Death Echo

27

DAY THREE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

6:08 P.M.

Tim Harrow glanced idly around the tapas bar. It was small, plush, and preferred by congressmen meeting lobbyists for a little off-the-record monkey business. Just one of the many open secrets of Washington, D.C., that the press corps never got around to “discovering” until one of the congressmen pissed on some editor’s private crusade for truth, justice, and headlines.

Don’t ask. Don’t tell.

Happy hour begins at 10:00 A.M.

Although Harrow’s expression didn’t show it, he was annoyed at being there. Usually his contact was happy with coded emails or black-box telephone calls.

Maybe she was looking for a little action.

The thought eased a lot of Harrow’s irritation. Carin Richards was as good on her knees as she was in back-channel communications.

The beveled glass and mahogany bar door opened. A woman dressed in the D.C. uniform-good quality business suit in a subdued blue, leather briefcase, short dark hair, medium heels, and simple jewelry-walked through the crowded bar area to the quiet booth where Harrow waited.

No one hit on her. She wasn’t dressed for it, wasn’t swinging her ass for it, and wasn’t looking around for it. Just one more lobbyist having a drink after a long day.

Except this lobbyist was an FBI agent and an old friend. With benefits.

Harrow smiled as she slid into the small booth opposite him. She toasted him silently with the drink he had ordered for her. As she did, she leaned forward and said a name.

“Shurik Temuri.”

Harrow’s expression didn’t change.

“Mean anything to you?” Carin asked.

“In what context?”

“Rosario, Washington, state of.”

“The rez murder?” Harrow asked.

“Big coincidence otherwise.”

Harrow sipped his neat Scotch. “As far as we’re concerned, that’s not a familiar context for him.”

“No shit. My boss-and his boss, and the one above, all the way up to top of the mountain-is stroking out over the fact that your people didn’t warn them that your good buddy is on U.S. soil. Where you, by the way, are specifically not permitted to act under the laws we all know and love. This is an unofficial warning. The official one will land as soon as my people can speak in language fit to print on a memo. We want Temuri. Bad.”

“How certain are you of the identity?” Harrow asked.

“Ninety-three point six probability, based on a surveillance photo that came through back channels. And yes, we trust the source.”

Harrow sipped when he wanted to hurl the heavy glass into the booth across the bar. “I’ll look into it.”

“You do that. Real fast.” She waved a server over. “I’m hungry. How about you?”

He’d just lost his appetite, but he knew he might as well eat. He had a long night of work ahead. Silently he damned all informants who couldn’t be trusted to stay bought.

Not that anyone with two brain cells expected Temuri to do anything but what he was best at. Betrayal.

“Knock yourself out,” Harrow said. “I’m buying.”

“You bet you are. My expense account gets maxed out at a soda machine.”