Part 18 (2/2)
”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 Was.h.i.+ngton social affair? Milling with other guests and making small talk. He settled down some with this reasoning, though he didn't abandon his a.s.signment.
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 cl.u.s.ter 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 a.s.sociate 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 d.a.m.n 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 gang busters You'd be at an executive decision level, not one of the flunkies catching a G.o.dd.a.m.ned plane every other day.”
”Richard ”
”h.e.l.l, 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? h.e.l.l 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 subst.i.tute, 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 pa.s.sed 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 overinflated. He had the s.h.i.+fting 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.”
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