Bloodmoney by David Ignatius

the thing. This particular gentleman did a bit of moonlighting.”
    “For whom?”
    “You can guess, surely. Let us say that these people were not unknown to you in your former line of work.”
    “Oh, Christ. You really are an asshole. Why didn’t you tell me?”
    “Complicated question. Simple answer: I wasn’t allowed to. Anyway, I didn’t, and that’s that. They want me to put out a statement and sit tight and wait for the whole thing to blow over. Does that make sense to you?”
    “I don’t know. Do you have any other choice?”
    “No. I want you to do something for me this morning. Call your old friends. Not the little guys, but the very biggest one you know, and tell him that I am assuming people will keep a lid on this. Tell him that if they don’t, the consequences will be extremely serious, for everybody. Ooga-booga . Scare them. You know how to do that.”
    “Will they know what I’m talking about?” asked the lawyer.
    “I rather think so. This is a little, um, difficult for them.”
    “Are you going to tell me about this, Peabody? Because I think you should. I can fly over tonight. You need help.”
    “Not now. Maybe I’ll tell you later. Right now it’s awkward. You would ask questions that I wouldn’t be able to answer.”
    “Hey, level with me, my friend. Are you fucked up here?”
    “No. I am the opposite of fucked up, whatever that is. I am just dandy. So long as everyone adheres to their bargains. Then I am fine. That’s all I really need you to worry about—that the dikes and levies are secure, and the floodwaters can be contained.”
    “But I don’t know the details.”
    “Precisely,” said Perkins. “You have grasped the point entirely. You don’t know the details, so can’t give me unnecessary advice. I have to get off the phone now so I can go home and meet one of the ‘tidy-uppers.’ You make your call, highest level, please, and deliver the appropriate, oblique warning. Then we’ll see about getting together. Want to go grouse shooting? I’ll be going up to my place in Scotland in August. Let’s do that.”
    Perkins hung up without waiting for a response. He had a few more tasks to take care of, in the part of his computer system that housed the trading records. By then it was past nine a.m., and people were beginning to arrive at the office. Perkins turned off all his electronic systems, triple-locked his door behind him and kissed his secretary on the way out.
    He strolled back to Ennismore Gardens at a leisurely pace. He felt easier now that he had done the housekeeping. Back at home, the representative from “Mr. Jones” was waiting in the drawing room, perched on the edge of the couch and looking most uncomfortable. Perkins apologized that he had been out taking his morning “power walk” around the Serpentine, a ritual that couldn’t be interrupted, rain or shine.
    The visitor introduced himself as Rupert Ogilvy. He was a mousy-looking man, thin as a string and overmatched by his pin-striped suit. He looked like a bank clerk, which wasn’t far off. He was an administrative officer at a small support base Gertz maintained out near Heathrow. The young man proffered a business card, which Perkins didn’t bother to read because it was surely a phony.
    “I have a draft statement that you might want to consider,” said young Ogilvy. He removed a piece of paper from his valise and handed it over.
    The page had no letterhead or other markings. It was just two paragraphs, stating the simple and undeniable facts: An employee of Alphabet Capital named Howard Egan had disappeared while on a business trip to Pakistan to meet with clients of the firm. Alphabet Capital was requesting help from the U.S. and Pakistani governments in finding Mr. Egan and arranging his safe return.
    Perkins read the document carefully and made several corrections in the margins. Then he put it in his pocket.
    “Please let us know if you are making any changes,” urged Ogilvy.
    Perkins