by Tinnean
“Can he come home?”
“Well, as to that—”
I took his hesitation as a yes. “Gregor, go get him, please?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He walked off, a man on a mission.
“Perhaps you’d like to meet Dr. Forrester, Mrs. Mann? She’s one of our best residents, and she’s taken excellent care of him.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
He gestured to an aide who was pushing a blood pressure machine. “Find Dr. Forrester, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
We chatted for a few minutes, waiting for the doctor to show up.
A petite brunette in green scrubs came stalking up to us. I was startled to realize she was even shorter than I.
“You wanted to see me, Dr. Herrmann?” she snarled. Something had obviously annoyed her.
“This is Mrs. Mann. You saw her son. He had the gunshot wound to the thigh.”
“Right.” She glared at me. “Are you going to tell me I look like I should be skipping rope too?”
“Excuse me?”
“That…that man who came in to see Mr. Mann thought I looked too young to be suturing a wound like that.”
“Actually, no. I just wanted to thank you for your care of my son.”
“Oh…uh…sorry.” She blushed. “It’s a pretty bad wound.”
“I thought you told me it could have been worse.” I gave Herrmann a cool stare, and he gulped.
“It could have, Mrs. Mann.” Dr. Forrester scrubbed a hand over her face. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long shift. Your son will be fine. Now if you’ll excuse me, we’re prepping a little girl who fell off her bike for a head CT scan.”
“Mrs. Mann, why don’t I show you to the doctors’ lounge? I’ll pour you a cup of coffee.”
“There’s no need. I’ll wait in the car. Thank you, Dr. Forrester. Dr. Herrmann…we’ll talk soon.”
* * * *
About twenty minutes later, Gregor came out, with Quinton hobbling along beside him, using a cane to bear his weight.
He was pale, and lines around his eyes and mouth indicated the pain he was in.
I got out of the car. “I’ll ride in the front with you, Gregor. Sweetheart, I think you need the room to stretch out your leg.”
“All right, Mother.”
Gregor held up a bottle, gave it a little shake, and tossed it to me. I caught it in my left hand and studied the label.
Vicodin, 750mg. I met his gaze.
“Yeah, I know.” Gregor shrugged. “A little girl wrote out the prescription. We’ve been at the pharmacy all this time.” He opened the rear door and helped Quinton get into the car.
The doctor prescribing this had no idea the amount of pain my son could endure, but I was still pleased he had an option not to tough it out.
He eased his left leg up onto the back seat and looked across at me. I settled myself beside Gregor and fastened my seatbelt. I didn’t say a word, simply waited.
He sighed. “It was a simple transfer. I was supposed to turn over money and a new ID to this scientist who’d developed something the WBIS wanted. The problem was, he thought he was working for Huntingdon, and when he learned otherwise, he was horrified.”
According to the Alphabet Directory, the covert listing of all the intelligence agencies in Washington, D.C., there was no such entity as the Washington Bureau of Intelligence and Security. That meant that Huntingdon, the company that fronted for it, was simply an ordinary business.
Of course, some of us in the intelligence community knew differently on both counts.
The WBIS was the organization that took on the jobs that none of the other organizations would handle.
Nigel had spoken of the little-known organization once. “I hate to admit it, Portia, but we need agencies like that. Its operatives aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty if need be. The problem is the Company and the NSA no longer have control over it. The former director did whatever Hazelton told him. This new director, though—Trevor Wallace—is determined to go his own way, and in fact seems to take delight in thumbing his nose at us. We’re watching him, but God alone knows what’s going to come of the way he runs it.”
“I met him once, back when I first started working on the Venona Project.” I peeked at Nigel through my lashes. “Would it sound conceited it I confessed he was interested in me?”
“Why didn’t you go out with him?”
“What makes you think I didn’t?”
“Portia.” He frowned at my answering his question with a question, and I couldn’t help laughing.
“He never asked.”
“Would you have said yes?”
“Of course not.” I caressed my husband’s cheek. It was flattering that after all these years he was jealous. “He wasn’t you.”
Meanwhile, Quinton was saying, “…so he contacted the Company and offered to give us the specs and the working model—”
“Only Vincent turned up!” Gregor snarled.
“Who’s telling this?”
Gregor subsided.
“Thank you. At any rate, shots were fired as I was completing the transfer, and one of them hit my leg. And then there was Vincent, big as life and twice as intimidating—”
“Ugly, you mean,” Gregor growled.
“No, actually, he wasn’t that hard on the eyes. At any rate, when I snapped that I supposed I should thank him for aiming low, he gave me the most insane grin and said, ‘If I shoot, Mann, I shoot to kill.’”
“So he didn’t shoot you.” I hadn’t heard of Vincent before Buonfiglio mentioned his name; I’d look into him.
“If he’s to be trusted, no.”
“Quinn, you can’t trust the man! He’s WBIS to the core!”
“Still, he could have killed me, but he didn’t. He attempted to take the briefcase with the information, but Drum put in an appearance.”
“Jesus,” Gregor muttered. “Was there anyone who wasn’t there?”
Major Jonathan Drum II worked for the Office of the Inspector General, and Quinton had mentioned him a number of times, never in a good light, since the major always seemed to want something from him.
“The worst of this is Drum took the briefcase, and now the military has it. Rayner isn’t going to be happy about it.”
Neither was I, and I planned to have a chat with Quinton’s immediate supervisor myself. “Did they get the bullet?”
“No. The doctor thought it was most likely a ricochet. They’ll need to sweep the warehouse.”
“Once they find it, we’ll learn soon enough whether Vincent shot you or not.” The CIA’s sweep teams were excellent.
“You’re right, Mother.”
“We can’t sit here in the hospital parking lot all afternoon,” Gregor reminded us. “Where to?”
“As long as you’re in one piece, sweetheart…Gregor, you may drive me to my luncheon and then take Quinton home to Great Falls. Quinton, you’ll stay with us until you no longer look like death warmed over.”
“I’m not about to argue with you.”
“Thank you.” I glanced at my wristwatch. “If you don’t dawdle, Gregor, I should be there before Elizabeth Wexler attempts to take over my committee.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
* * * *
Gregor let me off outside the Lord Baltimore Hotel. “I’ll be back to pick you up at four.”
“Thank you. Quinton, I expect to hear you’ve spent the afternoon in bed. Gregor will bring one of the televisions to your room.” Naps left him feeling miserable. “You’ve missed All My Children, but you might be able to catch the end of As the World Turns.” His guilty pleasures, which he’d shared with his grandmother.
He gave a snort of laughter. “Yes, Mother. I’ll see you later.”
I entered the hotel, but before I went to the restaurant where the luncheon was being held, I had one more call I had to make. I dialed a number very few outside the Company had access to.
“Mr. Sebring’s office.”
“This is Portia Mann. I want to speak with my brother, please.”
“Yes, ma’am! We heard about Mr. Mann being in the hospital. I hope he’s all right?”
“Yes, he was discharged earlier.”
“I’m so glad to hear that! Now, please hold. I’ll transfer you.”
Once again I got the message of how important my call was, and I was tempted to roll my eyes. I’d need to talk to my brother about this.
That damned message finally stopped. “Portia? My personal assistant told me Quinn’s out of the hospital?”
“Yes. He was discharged earlier.”
“Dammit, why wasn’t I notified? Edward Holmes oversteps his bounds.”
“Who’s he?”
“The new DCI of Threat Analysis.” Bryan growled some choice epithets under his breath.
“The doctor said something about it being a ricochet. I want that bullet found if it’s at all possible. I want to know who shot my son.”
“I’ll look into it, Portia, I promise you.”
“Bryan, my son has been with the Company for nine years, not counting all the time he did various covert jobs before he was officially hired. You’ll make sure I don’t regret not objecting to his choice of employment?”
“I promise,” he said again.
“Thank you. And now I have a luncheon to attend.”
“All right, little sister. I’ll be in touch.”
* * * *
On the day Quinton’s stitches were removed, Bryan called. “Mind if I invite myself to dinner?”
“Not at all. We’ll see you the usual time.” I hung up the phone and went in search of my son. “Bryan will be joining us, Quinton.”
He brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Has he learned anything?”
“He didn’t say, but I’m assuming he has. Do you know what I find interesting?”
“What, Mother?”
“How little I was able to learn about this Mark Vincent.” The dossier I’d accessed listed his birthdate as July 4, 1966, and his place of birth as Cambridge, Massachusetts. He’d done a stint in the army, and from there was recruited into the WBIS. And that was all. There was nothing about family, friends, or hobbies. For all that was known of him, when he returned home from a day’s work at the WBIS, he could sit at his dining room table cleaning his Glock.
The photo included in it had been taken with a telephoto lens and was very grainy. He had prominent ears, a hint of a widow’s peak, and a long jaw. A decidedly masculine look…and it seemed Quinton found him attractive.
Bryan arrived in time for a drink and hors d’oeuvres before dinner.
“This is really good, Gregor,” he said as he took a bite of his chilled crab appetizer.
“Thanks, Bry, but give us the skinny. What did the CIA learn?”
“A number of things. Ballistics matched this to the pistol that was issued to Louis Buonfiglio.” He took a plastic bag from his pocket and gave it to Quinton. “It’s got your DNA on it.”
“So you’re saying I was shot by Buonfiglio?”
“Yes.”
“Goddammit, I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch!” Gregor spat.
“Too late. He was found dead in his car. Apparently he had an intrinsic cardiomyopathy.”
“Huh?”
“Weakness of the heart muscle for no discernible reason. The pathologist who did the autopsy listed cause of death as heart failure.”
“Well, good riddance to bad rubbish.”
Quinton looked thoughtful. “What else, Uncle Bryan?”
“Holmes is attempting to distance himself from Buonfiglio. For what it’s worth, the two of them had been seen together quite frequently.”
“I don’t know much about Holmes, so I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt,” Quinton said.
“I’m not. I won’t.” Bryan’s mouth was a grim line. “I intend to keep an eye on him. Unobtrusively, of course.”
“Of course.”
“There’s one more thing. Drum isn’t going to get that commendation he was anticipating. The briefcase you were supposed to pick up held nothing but junk.”
“Excuse me?”
“That nonpolluting, renewable source of energy is useless.”
“I imagine the Company is going to want to talk to Dr. Bruchner.”
“Who? Oh the scientist who came up with it? He’s in the wind. I doubt we’ll ever hear from him again.”
“Dinner’s ready,” Gregor announced. “Let’s eat before talking about this situation gives us all indigestion.”
* * * *
Chapter 21
It had been a quiet summer, and now autumn was just around the corner.
Quinton and the little ER doctor had tried for eight weeks to date, but between her work and his, they’d only managed to see each other a grand total of two times, and so they decided to part ways, with no hard feelings.
“I’m sorry for that, Mother,” he told me during our Sunday ride. “It seemed like I’d be free, but she’d be on call, or she’d be free, and I’d be flying to Europe or South America.”
“If she were the one, you’d have made time to see her, sweetheart.”
“I suppose.”
I reached across and patted his knee. “Allison and her husband will be coming for lunch on Tuesday. Will you be available?”
“I have to stop at the Pentagon in the morning, but I should be able to make lunch.”
“Never tell me Drum needs something!”
“All right, I won’t.” He turned his head and met my eyes, a sly grin on his face. “But he does.”
I laughed and shook my head.
* * * *
Gregor and I were listening to the morning program on the radio when the first news bulletin came over. We bolted for the living room and turned on CNN.
We watched in horror as the North Tower burned, and then as another jet slammed into the second tower.
I went cold when a crawl along the bottom of the screen revealed the Pentagon had been hit.
“Gregor…Quinton’s at the Pentagon!”
“I’ll call Bryan and see what he knows.” He pulled out his cell phone and then swore in Czech. “The lines must be overwhelmed.”
The phone in my study began to ring, and I ran to answer it. “Yes?” Mother would have been disappointed, but etiquette could go hang right then.
“Mother—”
“Quinton.” Oh thank God. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I can’t stay on the line. I just wanted you to know I’m still here at Langley. General Kirkpatrick canceled the meeting at the OIG after he was notified the North Tower was hit.”
“Thank you for calling, sweetheart.”
“I have to go.”
“I understand. Quinton…keep yourself safe.”
“Always, Mother. I love you.”
“I love you too.” I hung up the phone and looked at Gregor. “He’s all right. Kirkpatrick canceled the meeting.”
“Portia.” He did something he’d never done in all the time I’d known him. He pulled me into his embrace and held me. And while we both shook in relief, we also grieved the senseless loss of life.
And this time, the world went into mourning.
* * * *
Chapter 22
“I don’t like her, Portia.”
I knew who Gregor was talking about. For some time Quinton had been dating a woman from Justice. Susan Burkhart was attractive, and Quinton apparently enjoyed her company, but something seemed to be missing.
“She changed her hair from brunette to blonde.”
“Gregor, many women change the color of their hair.”
“Yeah, but…it’s freaky how similar she looked to you.”
“What?”
He nodded. “Y’ know that black outfit Madame Rosa made for you? She was wearing a copy of it, and from a distance, anyone would think it was you.”
“I fail to see her rationale. Why would a young woman
want to resemble her boyfriend’s mother?”
“Maybe she thinks that’s the only way she can get him.”
“How Oedipal.” The thought made me nauseous.
“From what I could learn, she’s been pushing Quinn for an invitation to Christmas dinner.”
“Because that would be as good as a declaration of intentions.”
“Yeah. The next thing she’d expect would be an engagement ring.” The phone rang, and Gregor picked it up. “Mann residence. Oh, hey, Quinn, we were just talking about you. We’re both good. How are you? Oh yeah?” He put a hand over the receiver. “Quinn’s got an assignment right after the New Year.”
“Will he be able to join us for Christmas?”
“Quinn, your mom wants to know if you’re coming here for—you will? Cool. Uh…you do?” He covered the receiver again. “He wants to bring someone. Quinn? Who?” He blew out a relieved breath. “Sure, we’d love to have DB here.”
I could understand Gregor’s relief. Not Susan Burkhart. DB Cooper was a friend of my son’s who also worked for the CIA. Quinton spoke warmly of him, and I was pleased I’d finally get to meet him.
“We’ll need to pick up a gift for him, Gregor. Ask Quinton what DB likes.”
“Hold on a sec, Quinn. Here, Portia. You’re going to want to talk to him anyway.”
I took the phone from him. “Hello, sweetheart.”
“Hi, Mother. How are you?”
“Very well. And you?”
“I’m fine. Well, almost fine. I need to break up with Susan, and it’s not going to be pretty. I promised to take her to the New Year’s Eve affair the Company is having at the Madison Arms. God, I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll need to buy her a Christmas gift as well.”
“A scarf and gloves, Quinton, if you’re serious about breaking up with her.”
“That sounds like a good idea. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I really appreciate you allowing me to bring DB home for Christmas.”
“Not at all. He isn’t able to see his family?”
“No. I’m sure they miss him a good deal, but something’s going on in his department, and he has to remain available.”
“Pity.”
“Yes, it is. He’s very close with his parents and siblings.”
“Well, since he’s your friend, he’s more than welcome to visit anytime. Now, suppose you give me some idea of what DB’s tastes run to?”
