Part 3 (1/2)
Brent's thick lips hardly moved, a characteristic that Crane found infuriating because that was the way shady characters talked into Senatorial investigation microphones and it looked pretty bad. But Brent's words came quite clear: ”Routine business, Senator--an honest effort to get a day's work done.”
”You mean to tell me the meeting that's been set up here is routine?”
Brent shrugged. ”Meetings are meetings, Senator.”
Crane ticked it off on his fat fingers. ”Pender of the Army, Bright of the Navy, Jones of the Air Force, Hagen of the FBI, Wilson from Treasury--they all trooped through here into your private conference room.” He pointed pompously at his own chest. ”But Crane of the Senate--”
”You forgot Birch of the State Department,” Brent cut in. ”Or hasn't he arrived yet?”
”--Crane of the Senate is barred! Now just what in the h.e.l.l--?”
There are times for tact and times for bluntness, and this was a time, Brent decided, for the latter. ”What goes on here, Senator,” he said, ”is none of your business. Otherwise, you would have been invited.”
Crane's face darkened and Brent thought pleasantly of a brain hemorrhage blowing the top of his fat head off. But this was too much to hope for.
”Brent,” Crane exploded, ”I'll get you! So help me, I'll get you! Just who the h.e.l.l do you think you are--demeaning the dignity of the United States Senate? Just who are you to say what the people should or should not know?”
”Decisions of that nature are made upstairs, Senator. I don't presume to possess the judgment needed in such matters.”
”You're an arrogant bureaucrat! Your kind comes and goes because when you get too G.o.dd.a.m.ned arrogant the people rise up in their wrath and knock you off.”
Marcia Holly, Brent's secretary, was studiously transcribing some notes and Brent turned his scowl on her because, d.a.m.n it, she was laughing like h.e.l.l at the whole thing. And, by G.o.d, a secretary didn't have the right to laugh at a United States Senator, even with her eyes, no matter how much a congenital idiot he was.
”I'm sorry, Senator,” Brent said. ”If you have a complaint, please take it up with my superiors. Just now I--”
”Your superiors? And who the devil are they? Who can find them? Where do they have offices? Go around trying to find your superiors and n.o.body ever heard of you.”
Brent half smiled as he felt a sneaking admiration for Crane. The son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h had a disarming quality of honesty. If he planned to knife you, he drove straight in, the knife held high.
”One of the disadvantages of being a negative personality, Senator,”
Brent murmured.
”Sure! You're about as negative as a charging grizzly,” Crane snorted and headed for the door as though his air had been cut off.
After his bulk had vanished into the corridor, Brent turned a scowl on Marcia Holly. ”And what are you snickering about.”
She raised large blue, innocent eyes. ”Me? I? Oh, golly. I just found a cute little Freudian slip in these notes and--”
”Shut up. Are they all here?”
”Birch of the State Department sent regrets. A duty call on the Tasmanian Emba.s.sy or something.”
”Okay--and next week he'll be screaming to high heaven about being left out.”
Marcia's laughing eyes agreed. ”Ain't it the truth?” she marveled.
Brent strode past her and expertly mussed her sleek hairdo in a quick gesture. As he entered his private conference room, he turned and grinned at her silent fury.
Inside, they were all waiting for him, seated around a teakwood table.
The wall-to-wall carpeting was wine-red. The chairs were deep and upholstered. And the men who sat in them were distinguished only by their surroundings and their uniforms. Their metal and their worth were hidden inside.