Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (59 page)

Man
, Donovan thought,
was I ever trying that hard?

He stepped up to the security guard and held up his FBI credentials.

The man gave it the barest of glances and said, “You'll need to leave your weapon here with me, sir.”

Donovan raised one eyebrow. “Sorry?”

“Your handgun—you'll need to leave it with me.”

Donovan smiled and held his credentials a little higher. “Maybe you need to take a closer look at this.”

“I saw it.”

“You're not Secret Service, are you?”

“No, sir. Private security.”

“Uh-huh. That explains why you just asked an FBI agent to surrender his weapon. That's a big no-no where I come from.”

“It's standard procedure, sir.”

“For you maybe; not for me.”

“I'm sorry—there are no exceptions.”

Donovan stepped a little closer and lowered his voice. “Look—I know you've got a job to do here, and I can see that you're a real eager beaver, but I need to explain something to you: I'm an FBI agent, and an FBI agent will not hand over his weapon to you or anyone else. So what do you want to do now?”

The man never changed his expression. “We seem to have a small difference of opinion.”

“Maybe I should just go,” Donovan said. “Then you can go to your boss and tell him that the FBI agent he specifically requested was here, but he left—because you wouldn't let him in. Try that—see how it goes over.”

The security guard hesitated, then slowly stepped aside.

“Thanks,” Donovan said. “I knew we could work out our differences if we just put our heads together.”

He knocked softly on the door and without waiting for a response opened it and stepped inside. The office interior was larger than he'd expected, almost like a second foyer, and it sounded like the DC Metro compared to the tranquil waiting area outside. He counted at least eight staff members chattering into Bluetooth headsets, scribbling notations on wall-mounted whiteboards, or clipping columns from the newspapers that seemed to cover every flat surface in the room.

“Senator Braden?”

The senator glanced up from his desk. “Yes?”

“Special Agent Nathan Donovan. You sent for me, sir.”

Braden stood up behind his desk. “Oh, yes, Mr. Donovan—come in. Please, take a seat. Brad, I'd like you to stay for this.”

Donovan looked the senator over. It was the first time he had actually met the man face-to-face, or had even spoken to him, for that matter— his assignment came through the ADIC at the Bureau's Washington field office. Braden was a tall man, about sixty years of age, with silver-white hair that showed no hint of thinning. His face seemed permanently tanned, and his classic features looked as if they had been lifted from an ancient Roman bust, from his noble brow to his aquiline nose to his deeply cleft chin. His eyes were a hollow blue, capable of communicating the full range of emotions a president requires, from compassionate concern to righteous indignation. He looked trim, even athletic, but that may have been due to the padded shoulders in his black pin-striped Valentino suit.
He is the picture-perfect politician
, Donovan thought, the cardboard cutout you got your photo taken next to on the boardwalk in Atlantic City. There was no doubt about it, John Henry Braden would make a perfect U.S. president—or at least he would look like one.

Donovan took a seat in a leather wingback chair across from Braden's desk. Everyone in the room grabbed handfuls of paper and quickly exited, except for one man who remained behind and took the chair beside Donovan's.

“Agent Donovan, Brad Lassiter—Brad is my chief of staff.”

The two men shook hands.

“You come highly recommended, Mr. Donovan. Brad here tells me you're the best and brightest the Bureau has to offer.”

“I'd hate to contradict your chief of staff.” It was a good answer— one that merited a smile and a nod from the senator. Washington is no place for modesty, Donovan had quickly learned; people with power are busy, and they don't have time to stand around while you twist your skirt into knots.

“I don't need to tell you that this couldn't have come at a worse time. The convention is coming up in a little more than two months, and then we've got the presidential debates; after that it's a horse race all the way to November. We don't need this distraction right now.”

“No, sir.”

“The voters don't need this distraction either—they need to stay focused on the issues.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Brad here tells me you're going to take care of this little distraction for us.”

“That's my intention, yes.”

“Good. This is just the kind of thing the opposition would love to take advantage of—to exaggerate its importance, to draw the eye of the voter away from more significant matters. Don't get me wrong, Mr. Donovan, the war on terror is one of the major themes of my campaign— whether it's terrorists acting from outside our borders or criminals operating from within. I intend to take a strong stand against crime in this country, and I intend to push for significant budget increases for organizations like your own. The people of America need to know that I will pursue terrorists to the ends of the earth, and the citizens of my beloved Virginia must know that I will not allow criminals to operate in my own backyard. Do I make myself clear?”

“I think so, sir, yes.”

“Good. I'm glad we had this little chat, Mr. Donovan, and I appreciate you dropping by to see me today. I'll be keeping track of your progress through Brad here, and I look forward to hearing of a speedy resolution to this matter. Good day, sir.”

The senator stood up and extended his hand. Brad rose too, smiled at Donovan, and gestured toward the door.

Donovan was stunned; the meeting had just begun and it was apparently over.
What was that?
he wondered. He came prepared to offer a full report, to give a description of the resources that the Bureau had intended to allocate to the case and to discuss his investigative strategy. Instead he got a two-minute sound bite, half policy statement and half pep talk, that he really didn't need to hear. Braden seemed uninformed, almost unaware of Donovan's purpose here. But didn't Braden send for him? Wasn't he the one who requested him to be assigned to this case?

No skin off my back
, Donovan thought. If that's all the involvement Braden wanted, so much the better—it just meant one fewer pair of eyes looking over his shoulder. Maybe that's all Braden had time for— to care about the broad strokes and leave the details to somebody else.
So much for micromanagement
, he thought.

Donovan stepped out into the foyer and closed the door behind him.

“Have a nice day,” the security guard said behind him. “I hope to see you again.”

Donovan headed for the hallway without looking back.

“Mr. Donovan?”

He stopped; it was the young aide who had shown him to the senator's office.

“Mrs. Braden would like a word with you, please.”

“
Mrs.
Braden?”

“If you have a moment.”

Donovan followed her into another office. There was no one inside.

“Please make yourself comfortable. Mrs. Braden will be with you in just a moment.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Donovan looked around the office; it was much smaller than the senator's but just as elegantly appointed. It was clearly a business office, just like the senator's, but the number of potted plants and the personal memorabilia on the desk and walls revealed a definite woman's touch. Donovan had never met Mrs. Braden before either, but he had certainly seen her photograph—and so had just about everyone else in America. Victoria Braden was one of the most photographed women in Washington, and now that she was the definite favorite for the role of First Lady, she was fast becoming the most photographed woman in the world. The camera loved her; she had hair like the mane of a thoroughbred, a deep chestnut brown with striking red highlights. Her flawless skin looked like rose petals, and her almond-shaped eyes and Cupid's bow lips made her look like a model. So did her sense of fashion; everything she wore seemed to complement her perfectly, and every designer on the East Coast was competing to see whose gown she would favor at the next White House reception or ball. Victoria Braden was about fifteen years younger than her husband, just enough of an age difference to titillate the American public but still fall within the bounds of propriety. Every eye in America seemed to be turning to her, which made her the perfect wife for a presidential candidate like John Henry Braden; it was a match made in a politician's heaven.

Donovan took a seat in an upholstered chair with his back to the door. The leather felt soft and supple, and he squeezed the arms and settled in a little. He glanced at a diploma prominently displayed on the end table to his left and read the top two lines: University of Virginia, Darden Graduate School of Business Administration.
Not bad
, Donovan thought.
She may be a trophy wife, but she's got a few trophies of her own.

“Coffee?”

Donovan twisted around and looked at the door. Victoria Braden was balancing a delicate bone china cup with a gold rim on top of a book in her left hand. She had today's
Washington Post
tucked under her right arm and an assortment of folders and files in hand; she quietly pushed the door shut with her hip and crossed to her desk. She was dressed in a simple black blazer and skirt, with an open white blouse that showed off the long curve of her graceful neck. It was a simple, even utilitarian outfit, but the tailoring was immaculate and the lines flowed like honey.
This is a woman who's going places
, Donovan thought.
So what does she want with me?

“Thanks. I'm fine,” Donovan replied.

“I don't know how you do it. Personally, I run on caffeine.”

“I gave it up when I joined the FBI.”

“So you don't have to take a leak in the middle of a surveillance.”

Donovan blinked.

“You're not the first FBI agent I've met,” she said.

“I guess not.”

She gingerly set her coffee cup in the center of the desk. “This is my favorite cup,” she said. “It's a fabulous design—I'm thinking of using it for my White House pattern. I lifted it from the governor's mansion after a dinner party.”

“You stole government property?”

“It's still government property—I just had it transferred to a different department. The governor's wife had a breakfront full of them; I didn't think she'd miss just one.” She gave Donovan a wink. “Always count the silverware when the politicians leave.”

“Thanks, I'll remember that.”

She opened a manila file folder and scanned it quickly. “Special Agent Nathan Donovan,” she read. “I was impressed with your record. Your wife is quite impressive in her own right: an expert in international terrorism and professor of international relations at Georgetown. The two of you make quite a pair.”

“Behind every great man there's a great woman,” Donovan said.

“Behind or in front—it depends on your perspective. Do you know why I requested you for this assignment, Mr. Donovan?”

Donovan paused. “I understood that the senator requested me.”

“As I said, it's a matter of perspective. I was born in the town of Endor—did you know that?”

“No, I didn't.”

“I left when I was very young—my parents were bright enough to realize that there were better opportunities for me elsewhere—but still, Endor is my hometown, and I feel a certain responsibility to the people there.”

“You sound like your husband.”

“Do I? I'll have to do something about that. My point is, the people of Endor deserve to know that their elected officials haven't forgotten them. They need to see that something is being done to protect them.”

“And so do the voters of America.”

“Why, Mr. Donovan, that sounded almost cynical. Where's your lofty idealism?”

“Sorry,” Donovan said. “That's something else I gave up when I joined the FBI.”

“Then you are a cynic.”

“I prefer to think of myself as a realist.”

“So do I. So tell me—realist to realist—what's the situation at the Patriot Center?”

“What would you like to know?”

“I'm asking for your report, Agent Donovan.”

“Well, I've been to the crime scene and I—”

“The excavation site.”

“Excuse me?”

“Has it been proven that the two additional bodies were, in fact, victims of foul play?”

“There isn't much doubt.”

“That isn't what I asked.”