that this doesn’t leak,” Cortlandt said. “With you I know it won’t.”
‘Go on,” said Paulie Walters.
Cortlandt remained silent.
“How about your trying to get me out of obsessing over my parents’ killer and into something more productive?” asked Paulie.
“You mean you think keeping the president alive might be more productive than chasing some unknown shooter through the dark?”
“No,” said Paulie. “But
you
do.”
Chapter 17
M IST HAD TURNED TO LIGHT RAIN as Deputy CIA Director Harris drove along the Potomac. About twenty miles west of Washington he entered a long stretch of
Virginia pine.
It was a black night and he was alone in his own car, having left his official limousine and driver an hour earlier. He squinted
against approaching headlights and swung north away from the river on a two-lane blacktop. Then he turned west for a short
distance until he saw the remains of an old barn.
A gray sedan was parked behind it. Ken Harris pulled up alongside it and cut his lights and motor. His passenger door was
opened and a man he had known for many years as Daniel Archer slid in beside him.
“Mr. Deputy Director,” said Archer.
“Hello, Danny. How’s the old pulse? Slow as ever?”
“Hey, if it was any slower I’d be goddamn dead.”
A wiry man who looked a decade younger than his forty years, Archer was a dedicated distance runner. He took pride in his
unusually slow pulse and checked it often, as he proceeded to do now.
“Thirty-eight on the nose,” he said.
The deputy director considered Archer through the dark. “I have something for you, Danny. The biggest ever. Think you’re up
to it?”
The question was a modest attempt at humor. It was generally accepted between them that there was nothing in Daniel Archer’s
area of expertise that he was
not
up to.
“Let’s hear it,” he said.
“The president will be at a trade meeting in Brussels next month. He’s planning to arrive early on the twelfth and leave for
home the morning of the thirteenth.” Ken Harris paused “Your job is to see that he doesn’t make it out of Belgium.”
Archer whistled softly. “Who’s behind it?”
“A few people who feel it’ll be best for the country.” “You mean true-blue American patriots?”
The deputy director’s smile was vaguely reminiscent of dirty river ice. “Now you’ve got it.”
“What restrictions?”
“You’re not to do it yourself. I don’t want any Americans involved. Pick a hitter from one of the local or international groups.
Afterward, toss the police a suspect with a history. We need someone to take the heat.”
“Can you get me estimated arrival and departure times for Air Force I?”
“I already have them. They’ll be coming into Brussels International at 9:30 A.M. local and flying out the exact same time the next morning.”
“What about the routes to and from the airport?”
“Those are in the hands of Belgian security,” said Harris. “You’ll have to dig them out for yourself.”
Daniel Archer pursed his lips, a man with multiple problems trying to decide which to consider first. He had a sharp-jawed
face that gave him the look of a worried fox. “What kind of money are we talking?”
“It’s open, but don’t go crazy. It still has to come from covert, discretionary funds. You’ll get a few hundred thousand to
spread around as a starter. Then we’ll work from there.”
The light rain turned heavy and they listened to it drumming on the car’s roof.
“How does it make you feel, moving into the history books?” Harris asked.
“Dunster’s not really
my
target. You just told me I won’t be the hitter.”
“No, but you’ll be the one setting it up.”
“A hit’s a hit, Ken. I don’t personalize it.” Archer looked at the deputy director. “You’re the one who taught me that.”
“And you’ve learned it well. That’s why you’re handling this.”
Daniel Archer put a stick of gum in his
‘Go on,” said Paulie Walters.
Cortlandt remained silent.
“How about your trying to get me out of obsessing over my parents’ killer and into something more productive?” asked Paulie.
“You mean you think keeping the president alive might be more productive than chasing some unknown shooter through the dark?”
“No,” said Paulie. “But
you
do.”
Chapter 17
M IST HAD TURNED TO LIGHT RAIN as Deputy CIA Director Harris drove along the Potomac. About twenty miles west of Washington he entered a long stretch of
Virginia pine.
It was a black night and he was alone in his own car, having left his official limousine and driver an hour earlier. He squinted
against approaching headlights and swung north away from the river on a two-lane blacktop. Then he turned west for a short
distance until he saw the remains of an old barn.
A gray sedan was parked behind it. Ken Harris pulled up alongside it and cut his lights and motor. His passenger door was
opened and a man he had known for many years as Daniel Archer slid in beside him.
“Mr. Deputy Director,” said Archer.
“Hello, Danny. How’s the old pulse? Slow as ever?”
“Hey, if it was any slower I’d be goddamn dead.”
A wiry man who looked a decade younger than his forty years, Archer was a dedicated distance runner. He took pride in his
unusually slow pulse and checked it often, as he proceeded to do now.
“Thirty-eight on the nose,” he said.
The deputy director considered Archer through the dark. “I have something for you, Danny. The biggest ever. Think you’re up
to it?”
The question was a modest attempt at humor. It was generally accepted between them that there was nothing in Daniel Archer’s
area of expertise that he was
not
up to.
“Let’s hear it,” he said.
“The president will be at a trade meeting in Brussels next month. He’s planning to arrive early on the twelfth and leave for
home the morning of the thirteenth.” Ken Harris paused “Your job is to see that he doesn’t make it out of Belgium.”
Archer whistled softly. “Who’s behind it?”
“A few people who feel it’ll be best for the country.” “You mean true-blue American patriots?”
The deputy director’s smile was vaguely reminiscent of dirty river ice. “Now you’ve got it.”
“What restrictions?”
“You’re not to do it yourself. I don’t want any Americans involved. Pick a hitter from one of the local or international groups.
Afterward, toss the police a suspect with a history. We need someone to take the heat.”
“Can you get me estimated arrival and departure times for Air Force I?”
“I already have them. They’ll be coming into Brussels International at 9:30 A.M. local and flying out the exact same time the next morning.”
“What about the routes to and from the airport?”
“Those are in the hands of Belgian security,” said Harris. “You’ll have to dig them out for yourself.”
Daniel Archer pursed his lips, a man with multiple problems trying to decide which to consider first. He had a sharp-jawed
face that gave him the look of a worried fox. “What kind of money are we talking?”
“It’s open, but don’t go crazy. It still has to come from covert, discretionary funds. You’ll get a few hundred thousand to
spread around as a starter. Then we’ll work from there.”
The light rain turned heavy and they listened to it drumming on the car’s roof.
“How does it make you feel, moving into the history books?” Harris asked.
“Dunster’s not really
my
target. You just told me I won’t be the hitter.”
“No, but you’ll be the one setting it up.”
“A hit’s a hit, Ken. I don’t personalize it.” Archer looked at the deputy director. “You’re the one who taught me that.”
“And you’ve learned it well. That’s why you’re handling this.”
Daniel Archer put a stick of gum in his
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