ablaze in vein-popping fury. “You’re threatening me? You fuckin’ asshole. Don’t you dare threaten me, you one-eyed, hobbling son of a bitch!”
“You’re right. Don’t give it to me because Jack can have you sweeping the Capitol steps with a toothbrush. Do it because you owe me this much as an ex-agent. Do it because you owe your agents loyalty and retribution for this loss. And do it because you can’t let any man hold your agency hostage. Think up your own reason—you’re creative. But you will do it.”
T.C. exhaled slowly and cracked his knuckles thoughtfully. “I’m sorry, Paul, but I can’t. I will promise you that I’ll deal with Martin—with assistance from the Bureau.” T.C. smoothed his jacket and turned toward thedoor. “Enjoy your visit, Paul. See some monuments. Get yourself laid.” T.C. winked at Paul. “Must have quite a load built up after living on that mountain all this time.”
“Just a second, T.C.,” Paul said as he crossed over to the door to the second bedroom and opened it wider. A distinguished-looking man in his seventies entered the living room and took a seat on the couch. T.C. Robertson’s face went as white as his teeth. “I’m sure you know Senator Stanton.”
“Well, this is a surprise.” T.C. was fighting to recover, but the realization that the man had been listening to the conversation was devastating.
“I bet,” Senator Abe Stanton said as he lit a cigar the size of a small log and exhaled a plume of smoke that covered the well-known face from T.C.’s view. “Now, we’re here to discuss what Paul wants,” the head of the Senate Appropriations Committee said. “And if it’s all the same to you, Thackery, we’ll just keep this between the three of us. It’s my opinion that mentioning this to Mr. McMillan, or anyone else, would be completely unnecessary and might have unpleasant consequences for one of us. Sit,” the senator commanded.
T.C. sat and smiled nervously, his face hardly darker than a sheet of typing paper.
“Interesting conversation you were having,” Senator Stanton said. “I for one am thrilled you’ve agreed to help Paul.”
“Paul makes a lot of sense, as usual,” T.C. said, nervously wiping at his brow with a napkin he lifted from the coffee table.
The senator blew a spinning smoke ring toward the television set and fixed his eaglelike eyes on T.C. “Have one of mine. It’s Cuban. What Castro smoked before his bout of throat cancer, I understand.” He reached into his pocket and removed a case, opened it, and held it out to T.C. T.C. took a cigar, sniffed it, and chewed the tip off, picked it from his tongue and placed it into the ashtray beside him. He lit the cigar using a lighter that was beside Paul’s cigarettes and inhaled the first puff.
“God, that’s excellent!” he said grandly. “I love a good cigar.” He was beginning to recover.
“I like to imagine I’m putting the torch to Castro’s crops.” Senator Stanton laughed and winked at T.C. “I bet I could get ten years for lighting this outside the room here.”
T.C. puffed on the cigar and listened to the inevitable.
8
P AUL HAD SPENT THE FOLLOWING DAY MEETING WITH MEMBERS OF the DEA and poring over the files of agents whom T.C.’s personnel manager had deemed fit for the team and available. He had finally narrowed it to ten possibles. That evening he had dined at La Côte d’Or again, this time with the owner of the restaurant. They had sat and sampled wines for several hours, and a taxi had delivered a rubber-legged Paul to the Willard at one A.M. Paul staggered to the elevator, maneuvering among the ghosts of U. S. Grant, Robert E. Lee, Abe Lincoln, and George Armstrong Custer, all of whom had walked through this same lobby. Paul opened his door and dropped his clothes, like a trail of bread crumbs, as he meandered to the bedroom and fell headlong toward the mattress, asleep almost before he hit the bed.
Paul awoke certain that he was not
“You’re right. Don’t give it to me because Jack can have you sweeping the Capitol steps with a toothbrush. Do it because you owe me this much as an ex-agent. Do it because you owe your agents loyalty and retribution for this loss. And do it because you can’t let any man hold your agency hostage. Think up your own reason—you’re creative. But you will do it.”
T.C. exhaled slowly and cracked his knuckles thoughtfully. “I’m sorry, Paul, but I can’t. I will promise you that I’ll deal with Martin—with assistance from the Bureau.” T.C. smoothed his jacket and turned toward thedoor. “Enjoy your visit, Paul. See some monuments. Get yourself laid.” T.C. winked at Paul. “Must have quite a load built up after living on that mountain all this time.”
“Just a second, T.C.,” Paul said as he crossed over to the door to the second bedroom and opened it wider. A distinguished-looking man in his seventies entered the living room and took a seat on the couch. T.C. Robertson’s face went as white as his teeth. “I’m sure you know Senator Stanton.”
“Well, this is a surprise.” T.C. was fighting to recover, but the realization that the man had been listening to the conversation was devastating.
“I bet,” Senator Abe Stanton said as he lit a cigar the size of a small log and exhaled a plume of smoke that covered the well-known face from T.C.’s view. “Now, we’re here to discuss what Paul wants,” the head of the Senate Appropriations Committee said. “And if it’s all the same to you, Thackery, we’ll just keep this between the three of us. It’s my opinion that mentioning this to Mr. McMillan, or anyone else, would be completely unnecessary and might have unpleasant consequences for one of us. Sit,” the senator commanded.
T.C. sat and smiled nervously, his face hardly darker than a sheet of typing paper.
“Interesting conversation you were having,” Senator Stanton said. “I for one am thrilled you’ve agreed to help Paul.”
“Paul makes a lot of sense, as usual,” T.C. said, nervously wiping at his brow with a napkin he lifted from the coffee table.
The senator blew a spinning smoke ring toward the television set and fixed his eaglelike eyes on T.C. “Have one of mine. It’s Cuban. What Castro smoked before his bout of throat cancer, I understand.” He reached into his pocket and removed a case, opened it, and held it out to T.C. T.C. took a cigar, sniffed it, and chewed the tip off, picked it from his tongue and placed it into the ashtray beside him. He lit the cigar using a lighter that was beside Paul’s cigarettes and inhaled the first puff.
“God, that’s excellent!” he said grandly. “I love a good cigar.” He was beginning to recover.
“I like to imagine I’m putting the torch to Castro’s crops.” Senator Stanton laughed and winked at T.C. “I bet I could get ten years for lighting this outside the room here.”
T.C. puffed on the cigar and listened to the inevitable.
8
P AUL HAD SPENT THE FOLLOWING DAY MEETING WITH MEMBERS OF the DEA and poring over the files of agents whom T.C.’s personnel manager had deemed fit for the team and available. He had finally narrowed it to ten possibles. That evening he had dined at La Côte d’Or again, this time with the owner of the restaurant. They had sat and sampled wines for several hours, and a taxi had delivered a rubber-legged Paul to the Willard at one A.M. Paul staggered to the elevator, maneuvering among the ghosts of U. S. Grant, Robert E. Lee, Abe Lincoln, and George Armstrong Custer, all of whom had walked through this same lobby. Paul opened his door and dropped his clothes, like a trail of bread crumbs, as he meandered to the bedroom and fell headlong toward the mattress, asleep almost before he hit the bed.
Paul awoke certain that he was not
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