Choppy Water

19

The black phone rang, and Elizabeth Potter jumped. She let it ring twice more while she composed herself, then picked it up. “Michael Crow’s office,” she said.

“What position does Mr. Crow hold?” a male voice asked.

Liz knew the voice immediately. “Mr. Crow is the deputy attorney general for criminal prosecution,” she replied.

“Can we talk on this line?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Crow is attending a meeting outside the office. May I take a message for him?”

“When do you think he could get back to me?”

“I should think between twelve-thirty and one.”

He gave her a number. “I’ll be waiting for the call.”

She wrote down the number; probably a burner cell phone. “I’ll see that he gets the message,” she said, then hung up. She memorized the number, then dropped the slip of paper into her shredder, which immediately ingested it.

She waited until 12:35 before returning the call.

“Yes?”

“It’s Bess.”

“Ah! Where are you?”

“At a table in a courtyard near my office.”

He gave her some walking directions. “It’s a pub called Shannon’s,” he said. “Ten minutes?”

“Five,” she replied. She put away her cell phone and began walking. Six minutes later she spotted the pub: not the sort that would attract anyone she knew for lunch. She found Sykes in a booth at the back. “Nice place you’ve got here,” she said, sliding in.

“Let’s just say that it doesn’t attract the carriage trade.”

“Nor the Justice trade.”

Sykes looked around, then back at her. “Quite right. I’ve received word that our bird is flying back to Washington for a few days.”

“That’s interesting. Where will she roost?”

“Two possibilities: the residence where your friends last made contact with her, or the family quarters of a large, white residence not too far away.”

Someone set a bowl of something before her. “What is this?” she asked, sniffing at it.

“Irish stew,” he replied. “The best in town.”

“How much competition is there?”

“Perhaps a dozen or so such pubs.”

She tasted it gingerly. “Not too bad.”

“Would you like something else?”

“What would you suggest?”

“Well, the drisheen has been praised by connoisseurs.”

“What is that?”

“Stomach of cow,” he replied, “sliced, seasoned, cooked, and cut into bite-sized pieces.”

“The Irish stew sounds delicious,” she said, filling a spoon and eating it.

“A wise choice,” Sykes said. “What do you think about our problem?”

“Well, let’s see: the last location has probably been fortified since our last visit.”

“Probably so.”

“And the alternative is guarded by a tall fence, dogs, guards armed with automatic weapons, and ground-to-ground missiles on the roof. Does either option sound inviting?”

“They both have the attraction of unexpectedness, one having been previously visited, the other suffering from complacency.”

“‘Complacency’? You think so?”

“I guess that means the previous location.”

“Not unless you can get someone inside, undetected, long enough to plant explosives,” she said. “And that someone will not be me.”

“I thought you bolder,” he said.

“Foolish, more likely.”

He reached out, stroked her forearm, and took her hand.

“Never that,” he said.

“Colonel,” she said, withdrawing her hand, “there is something you should know about me before we continue this conversation.”

“That you’re beautiful? I already know that.”

“That I’m a lesbian,” she replied.

He withdrew his hand as if her flesh were afire. “I would never have guessed,” he managed to say, finally.

“That’s the way I prefer it,” she said. “I’m afforded a wider range of company, if no one suspects.”

“Oh?”

“Most people are distrustful of others who present themselves as one thing, then turn out to be another. I find it more useful to let them make their presumptions, then follow their preconceived notions.”

“What would you say if another woman asked you directly: ‘Are you a lesbian?’”

“I would reply, ‘Why? Are you?’ And if she answered honestly in the affirmative, I would consider her as a potential lover. Men and women are not so different in the manner of their choices, as long as they’re on familiar ground.”

“And how long have you been, ah, that way?”

“You’re so delicate, Sykes. Since birth, probably before. It’s not a choice, you know. Just as you didn’t choose to be heterosexual.”

“That’s very enlightening,” Sykes said.

“I’m so happy you find it to be.”

“Now, back to the reason for our meeting.”

“Ah, yes. Can you present me with a more opportune setting?”

“Not yet.”

“Colonel, I seem to recall someone at your dinner table saying that your intelligence was inadequate.”

“I’m working on it. Do you, at your place of work, have access to the file of Holly Barker?”

“I do, if the file includes behavior indicating criminal activity or proclivity. I hardly think, given the positions she has held, that she had anything of the sort in her background. If so, it would have been discovered long ago.”

“Nevertheless, I’d like to know if she has a file and, if so, what’s in it.”

“If I can find a plausible excuse to work late one evening soon, then I know where the key is kept.”

“How about this evening?”

“Tomorrow evening would be better.”

“Call me the day after,” he said, hipping his way out of the booth. “Lunch is on me.” He walked out of the pub.

She didn’t watch him go.