Fear itself

6

The climate inside the DOJ-AOB was so oppressively perfect that toward the end of her second day closeted with the mountain of redacted transaction records, Linda Abruzzi would have killed for a little fresh air or sunlight-even a rainstorm-and was beginning to entertain Count of Monte Cristo fantasies. I could tap on the wall in Morse, she thought, make contact with some other poor office-bound wretch-maybe we could tunnel to freedom together.

Around four o’clock, as she was washing her hands in the ladies’ room after using the facilities, Linda asked her reflection in the stainless steel mirror over the sink (for security reasons, there were no glass mirrors in the building) to remind her again why she was putting herself through this, when she could have been kicking back at her parents’ new house out on Long Island, being waited on hand and foot by her mother.

But all she got out of the haggard brunette in the mirror, who appeared to be trying to disprove the second half of the old saw about how you couldn’t be too rich or too thin-alarmingly prominent Neapolitan nose and a chin you could have opened a beer bottle on-was a beats-the-crap-outta-me shrug.

“Okay, back to work,” she ordered herself. “There’s only another hour left-then you can go home and feel sorry for yourself.”

Forty-five minutes later, she felt like celebrating instead, having stumbled across a federal credit union account so bogus it was a wonder it hadn’t stunk up the whole office. Some GS-13, judging by the size of the paycheck automatically deposited into his or her account every month, had also made several large cash deposits spread out over a period of thirty months.

“Bingo,” she called to Miss Pool in the outer office. “I’ve either found our you-know-what or uncovered the dumbest double agent in the history of espionage.”

“Congratulations.” Pool appeared in the doorway; she already had her coat on.

“Should I call Maheu now, or wait until tomorrow morning?”

“Neither.”

“When, then?”

“Two weeks from yesterday.”

“How come?”

“Because that’s how much time they’ve budgeted for the job.”

“And if I finish early, he’s only going to come up with some more shit work?”

“I believe that’s the plan.”

“Thanks, Pool. What would I do without you?”

“Hon, you don’t ever want to find out.”

The brownstone in Georgetown was empty again when Linda got home a few minutes after six. Instead of a note on the kitchen table, there was a pink Post-it on the computer in the living room: “L: Prefer you not use this machine. Thanks, G.”

Fine, thought Linda-I can take a hint. Still, as she reached into her purse for her cell phone, she was surprised at how badly the rejection hurt. Tears in her eyes, lump in her throat, empty feeling in the pit of her stomach. Oh, grow up, Abrootz, she ordered herself. Just grow the fuck up.

“Pender.”

“Ed, it’s Linda. I-”

“Linda! Good work-thanks for getting back to me so quickly. Here’s what I need: First of all, forget Maheu. Rule number one for getting along in the Bureau: Better to ask forgiveness than permission. Okay?”

“Yes, but I-”

“Good. Now, what I want you to do: I want you to log on to that web site…”

“Ed.”

“…and see if you can contact the webmaster or the system administrator, whatever they call it, find out whether-”

“Ed!”

“What?”

“I’m not in the office, and I haven’t gotten any messages from you. I was just calling to ask you if your offer of a spare room is still open.”

“Absolutely. There’s a key under the stone Buddha on the back porch. Pick out any bedroom but the first-that one’s mine-help yourself to anything you need.”

“Thanks so much. Now, what were you-”

“Dorie Bell’s disappeared.”

“Oh, shit.”

“My sentiments ex-” He broke off in midsyllable. Linda heard someone yelling in the background, then Pender shouting, “FBI! I’m FBI, don’t shoot!”

“Ed? Ed, what’s going on?”

“Linda? Still there?”

“I’m here, Ed.”

“Barney Fife just showed up-looks like I’m going to have to get back to you.”

“Ed, wait-”

“Gotta go.”

More shouting in the background, then the line went dead.