Hard Fall (28 page)

Could a bomb be smuggled into this party? Doubtful. He had passed through a metal detector and a couple of city cops on his way in. The very nature of the reception would have demanded the toughest security procedures. But what about the cars outside? How thorough
was
the security?

He rudely barged his way back through the hordes and reached Carrie, regretting his words before he even uttered them. “Something's come up,” he said as gently as he could. “I'll only be a few minutes. Promise. Not long at all.” She rolled her eyes. “Save me room on your dance card?”

Her eyes pleaded with him. He saw hate, love, and confusion.

“Bear with me,” he said.

“Go on,” she told him. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“Only a couple of minutes.”

“Sure.” He saw the courage and strength it took for her to say this, for her eyes betrayed her, but it was one of those efforts so typical of her. It was times like this that he saw himself through her eyes, and wondered how he deserved her.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Go on,” she insisted, giving him a gentle but convincing shove. “They're going to play another slow song soon.”

He targeted a male smoker and closed in. The important thing was not to panic, not to jump to any conclusions. Part of him
wanted
to believe that the bomber might be here at this party, but the more he thought about it, the more absurd it seemed. Ward's killer was not the only person who smoked Sobranies. And what would an international terrorist be doing at a Washington social affair? Milling with other guests and making small talk. He settled down some with this reasoning, though he didn't abandon his assignment.

The music faded into the background. His attention fixed on the guests. A black and gold cigarette would be fairly easily spotted. He weaved his way through the crowd smoothly. Here, the slate gray fumes rose from a small cluster of talkers … A woman … A white cigarette with a white filter. There, another. Group by group, face by face, he pursued the smoke.

“Cam!” An arm reached out and snagged him. The voice sounded familiar, but at first there were too many faces with which to associate it. “Right here,” the man next to him said. Daggett recognized Richard Tuttle, now a senior vice-president in a security consultant firm. He wanted to break loose, but Tuttle had him firmly by the arm. Tuttle had been a special agent until forced into mandatory retirement at fifty-five. Now he consulted for commercial carriers—for probably five times the pay. His company had been instrumental in the adoption of the recent legislation that this reception was celebrating. He introduced Daggett to his friends. Daggett wanted out. He shook hands all around. He tried to sidestep Tuttle, to quickly move on, but Tuttle, feeling the liquor, retained him firmly in his grip. To tear himself away might create a scene—more trouble than it was worth: Tuttle and Mumford went way back.

Tuttle excused them both and drew Daggett away from the others. He had hard facial features and a youthful laugh. He spoke in a very low register, which sounded unnatural and forced. “You all right?”

“A little distracted is all. I'm in a bit of a hurry. Working,” he added.

“I understand.”

No you don't
, he felt like telling the man. “Well—” Daggett said, giving a little jerk and trying to pull away. Tuttle's grip remained ironclad. “With this one safely in the win column,” Tuttle began, “I'm more than likely going to be wearing an executive VP hat any day now, and that's going to leave a hole in the ranks, if you follow me. We could use someone with your experience. Bring you in at the VP level, or damn near it. First year you'd take home maybe forty or fifty—I know, I know,” he said, expecting Daggett to protest, “but by year three or four you'd be pulling in
at least twice
that, maybe three times depending on how the rest of the company grows, and we're growing like gangbusters! You'd be at an executive decision level, not one of the flunkies catching a goddamned plane every other day.”

“Richard—”

“Hell, this isn't anything close to a formal offer. But I'd like you to let me take you out to lunch one of these days and lay it all out there for you. Make it official and let you think about it. That child of yours, Dirk is it?”

“Duncan—”

“You won't believe the health benefits, retirement plan, and profit-sharing programs we've got. Even some of Dirk's past expenses may be covered here—we'd have to look at that. How about a lunch one of these days?”

Duncan's expenses … Here was everything Carrie wanted for them: security, high pay, reasonable hours, benefits. The temptation of a cushy desk job seem only too appropriate when his elevated blood pressure was causing a painful drumming in his ears, and sweat formed on the back of his neck. Was Tuttle sweating? Hell no. Did Tuttle work to midnight only to head back to the office at six in the morning? He was tempted.

“Love to,” Daggett said, slapping his damp hand inside Tuttle's huge mitt, freeing his arm. “I'll be in touch.” He escaped.

He had lost precious time. He felt both frantic and silly, unsure which to trust.

He scanned the crowd for smoke.

There! Just ahead of him another cloud ascending from a pack of suits and dresses. He wedged his way past a fat woman with broad shoulders, forced against her so that he made full contact with the spongy warm skin of her back, damp at the spine. She threw a practiced elbow, a cow's tail dealing effectively with the annoyance of flies. His hopes rose as he attached the cigarette smoke to a face—an average face of a man of average height. Daggett's view of the cigarette was blocked. But then it came into view: a white cigarette with a brown filter.

He moved on.

Anthony Kort found himself eye to eye with Cam Daggett. He had walked willingly into the hornet's nest and now he felt like a fool for allowing Monique to manipulate him this way. He had wanted to arrive, make contact with the Greek, leave. Monique, on the other hand, believed that for the sake of appearances they should spend at least a few minutes before attempting the contact. She had talked him into it.

He poked her in the back. “How about another drink?” he asked her. His bad temper was due in part to his present brand of cigarette. He had finished his last Sobranie not five minutes earlier and was now smoking a poor substitute, Camel filters. In a city this size, this continental, there had to be Sobranie for sale somewhere. He would put Monique on that.

“I will come with you,” she said, excusing them both from the group.

“That was
Daggett
,” he whispered only inches from her ear. “Let's get this over with
now
.”

Monique's eyes followed Daggett until he disappeared. She took Kort by the hand and led him through a swinging door into the kitchen, the two of them immediately swallowed by the chaos there. She pointed out the door to the cellar. Kort headed down the steps into the dank darkness, where a single unlit bulb hung from a dust-encrusted electrical wire like the bald head of a hanged man. He touched it as he passed beneath it and it swung back and forth like the pendulum to a clock.

In the far corner, to the right of a soapstone sink, was a pair of storm cellar doors with four poured concrete stairs leading up to them. Kort unbolted the doors and, pushing the left door open to the night air, insured himself a means of escape.

The success of the operation relied on the Greek's information. If he couldn't get the exact date of the meeting, then all was lost. Bernard's death meant nothing; Michael's arrest meant nothing.

A pair of heavy feet clumped down the stairs and a thick Greek accent complained in a forced and angry whisper, “I told you in my messages, you and I have nothing to discuss! This is an outrage.” Kort pressed back into the shadows as the light came on. The floor became animated with the movement of shadows as the bulb swayed back and forth.

Monique had maneuvered the Greek to the near side of the stairs.

“I will only speak with
him
. That was the arrangement.”

“Then it's time we should talk,” Kort said from the shadows.

The Greek spun around, nervously. A big man with a swollen chest, thin gray hair and bad teeth, his hands appeared over-inflated. He had the shifting eyes of a salesman and the red nose of a competent drinker.

Monique flew weightlessly up the stairs and threw the door shut behind her. By agreement, she would remain there to signal if necessary.

A wide grin taking his face, the Greek said, “I wondered how this catering job came my way at the last minute—and so well paid. I should have realized …”

“What's this about the meeting?” Kort asked.

“I have the
name
for you—the flight mechanic you wanted. His name is David Boote.”

“I'll need his address, working schedule, and a recent photograph,” Kort said. “We'll set up a dead drop for tomorrow. You'll be notified using the computers. Now what about the meeting?”

“I can't get the date for you. We had it for you—it was to be three days from now—the fourteenth—but they've rescheduled, postponed it at least a week. Both Sandhurst and Goldenbaum are unavailable until the twenty-first of this month. It's the twenty-first at the
earliest
. I'm told the FBI is to blame. We cross-referenced the travel itineraries of these executives in order to identify the date for you. Everything was all set. But then the FBI requested the same itineraries, and a few hours later the meeting was postponed. There's nothing I can do about it now. There's simply no way.”

“There
must
be a way,” Kort demanded. “You're not thinking this through.” He took another step toward the man. “You have been
paid
for this information. You will deliver. You understand?”

“What am I supposed to do? You think I didn't try? I've been throwing money around everywhere trying to get this for you. All I have are a few worthless rumors.”

“Such as?”

“They're nothing.”

“I want to hear them.”

“I have no second source for any of this.”

“Even so, I want to hear it.”

The big man shrugged. He patted his pockets. Kort offered him a cigarette and they both smoked. “Even the executives themselves don't know when the meeting is to be. That's what I'm told. They were asked to leave five different days open for travel, beginning the twenty-first. It could be any one of those days. I don't know. Arrangements—
new
itineraries—have been drawn up for each of the executives, but from this end this time.”

“I can't wait until the last minute. I need to know in advance. I want those itineraries.”

“I understand. I told you—this doesn't help you one bit.”

“What else?”

“It's nothing solid.”

“Tell me.”

“It's nothing.”

“Tell me!” Kort demanded, stepping even closer to the man. He smelled like olive oil.

“I've been told that Buzzard Point—you know Buzzard Point?”

“No.”

“FBI field office here in Washington.”

“WMFO?” Kort said.

“Exactly. Same thing.”

“Go on.”

“Buzzard Point is going to handle security for the executives. Counterterrorism—an agent named Daggett.”

“Daggett? Impossible!”

“You
know
him?”

“I know
of
him. Security? It's not his kind of work. He's already on something else.” Kort had to be careful how much he revealed.

“That may be, but I paid good money to learn that someone saw the head of WMFO hand Daggett an Eyes Only file folder, and that the word
itineraries
was mentioned. That same source says that file is the only copy outside the Pentagon. And if Daggett had locked it away in-house, in the tenth-floor safe, as he was evidently supposed to have done, then I would presently be out some serious cash, and you would already have whatever is in this folder.”

“But he didn't lock it away,” Kort said.

“But he didn't,” the Greek confirmed.

“Because of its sensitivity. You don't lock something like that away in a communal safe, even at the FBI.” Kort's mind was racing ahead of him. This made some sense to him. “You keep it with you.”

“His home? You want me to arrange a break-in of Daggett's home? I could do this for you.”

“No,” Kort said. He was thinking: Not you. He didn't like this man at all. If the job was bungled, then they would postpone the meeting again and Kort would have to start all over with this.

“Or maybe he carries it with him,” the Greek said, thinking too much. “Maybe I could have his briefcase stolen.”

“Don't you do
anything
,” Kort instructed, his words carrying smoke from his lungs. Kort toyed with the possibilities. The man had a son. Pressure could be brought to bear.

The Greek continued to think aloud. “No, it's no good. To steal the briefcase would alert them. They would simply reschedule the meeting.”

“You say you don't trust it. How reliable
is
this information?” Kort liked the sound of his voice down here in the basement. It sounded dangerous. He was thinking: Daggett's briefcase? Daggett a single man. Perhaps Monique could use her womanly charms to waylay the agent briefly while he took a look inside …

“Not easy getting one of your people inside WMFO, even in office positions, I wouldn't think. It's hard enough at some of these corporations, I'll tell you that. This person, my contact, is a dear friend. He and I have done business many times before. Even so, I wouldn't trust it. Without a credible second source, some support, you can't trust information like this. You have to have a second source. It could easily be disinformation we're dealing with here. Then again, it's all I have.”