked at it in annoyance, disengaged herself from Paul’s clutches, and picked it up. She listened, heaved a heavy sigh, said, “Yes, I’ll take it.” She
pressed the flashing button on her phone, said, “I am sorry, Mr. Ambassador . . . Yes, these are distressing times.”

Ann removed the phone from her ear, rolled her eyes, mimed jabber, jabber, jabber with her free hand, and mouthed, “Ask me tomorrow.”

Paul nodded, blew her a kiss, and went out.

Paul hadn’t expected Ann would be able to go out to dinner. He hadn’t expected she’d tell him anything, either. Ann was a smart, savvy, independent woman, and part of what made her so good at her job was her unfailing self-command. In the months they’d been dating, Paul hadn’t learned anything from Ann that he couldn’t have seen on the evening news. Not that she didn’t joke about her job, she did, but always with the utmost discretion.

Her secretary was another story. Julia was a born gossip, and quite susceptible to the charms of a handsome young man. Paul flirted with her shamelessly, to good advantage.

Julia was chatting on the phone, no doubt with one of the other White House secretaries, when Paul came out, but she hung up to flirt with him.

“So how’d it go this time?” Julia said.

Paul threw up his hands and grinned. “Shot down again!”

Julia laughed. “You just have no way with women.”

“She claims she’s busy.” Paul perched jauntily on the edge of Julia’s desk. “Should I believe her?”

“It’s been crazy around here.”

“Do tell.”

Five minutes later Paul was out the door with a ton of information. Nothing vital, of course—even if she would mention state secrets, she didn’t know any. But as far as everyday affairs were concerned, the woman was a major source.

Paul jerked his cell phone out of his pocket, but refrained from clicking it on. He had to make a call, but he wasn’t going to do it from the White House. He was too familiar with the workings of the NSA to trust any communication within the walls or even on the grounds. It was only when he was safe on the streets of Washington that he made the call.

“It’s me.”

“I know who it is. Why are you calling?”

“The President’s national security advisor called in a witness for questioning.”

“Who?”

“A lawyer in the White House counsel’s office.”

“What lawyer?”

“A woman named Margo Sappington.”

There was a pause. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. She had her in twice, yesterday and then again this morning.”

“Why?”

“My source didn’t know.”

“Maybe you need a new source.” Another pause. “Is that all you called for?”

“I thought you’d want to know.”

“Do you have anything else?”

“No.”

And the line went dead.

Paul stared at the phone. These guys certainly never massaged his ego. They ought to be damn grateful he was so good at what he did. He was practically ready to call them on it. Let them try to find someone else handsome enough, suave enough, and clever enough to romance the President’s chief of staff and come up with valuable information. And then they act as if he were just delivering a pizza.

Paul nodded in agreement with himself.

They were just lucky they paid so well.