by Tinnean
“I noticed you’ve been limping.”
“He rode me pretty hard.”
“Jesus, Bascopolis, I don’t need to hear that!”
He laughed and went back down to his apartment.
On Wednesday, I received a phone call from Francesca Dashwood.
“The condominium owners association of Aspen Reach would like to see you today at the community clubhouse.”
“That’s cutting it a little close, isn’t it? With closing tomorrow, aren’t they afraid I’ll be upset if they turn me down?”
“It’s merely a formality, I assure you. They just want to meet you.”
Yeah. “What time?”
“They’d like you to be there around noon. They’ll give you lunch.”
I drummed my fingers on my desk. That gave me an hour and a half, less the twenty minutes to make the drive there.
“All right. Will you be there?”
“Oh, no. I’ll be with another client.”
“Okay, thanks for letting me know.” I hung up and continued drumming my fingers on my desk. Contrary to what the Dashwood bitch might believe, I wasn’t a babe in the woods. I knew I’d need to bring some paperwork with me—proof that I could afford to live there, that I was willing to abide by the condo association’s guidelines, references.
I put in a call to Bixby in HR. “This is Vincent. I need some references.”
“You have references.”
“I need them under my name. I’m buying a condo.”
He laughed. “They definitely wouldn’t be happy to hear from the apartment house in Forest Heights.”
“Yeah, yeah.” That wasn’t my fault. My apartment had blown up when that shit Sperling had tried to break in. He got as far as unlocking the door, but since he hadn’t known the correct sequence of the locks, it had exploded, pulverizing him—no loss—and my living room in the bargain, although that was thanks to DCFD, and that was a big loss. “Have them ready as soon as possible.”
“Like, yesterday? Got it. I have all the form letters, including a statement from Huntingdon that you’ve been employed by them and they’re more than satisfied with your work. I just need to add the personal touch—your name, the length of time you’ve been with them, stuff like that. Give me about half an hour.”
“Thanks.” I had no doubt he’d come up with some glowing letters of reference, and each one would be irrefutable.
At noon I walked into the clubhouse at Aspen Reach to find five men and women waiting to question me. “I’m Vincent.” Under my arm was a manila folder with all the paperwork I should need.
“We’re the executive board of the condominium owners association.” A stout man in the center of the group introduced them. Then he frowned at me, apparently trying his hand at intimidation. “We’ve been trying to reach you through your Realtor all week. This is cutting it very close, you know.”
“I was about to say the same to you. I didn’t learn about this meeting until earlier this morning.”
His mouth tightened. “If that’s true—”
“If?”
He shied back. “That is—”
“What Chester means to say,” a middle-aged, chicly dressed woman said, “is that we’ll look into Ms. Dashwood’s actions. If she doesn’t have a valid excuse, then we here at Aspen Reach will not be dealing with her agency again. Now, if you’ll have a seat, Mr. Vincent? This shouldn’t take too long.”
It didn’t. They were impressed with my references not only from Huntingdon but from the managers of the apartments where I’d lived since I’d moved to DC, and from friends and family as well.
“We’ll need to get in touch with the people listed on these references, but that’s really just a formality. Welcome to Aspen Reach, Mr. Vincent.” They each shook my hand—Chester gingerly—and then offered me lunch. Chicken à la king.
On the way back to WBIS headquarters, I stopped at my bank to finalize the arrangements for the mortgage.
And on Thursday, I closed on the condo.
XIII
FRIDAY morning, I woke in a really good mood. As a bona fide, first-time homeowner, I was looking forward to treating my lover to dinner that evening.
I called him to verify and was shunted to his voice mail. “Mann. Go.”
“Hi, baby. I hope you’ve been sleeping well. Let me know if we’re on for tonight.”
The morning sped by. I went down to the cafeteria for lunch and ordered a Reuben. The agents and support staff were getting used to seeing me there, but they still had a tendency to give my table a wide berth.
I returned to my office as Ms. Parker, my secretary, put down the phone.
“I was just about to call you, sir. Mr. Wallace wants you in his office. As soon as possible. I’ll hold your calls, and I’ve rescheduled your meeting with Romero for later this afternoon.”
“Thanks.”
I went down the corridor to the stairwell and then up the stairs to ten.
The Boss’s secretary peered at me over her glasses, gave a sour nod, and then returned to transcribing what was on her steno pad. I wondered if her face would break if she ever smiled.
I knocked on the door, opened it, and walked into the office. “Good afternoon, Mr. Wallace.”
“Mr. Vincent.” There was a bottle of Mylanta on his desk; he scowled at it and pushed it to the side. “Help yourself to a cup of coffee.”
“Thank you, sir.” It looked like this was going to be a meeting of two.
“And get me one while you’re at it.”
I glanced at the antacid but just said, “Yes, sir.”
On the lowboy in front of the window was a stainless steel urn. I filled our cups—he took it the way I did: black, no milk, no sugar—and placed one before him.
He nodded toward the chair on the opposite side of his desk, and I sat down and sipped my coffee. If this had been a year ago, or even eight months ago, I’d have been champing at the bit, knowing he was going to send me out to do what I did best—liberate intel or teach those who screwed with the WBIS the error of their ways.
Now I knew that if it came to that, I’d be sending Matheson out into the field.
The Boss raised his cup to his mouth for a swallow, and I waited. He put the cup down, rubbed his diaphragm, and then folded his hands on his desk. “There’s a rumor that the majority of Huntingdon’s contracts with the Federal government are about to be terminated.”
“That rumor has been going around for the last fifteen years—every time some politician gets a bug up his ass about runaway spending.” Funds for the WBIS came through the Huntingdon contracts with the government. Since there was no such organization as the WBIS, that would be the only way to disband it. The few who knew about the Washington Bureau of Intelligence and Security would never allow that.
He looked grim. “This has just come to my attention. Senator Wexler is using the excuse of the mounting deficit as the reason behind his decision for these cutbacks.”
Shit.
He raised an eyebrow, and I realized I’d said the word aloud.
“Sorry, sir.”
He waved aside my apology. “Senator Wexler has gone from being a minor irritant to becoming a major… nuisance, shall we say? He will be at the Bahsrani Embassy tomorrow evening. I know I’ve told you to make things difficult for him.” His lips curved in a smile, but his eyes were stone cold. “Make them even more difficult. Be there every time he turns around.”
I matched his smile. “It will be my pleasure.”
“Very good.” He rose to refill his cup and stared out of the window for a moment. In spite of him being The Boss, I knew the view wasn’t much to write home about. He’d been WBIS for a long time, having worked in the field before he was promoted to director. This had to piss him off in the extreme.
He returned to his desk and sat down.
“I always took Wexler for a womanizing fool,” I offered.
“Yes. I saw him that way too. However, I’ve learned that he h
as connections with someone at the CIA.” He studied me with hooded eyes.
“Wexler is on the allocations committee, sir.” I wasn’t even going to wonder if he knew I had a connection, albeit a personal one, with someone at the CIA. “Maybe it’s just that the CIA wants a larger slice of the pie?”
“Perhaps, although….” He ran his hand through his hair.
“Do we know who his connection is?”
“It’s someone high up in the chain of command.”
“How high?”
“As high as you can go.”
That had to mean Holmes. “Can you trust your source, sir?”
“I believe so.” He told me who it was, and after a moment’s thought, I let out a slow breath. Clever. The CIA had any number of women working as officers, and Granger made a very believable woman. He was six feet tall, but then so was Nicole Kidman. “Either way, I’m not inclined to turn a blind eye to this. If you were still in the field, I’d assign you to investigate exactly why Wexler has sought this connection to the CIA at this point in time. However, because of this regulation of mandatory retirement from the field, you’ll have to delegate this.”
I’d been doing a lot of that since I’d received my promotion. “All right, sir. I’ll put Matheson on it.” I raised my cup to take a sip.
“Do you know Holmes and I went to Yale together, were fraternity brothers? He used to be a friend of mine.”
I swallowed my coffee wrong and couldn’t avoid choking. “Excuse me, sir.” I put the cup down, found a handkerchief, and blotted up the moisture.
“Yes. That’s about how I see it now.”
“I imagine killing him is out of the question, then?”
“If I thought we could get away with it…. No, no matter who handled his erasure, it would come back to the WBIS.”
I understood. If Holmes was in a car accident, if he had a stroke at a wedding, if he tripped over a fucking wrinkle in his carpet—the WBIS would take the blame for it.
“I’ll give it some thought. Maybe we can get at him through Wexler.” I had an uncomfortable thought. “He wasn’t a friend, was he, sir?”
“Good God, no! The man is a worm.” More of a worm than Holmes? “It never fails to amaze me how politicians manage to hoodwink their constituents. He’s been elected with almost no opposition for the past thirty-five years on a family-values platform. The hypocrite. Word is that he’s been making a play for Portia Mann.”
“Yes. I had the opportunity to observe him in action at that embassy ball last spring. That has to piss off his wife.”
“She appears to be too busy chasing the fountain of youth. Portia Mann, on the other hand…. What a shame we never recruited women. I met her once, back in the late fifties. She was still Portia Sebring then, working with that older brother of hers at the NSA. Such a lovely lady. But then she met Nigel Mann….” He became lost in thought for a moment, his smile slightly wistful.
“Yes, sir.” I’d never seen him look like that. I wasn’t surprised to learn he had once had a thing for Portia Mann—she was an amazing woman—but rather that he hadn’t acted on it.
He cleared his throat. “Now, then….”
And I knew that topic was closed.
XIV
I KEPT my cell phone on me at all times, but I’d set it to etiquette mode so it wouldn’t ring during my meeting with The Boss. Any calls would go directly to my voice mail. When I finally had the opportunity to check my messages, there was one from Quinn.
“Dinner tonight is out. I’m sorry.” There was real regret in his voice. “I’m out on the West Coast, paying a visit to my uncles. Since that matter we’d discussed over the weekend is internal, I wanted to run it by them.”
Quinn was a straightforward type, and him being cryptic was interesting. And a turn-on. If he’d been here, I’d have kissed him stupid and then fucked him over my desk.
“I have a return flight for tomorrow afternoon. That was the only one I could get at such short notice. I know, you could do better, but I’m trying to fly under the radar here.” I grinned at how aggrieved he sounded. “I should be back in town for the ball, but I may be late. I’m looking forward to next week.” His voice lowered, deepened. “Pack light. All you really need is your toothbrush. I plan on us being naked for most of the week—”
My face felt flushed, and my cock got hard.
He became serious. “I’ve been sleeping well. Other than missing you. Take care of yourself, okay? Bye, babe.”
I pressed the option to save the message, then shut my phone and put it away. Briefly, I wondered what Novotny had discovered about Quinn’s cell phone—it had taken him long enough—and then I buzzed my secretary.
“Ms. Parker, get Matheson in here, would you?”
XV
SATURDAY was the day I got caught up on things—took the laundry out to be done, paid the bills. But on this Saturday, I also put my mail and newspaper on hold, emptied the fridge, and generally got my apartment ready to be unoccupied for the next week. I packed for our week away—some casual shirts and slacks on the off-chance we might decide to tour Key West or go fishing, or in case Quinn wanted to dine at one of the Key’s restaurants.
Finally it was time to shower, shave, and put on my monkey suit. As I tied the bowtie, I found myself humming the tune Quinn had programmed into his phone.
The invite and my cell phone were in my pocket. I missed my Beretta, but there was no way security at the embassy would let me get through the door with it.
Not to say I wasn’t armed. R&D made some interesting weapons out of plastic polymers, and Romero had given me one the day before.
I avoided the worst of the traffic and parked my sedan myself on the embassy grounds, preferring to walk the distance to the embassy rather than let anyone else drive my car.
A pale gold Lexus was driving up just as I reached the steps. I recognized Quinn’s car and waited while he got out, accepted the chit from the valet attendant, and came to join me.
“Vincent.” I’m glad to see you, his eyes told me.
“Mann.” So am I.
“I just have to wait for the attendant to return my key.”
“Oh?”
He dropped his voice. “I seem to be taking a page from your book.”
“Glad to hear that.” I kept my own voice low. “I want you around a very long time.”
His eyes grew hot. God, I loved that I could do that to him.
We waited a few minutes until the attendant came jogging back and handed Quinn his key. Then we turned to walk into the embassy, passing through a metal detector.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” he said, for the benefit of anyone eavesdropping.
“Part of my job now.”
“I’d advise you not to drink any champagne.”
“Why?”
He raised an eyebrow, and I laughed, remembering the evening he’d come to my apartment just after I’d been promoted to deputy director. He’d brought a bottle of champagne to celebrate, and the damned spook had seen that most of it went into my glass. Whatever reaction he’d expected, it wasn’t the one he’d gotten.
I’d realized how champagne affected me after the first time I’d drunk it, back when I was in the Army. It was at the wedding of my commanding officer’s daughter. Because my old lady was a lush, I’d stayed away from hard liquor, but the champagne was pale and fizzy and went down very smooth, and I’d had a few glasses before I realized I was feeling pretty damned good. I was turned on just from the feel of my skivvies against my cock, and it reached a point where I knew if I didn’t jerk off, I’d disgrace myself by having an orgasm in front of everyone right there at the table, so I’d discreetly excused myself to go to the men’s room. Only I hadn’t been as discreet as I’d thought. One of the bridesmaids deliberately followed me, locked the door behind her, and growled, “I love a man in uniform!” She’d raised the poofy skirt of her gown, revealing crimson garters edged with black lace—and nothing else—and I’d
been so horny, I’d wrestled on a condom and rammed into her. She was coming before I’d managed more than a couple of thrusts, and I wasn’t far behind her.
After that, I’d been careful to limit my intake of champagne when I was in public.
I hadn’t been in public with Quinn that evening, so I hadn’t been careful. I wound up jumping his bones and fucking him through the mattress.
I tucked that memory away for another time, cleared my throat, and shrugged. “Half these people need to be canceled.”
Quinn followed my gaze just as Senator Wexler, his wife, and his aide crossed our line of vision.
“I’d better find Mother.” He sighed. “Wexler has been making it abundantly clear that he wants her and won’t take no for an answer.”
“The man’s a—” I started to say, “Fool,” but then I noticed him pausing to chat with a man whose back was to me. “I’ll see you around, Mann.”
“What’s he….” He was frowning. “Hmm? Oh. Sure thing, Vincent.”
Wexler wasn’t talking to Holmes, as I’d first thought. This man was unfamiliar to me; he had to be a newcomer to DC.
I’d looked into the background of everyone on Senator Wexler’s staff and in his family. His sons-in-law were all nonentities, fitting matches for the daughters his wife had popped out every year until she’d smartened up and found a doctor who would take care of any future little inconveniences.
I’d wondered why she hadn’t taken advantage of the Pill when it came on the market, especially since the senator was so rabidly pro-life. He’d almost strangled on his righteous indignation, according to my source, when Roe v. Wade was passed.
The senator nodded to the man he was with, concluding the conversation before I could get close enough to hear anything beyond, “Keep me informed, Jameson.”
The man gave a brisk nod and walked toward the alcove that led to the restrooms. Wexler saw me and paled. He turned on his heel and nearly collided with one of the waiters who wove through the crowd bearing trays of hors d’oeuvres.
