Choppy Water

25

Tom Blake had only just arrived at his desk the following morning when his secretary walked in. “Yes?”

“That woman who won’t give her name is on line three,” she said.

“Thank you.” He put his hand on the phone and looked at his secretary, waiting for her to leave. She finally got the message. He picked up the phone. “Yes?”

“I’ve news from the south,” she said.

“What news?”

“The chief has got a man there who’s a pretty good shot, and he’s working on improving his performance.”

“With what weapon?”

“A high-powered rifle, and the fearless leader is working on a special silencer for it.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“I thought so, too. Do you have her schedule?”

“She’s coming back to D.C. for a few days,” he said.

“Well, there you are.”

“Do you really think he has the balls for that?”

“People like him don’t need balls. They have fanaticism to drive them.”

“A good point. We’ll take steps.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll call the Secret Service, of course. Protecting her is their job.”

“What’s your job?”

“Gathering intelligence and keeping them informed.”

“I thought that was my job.”

“It’s our job. Who is the sniper?”

“His name is Eugene; I don’t have a last name.”

“We’ll have it somewhere,” Tom said. “We might even have a word with him, if the Secret Service approves.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” she said.

He thought about it for a minute. “You’re right. It might compromise you, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“Did you have the fight with your wife?”

“I did. Your advice was good, though, so I won. I’m having lunch with the lady in question today.”

“Be careful you don’t tell her too much,” she said.

“Just what she needs to know.”

“Good luck,” she said, then hung up.

Tom got there first. It was a corner table near the fireplace, and it had been swept less than an hour ago, followed by the placing of an electronic bug in the little lamp on the table. He wanted every word of their conversation; he might have to play it back for Amanda, if she became obstreperous.

Peg Parsons appeared in the doorway and spotted him immediately. She strode over to the table and stopped. “I want another table,” she said.

“Why? If I’m wearing a bug, it will move with me.”

“Are you wearing a bug?”

“No,” he lied. “Do you see any empty tables?”

She looked around. “Now that you mention it, no.”

“Then have a seat,” he said. “Or would you prefer mine?”

“This one will do,” she said, then sat down opposite him. “So, Tom, how are you and what do you want?”

“Would you like a drink?”

“Love one. A prosecco, please.”

Tom lifted a finger, and a waiter appeared. “One prosecco and one San Pellegrino,” he said. The waiter left.

“Why aren’t you having a drink?” she asked.

“FBI agents don’t drink in public at lunchtime,” he replied. “They might make fools of themselves.”

“So your plan is to get me drunk, while you remain cool and sober.”

“It’s not my plan, but if it’s what you feel like doing, go right ahead.”

“From the door I immediately saw two senators and four congressmen,” she said.

“Well spotted.”

Her drink and his water arrived.

“I’m going to assume this conversation is being recorded,” she said.

“Go right ahead and assume,” he replied. “Are you recording it?”

“Should I?”

“Up to you, but I have to tell you first that the life of a very important person is involved.”

She reached into her bag, found her iPhone, and disabled its recording function. “There, now it’s just you and me.”

“That’s best, I think.”

“So, tell me how I would get this person killed if I blabbed?”

“Au contraire,” he said, as he might have when they were in the same French class. “Blabbing is what I want from you.”

“So, you want me to send a message to somebody?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Who?”

“An infamous spinner of conspiracy theories, who is one of your readers.”

“Who, and how do you know he reads my stuff?”

“Jake Wimmer, because he complains about you nearly every day.”

“Point taken. And what particular flea do you want me to put in his ear?”

Tom took a sheet of paper from his inside pocket and handed it to her. “This flea.”

She read it. “And why didn’t I know about this?”

“Because it didn’t come up at her Senate hearing when she was appointed secretary of state.”

“Did the president arrange for it not to come up?”

Tom gave her a big shrug. “How would I know a thing like that?”

“Did you?”

“I did not. It was thoroughly investigated by two police agencies at the time, and by the CIA and the FBI later.”

“Was there even the slightest evidence that she might have shot the man and made it look like a suicide?”

“No, not a whit, and there’s a reason for that.”

“What reason?”

“She didn’t do it, so there was no evidence that she did. She also passed two polygraph exams, at the Agency and the Bureau.”

“So I’m on solid ground, if I print that.”

“Granite.”

“And you want me to head him off at the pass?”

“Exactly. Your piece will be on the AP, UPI, and Reuters wires before it hits the newsstands, so Wimmer is not going to waste his time inventing a conspiracy theory that’s already been repeatedly debunked.”

“Okay, I’m in. I’ll have the duck. And after that, you want to go someplace and do something that rhymes with the dish?”

“Peg, I have a wife I love dearly, who demands all my strength at home. Also, she would cut my throat with a dull knife if she thought for a moment that I was doing that.”

As he was speaking, he was giving her a thumbs-up while switching off the bug in his pocket.