Hot Pursuit

26

Millie got back to the White House after lunch and found Holly in the mess.

“How’d your fabulous lunch go?” Holly asked.

Millie sat down and told her about what Lev Epstein had said.

“So we have a suspect. Lev Epstein identified a likely man who was an assistant professor in the economics department and knows a lot about the Middle East oil industry. He never knew the man’s name, but I tracked it down through the department office: Jacob Riis. That’s almost certainly made up. It’s the name of a famous journalist, social activist, and photographer from the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. That’s a good start. How do you want to proceed?”

“I think we should kick it right back to Lev Epstein,” Millie said. “He’s got the manpower on the coast to run this down, and we don’t want to appear ungrateful for his help.”

“All right, call him and tell him that, before the day is out, the president will call the director and request his counterintelligence unit to identify and locate Mr. Jacob Riis.”

“Perfect,” Millie said.

“And tell him to copy us on all his reports.”

“Will do.” Millie ran back to her desk and called Quentin Phillips.

“Special Agent Phillips.”

“It’s Millie.”

“Hi there.”

“The president will call your director today and ask for your unit to be put on finding Jacob Riis. By the way, you know that’s not his name, don’t you?”

“If it were, he’d be a very old man. How about dinner tonight?”

“Not a bad idea, but I’ll have to call you back when I see what the rest of the day is like. Where?”

“Your place?”

“Nah.”

“My place?”

“All right, my place, but you have to bring food or have it delivered.”

“What time?”

“Seven-thirty, subject to later confirmation.”

“Great!”

“Now go tell Lev he’s on the case. It’ll make you look good if he hears it from you before he hears it from the director.”

“Done. See you at seven-thirty, subject to confirmation.”

Quentin walked quickly down to Epstein’s office. “Please tell him I need to see him,” he said to the secretary, Betty.

She buzzed her boss and got him admitted. “Why is he seeing you, instead of your supervisor?” she asked Quentin.

“It looks like I may be reporting directly on this one.”

“I’m impressed,” she said.

Quentin found Epstein tapping away at his computer. He took a seat and waited.

“Okay,” Epstein said, “what now?”

“The president is calling the director requesting counterintelligence to handle Mr. Riis.”

“I figured,” Epstein replied. “You know that’s not his name, don’t you?”

“I know who Jacob Riis was.”

Epstein’s secretary buzzed. “The director, on line one.”

He picked up the phone. “Good afternoon, Director.”

He listened, nodding to himself. “Yes, sir, I understand. Special Agent Quentin Phillips, a Harvard man.” He listened some more. “Right away, Director. Good day, sir.” He hung up. And turned to Quentin.

“Betty has a ticket to San Francisco and a travel voucher for you. You’re on an early plane tomorrow. Take the night off and collect your reward from Ms. Martindale. The AIC out there will assign a couple of rookies to you. I want to know who and where Jacob Riis is. Get out.”

“Yes, sir!” Quentin replied, bolting for the door. “How did you know—”

“I said get out.”

As he passed out the door, Betty held out an envelope for him. “Good luck,” she said, then went back to her computer.

Quentin glanced at his watch as he ran back to his desk. He had time to pack and get to Millie’s place; he could leave for the airport from there. The phone was ringing as he reached his cubicle. Millie confirmed.

Millie got home at six, an unheard-of hour for her. She vacuumed, dusted, and changed the sheets and washed three days of dirty dishes, then she showered, washed her hair, and put on a short dress, not bothering with underwear. She filled the ice bucket with cubes and sat down to wait. Her doorbell buzzed. He was not late. She opened the door to find him holding a suitcase and a briefcase.

“Going somewhere?”

“To dinner,” he said, brushing past her and setting down his load. “The food will be here in half an hour. Can I have a drink, please?”

“Sure, what’ll it be?”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her. “That, first,” he said, “then scotch, rocks.” He kissed her again.

“So what’s the luggage for? I hope you don’t think you’re moving in.”

“Just for the night,” he said. “I’ve got a seven AM flight for San Francisco, car coming at five.” He tried to kiss her again, but she fended him off with his drink.

“Take a slug of that and sit down,” she said, pointing at the sofa, then poured herself a scotch and sat down beside him. “So you’re on the case, then?”

“I’m in charge of it. They’ve assigned two agents to me out there. This is one hell of a break for me, Millie, and I have you to thank for it.”

“You certainly do,” she said, “and don’t you forget it.”

They were halfway through their drinks when the doorbell rang. Quentin answered it and traded some cash for two large paper bags of food. “I hope you like Chinese,” he said, kicking the door shut behind him.

“Love it,” she said. “Have a seat at the table, and I’ll make it look like I cooked it.”

When they had finished, Quentin made short work of her dress, which she had counted on, and they flailed about in the throes of first-time sex for the better part of an hour.

When they had caught their breath and her head was on his shoulder, she said, “I hope you don’t think we’re going to make a regular thing of this.”

“Not unless you can get loose to come to San Francisco,” he said. “If not, then you’ll have to wait until I’m back for it to become a regular thing.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to manage San Francisco,” she said. “I’m too new to the job.”

“Then I guess it’ll have to be phone sex,” he said, kissing her and rolling over on top of her.