Hot Pursuit

22

Millie Martindale lay in a tub of very hot water and tried not to fall asleep and drown. As the weariness soaked out of her body her mind began to race. What did she have on the third man? He may have been at Berkeley fifteen years ago; at least, that was when the twins were at Eton. Who did she know who went to Berkeley? There was someone in the back of her mind, but she couldn’t put a name to that person.

She got out of the tub, dried her hair, and lay down on her bed, her hair swept out of the way. After a moment, she had an idea: she had heard that a guy a couple of years ahead of her at Harvard was in federal law enforcement, but she couldn’t remember with what agency. She started with the FBI and got lucky, and she asked for Quentin Phillips. He answered on the fourth ring. “Phillips.”

“Quentin, it’s Millicent Martindale. How are you?”

“Millie? I’m great. How about you?”

“Just fine, thanks.”

“Are you in D.C.?”

“Yep. I’m working at the White House for the national security adviser, Holly Barker.”

“No kidding! Plum job!”

“If I don’t eat, sleep, or drink, it is. What are you doing over there?”

“I’m low man on the totem pole in counterintelligence.”

“Does that include terrorist threats?”

“In a manner of speaking. Mostly it includes whatever shit they throw at me.”

“Well, I’m going to throw some shit at you, and I can’t tell you why, and you can’t tell anybody I asked.”

“Sounds fascinating. Are you out to get some old boyfriend who done you wrong?”

“Nope, this is official business — it’s just on a need-to-know basis, and I can’t make a case for your needing to know.”

“Okay, your rules, but it’s going to cost you a very fine dinner.”

“I’m up for that, if they ever let me have dinner again.”

“Good enough for me. Tell me what you need.”

“I’m going to make some assumptions, and you can correct me if I’m wrong.”

“What assumptions?”

“I’m assuming that the Bureau has an ear to the ground on various college campi around the country for terrorist activity.”

“A reasonable assumption.”

“I’m assuming that one of those campi is Berkeley.”

“A more than reasonable assumption.”

“And I’m assuming that the listening post was operating at least as far back as nine-eleven, maybe even before.”

“That’s a possibility.”

“I’m also assuming that you have or can get access to the files going back that far.”

“Post nine-eleven, for sure. Before that, we’re probably talking paper, and paper that’s God-knows-where.”

“Then let’s assume post nine-eleven for the moment.”

“Okay. What do you need?”

“I have reason to believe that a student at Berkeley during that period had connections to Al Qaeda or some other such organization.”

“Name? Description?”

“I don’t have either, that’s what makes this hard.”

“What have you got?”

“My best guess is he was studying under a non-Arab name, maybe even, but not necessarily, his own, and that he may have a family connection to the Middle East, or that he might have been part of some pro-Arab campus group, something like Students for Palestinian Justice, to coin a name. You get the picture.”

“I believe I do.”

“Get me a name and a background check, and I’ll give you more than dinner.”

“Now, that’s an inviting thought. What does it mean?”

“Whatever you want it to mean.”

“It would help if I could tell somebody else just a little bit about this. I’ve got to cover my ass.”

“You can speak in generalities, but you can’t mention me, my boss, or the White House — not under any circumstances. Are we clear on that?”

“Okay, while I’m covering my ass I’ll cover yours, too. When do you need this?”

“Oh, last month would be good.”

“I had a feeling it would be like that.”

She gave him her cell number. “I’ll wait impatiently for your call.”

“One more thing: On a scale of one to ten, how important do you think this guy could be?”

“Twenty-five,” she said.

He was silent for a moment. “No shit?”

“Absolutely no shit.” She hung up.

Quentin hung up, too, and he found himself sweating lightly. He had known Millicent Martindale to be a serious person at Harvard, and she was in a serious job now, but he had an annual performance review coming up, and he had to be careful not to get hung out to dry just because he wanted to fuck her, which he did, very badly. In fact, he had always wanted to fuck her, but she had been beyond him — more beautiful, more sophisticated, more desirable. “What the hell,” he said to himself, and he left his cubicle and went down the hall toward his supervisor’s office. This was Lev Epstein, who was assistant director for counterintelligence and, he figured, maybe the smartest person at the Bureau, an assessment with which Epstein would not disagree.

He walked past Epstein’s office, and his secretary was refreshing her makeup — about to go to lunch, he figured. Epstein, however, didn’t eat lunch, except at his desk. He made another pass and saw the woman look at her watch, pick up her bag, then pick up her phone, no doubt telling her boss she was going to lunch. As soon as she was gone, he walked past her desk and rapped purposefully on Epstein’s door, which was open a couple of feet.

“Come!” the man shouted. “But it better be good!”

Quentin opened the door and entered. Epstein had a Mickey Mouse lunchbox on his desk, and he was eating a sandwich. He glared at Quentin.

“What?” he said, his voice muffled by the sandwich.

“I’ve got something important,” Quentin said.

“You don’t know enough to know whether it’s important,” Epstein replied. “You’ve got sixty seconds.”

Quentin began talking; he chose his words carefully, but he didn’t rush. “A well-placed person of my acquaintance has a lead on what might be a very important terrorist plot. This person has asked me to research who the Bureau might have been interested in at Berkeley just prior to or after nine-eleven. He would be American or American-educated with a non-Arabic name, a student at that time.”

“Your time is up,” Epstein said.

“That was only forty seconds.”

“All right, you’ve got twenty more.”

“I can’t tell you the name of my contact or where this person works, but based on my prior knowledge, this is a serious request.”

“Tell me who she is and where she works or get out,” Epstein said.

“Sorry to trouble you, sir,” Quentin said. He turned and walked out of the office.

“Come back here!” Epstein growled.

Quentin came back as far as the door. “Yes, sir?”

“You think I’m going to trouble myself just so you can get laid?”

“I happen to know you were stationed in San Francisco about the time of nine-eleven, and my guess is, you were probably running the operation there, so you won’t have to trouble yourself in the least, just remember.” Quentin took a deep breath. “I also know you’re the smartest guy around this place, and you’re not going to blow me off just because I’m low man here.”

Epstein laughed, spitting pieces of sandwich on his desk. “I would call that hopeful flattery. Okay, I’ll give you a B for balls,” he said. “Now, tell me what you think this is all about.”

“I think there may have been a deep-cover operative at Berkeley, and that his file, if he had one, might have crossed your desk.”

“You have a name?”

“Nope, but it’s probably not Arab. He might have been peripherally involved with some pro-Palestinian or other group, and it wouldn’t surprise me if you remember somebody like that.”

“Suppose I do?” Epstein said. “Why would I give it to your girlfriend?”

“Because this person is well-enough connected to make life hell for the Bureau, if we should know something but fail to share it. That’s the sort of thing that could haunt the Bureau after a terrorist attack. On the other hand, if we do share and something comes of it, it will reflect well on counterintelligence.” By which he meant, on Epstein.

“All right,” Epstein said, “let me sift through my memories.” He swiveled his chair around and stared out the window, his back to Quentin, still eating his sandwich.

Quentin, though uninvited, took a seat.