Azrael (4 page)

“Sorry.”

“Sorry!
What’s the matter with you? You could have crippled me! What the hell are you trying to do?”

Trotter thought of telling him it was his old fraternity handshake, but that would only have made him angrier. He tried a sheepish grin instead. “I really am sorry,” he said. “I—I’ve been very jumpy lately. I’m thinking of seeing a doctor about it.”

The dentist was smoothing finger marks out of his lab coat. “That might be a good idea. Doesn’t have to be a psychiatrist, you know. Jumpy doesn’t mean crazy. There are plenty of organic causes that might be behind this. Something as simple as diet could—”

“Where’s Miss Petrello?” Trotter asked the question gently, but the dentist jumped as if he’d stepped on a jellyfish.

“Ah ... she was done with you. I came in because there was a gentleman outside who wanted to see you.”

Trotter raised an eyebrow.

“He ... he says he’s from the FBI.”

“Ah,” Trotter said. “Did he say anything else?”

Trotter suppressed a smile. He could see why the dentist was so upset. To have an FBI man come and ask for a patient, then to have the patient wheel on you like a homicidal maniac ...

“Just that you’re not in any trouble and that he would wait for you.”

Trotter let the smile out. It felt odd, lopsided through the novocaine. “I won’t keep him waiting any longer,” he said. “How much do I owe you?”

The other man’s mouth worked, and for a second Trotter thought the dentist was going to tell him, forget it, it’s on the house. When the man got it together enough to say, “Eighty dollars. For the filling. And the cleaning,” he told himself he should have known better. “On the house” was not the way these guys wound up driving BMWs.

The dentist flinched again when Trotter went to his pocket. He pulled out a wallet that contained about a thousand dollars in currency and better than four times that much in Grade A phony ID.

He pulled out two fifties and handed them over, apologized again, and told him to buy something nice for Miss Petrello with the change.

Trotter was tingling as he turned his back on the dentist and walked out to the waiting room, and not just from the novocaine. He was excited, and he knew it, and he hated himself for it. An FBI man, here to find him, could only have been sent by Fenton Rines. Rines was the only one Trotter kept in touch with, therefore the only one who knew where to find him.

And Trotter had given Rines specific instructions about the reasons he wanted someone to be able to find him. Rines had not taken the instructions lightly.

Cronus. The Russians were pulling another Cronus operation. Trotter wanted to be in on it. Had to be.

Because Cronus was the reason he’d been born. Fighting it was the only thing that could make his life worthwhile.

“W
AKE UP,” TROTTER SAID
. “We’re landing.”

“I’m not asleep,” Joe Albright told him.

“I know, you were watching me through slitted eyes, waiting for me to make my move. Whatever the hell that might be.”

“Listen, Trotter. This started out as a routine day. They told me to find you and escort you to Washington. That’s
all
they told me. I don’t know who you are, except that you’re not wanted for anything, and I don’t want to know who you are. And I really don’t need you pulling my chain.”

That last sentence, at least, was one hundred percent true. Joe Albright was thirty years old. He was smart, honest, educated and good-looking. He dressed conservatively. He did not smoke, drink, use drugs, or mess inordinately with women. He was an expert shot, and he was an expert in Caribbean languages and cultures.

He had, as far as he could tell, a great future with the FBI, especially since he was black. He didn’t want to be favored because of his race; he was sure he didn’t need any favoritism. He just wanted to be
noticed.
And that was fairly certain. Black guys were still thin on the ground in the Bureau.

Trotter could represent an opportunity or a problem, Albright wasn’t sure which. Because despite what he’d told his—what? Companion? Prisoner?—the message from Washington had contained considerably more information than just a statement of the job. They told him to identify himself to Trotter
very clearly,
not, for example, to drop a hand on his shoulder and say, “Hey, buddy, come with me.” That, it turned out, had been good advice. Albright should have passed the advice along to the dentist. He’d heard the man telling the receptionist how poorly Trotter had taken a sudden surprise.

But Washington had told him something else—not to tell anybody else at his regional office.

That’s where the problem/opportunity business came in. Because the only reason Albright could see to keep this secret from his boss was that it was something the boss shouldn’t be allowed to know. Did that mean trouble at the office? Was this Trotter a witness or something? Or was this all a scam? Maybe Trotter was escorting
him
to D.C., and the interrogations were going to start with him.

On the other hand, maybe the powers had decided Joe was the clean man in a world of dirt and were going to give him a central role in the housecleaning.

Trotter was no help at all. For a guy who’d been pulled out of a dentist’s chair and brought three thousand miles to see a top federal law-enforcement official, Trotter was something beyond calm. He acted like a man starting off on a fishing trip. For a guy who was goosey enough to come near to breaking a man’s bones for startling him, Trotter was a surprisingly serene traveler.

Joe tried to figure out what it was about Trotter that had gotten things moving so quietly on such a high level. He was about Joe’s age, tall, about six-one, and in good shape without getting militant about it. That was another thing. They had given him nineteen descriptions for the guy when they sent Albright out to look for him. The only thing that didn’t vary was the height. His hair was listed as anything from sandy to black. He might weigh anything from 175 to 240 pounds. He wore glasses, or he didn’t. His eyes were blue, or they were green or gray, but most likely they were brown. If he was wearing glasses, as he was now, they’d most likely be brown. As they were now. He might be brash or timid, living well or poorly, alone or with a woman.

So, Joe wondered, if this guy was such a chameleon, how did the Bureau in Washington have his address? Joe was tempted to ask him, but it was against procedure. Besides, all it would probably get him was one of those irritatingly charming smiles Trotter was currently using on the stewardesses.

Joe didn’t dare go to sleep, even after they’d changed planes in Chicago and there was nowhere Trotter could go before they got to Dulles, short of hijacking the plane. Trouble was, if Joe went to sleep, Trotter probably
would
hijack the plane. Just to show Joe he could do it. So, tired as he was, Joe stayed awake, watching Trotter through slitted eyes, only to get twitted about it as the plane was coming down.

As soon as they were in the terminal, Trotter said, “Call the office.”

The guy really
was
a chameleon. To look at Trotter now, you would never believe the owner of that face was capable of smiling and bantering with stewardesses. Giving orders, though, seemed perfectly natural. Joe irritated himself by starting to move his head to look around for a phone, then said, “Nobody said anything about you giving orders.”

Trotter looked bored and, for the first time, as tired as Joe was. “Right,” Trotter said.
“Please
call your office, okay?”

“There was nothing about that, either.”

“What did they tell you to do, bring me right in?” Joe said nothing, but it didn’t matter, since Trotter didn’t wait for an answer. “Sure, they had a good night’s sleep, probably in their own beds. Guys like us have to be Superman.”

“Guys like us?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Trotter said. “Who are you supposed to report to?”

Joe looked at him.

Trotter started to laugh. “No, it’s not a test, and I’m sorry to bring it up with all these people walking by.” He lowered his voice. “Rines, right? No, don’t tell me, I’ll tell you something. They told you to find me and bring me, but not a word why, and now you don’t know whether, as my daddy frequently says, to shit or go blind.

“So I’ll help you. I’m supposed to be briefed on something, but I’m too tired to take it in. Also, my teeth hurt.”

“Your teeth hurt.”

“Right. So let’s go to a phone. You call in and tell them if they swear to God that it can’t wait until—what is it now, six-thirty
A.M
.?—you tell them that if it can’t wait until three this afternoon, I will come in, but I won’t like it, and I won’t be good for much. If they won’t swear to that but insist I come in, I am going to disappear, find some aspirin and a bed, and see them at three o’clock, anyway.”

“Unless I stop you,” Joe suggested.

“Unless you stop me, of course. You’ll have to shoot me to do it, the way I feel now. I know you guys always shoot to kill.”

“You sound like you’re daring me to.”

“Joe—can I call you Joe? I just don’t care.”

Joe looked into the man’s eyes and saw only truth. Trotter was no older than Joe was, but his eyes were ancient.

“Where’s a phone?” Joe said. Trotter pointed, and they made their way through morning shuttle commuters to a pay phone on the wall.

A half hour later Joe was checking them into a Holiday Inn. The last thing Joe heard before he got into bed was Trotter shooting the bolt on the connecting doors. He had a flash of alarm, then remembered Rines’s voice on the phone. “Sorry, Albright, we should have told you. You can trust Trotter. Do whatever he wants. We’ll see you this afternoon.”

Amazing. This guy had some kind of juju on the brass. Not only does he get carte blanche, but he gets one of the Bureau’s top men apologizing to lowly field hand Joe Albright.

Joe didn’t know what he’d gotten into, but it promised to be educational. In the meantime, they told him not to worry, so he didn’t worry. He went to sleep.

T
ROTTER WALKED INTO A
fifties-vintage glass-and-turquoise-fronted building in Silver Spring, Maryland. It was as anonymous a place as you could find, one of two dozen or so interspersed among the fast-food places along the first two miles outside the D.C. line. They housed government contractors (Washington, D.C, being the nation’s ultimate one-industry town, Detroit notwithstanding) and companies that sold office furniture and stationery to government contractors. This particular building, Trotter learned from the directory, also housed a couple of low-budget lobbying groups (like the National Wooden Utensil Foundation) and the Greek-American Information Service, one of the dozens of special-interest journalistic enterprises that swarmed about the area.

The Agency was not in the directory. Trotter was willing to bet, however, that the Agency owned the building.

The Agency’s budget did not appear in that mound of telephone-directory-sized volumes the President submits to Congress every year. The Agency was not supposed to exist. It got its money in two ways—nickel-and-diming the budgets of dozens of different government departments, programs and agencies (Trotter’s father called this “spillage”); and from investments. Anonymous little office buildings in Silver Spring, for instance, and maybe one or more of the burger and chicken places across the street. No
big
earners, nothing to grab attention, but steady. And a lot of them. By the time Trotter had stopped working full-time for his old man, the Agency had been a whisker away from being self-supporting; by now, it was probably showing a profit.

It had taken a certain amount of insistence to get Albright to drop him off here, once he’d seen the place. He couldn’t believe that the Bureau, with all the space it could want over at Justice, would waste its time with a building like this. He finally faced the fact that this was indeed the address he’d been given, with suitable authorization codes, over the phone, and let Trotter go without further fuss.

The FBI had the huge establishment, marble pillars to lean on and everything. The Agency, on the other hand, traveled light, without a building, recognition, or even a name to its name.

It was just the Agency, founded after World War II by an OSS general who knew that there were going to be times when a Central Intelligence Agency would be too big, too procedure-bound, and too scrupulous to do what had to be done. He fought for, and got, a hyper-secret organization with no official jurisdiction and, therefore, no limits on what it could concern itself with. There would be no chain of command—each Agent would answer solely to him, and he only to the President.

That cozy setup lasted until Watergate. The press got a taste for blood, and the “National Interest” had been invoked so many times to cover embarrassing petty political bullshit that nobody would listen to it anymore. Congress was going to take a hand; Congress was going to oversee
all
American intelligence operations, and the President might not have the juice to resist.

So the General became the Congressman. He found a district in his home state and persuaded the good old boys of the local Democratic Committee to nominate him (he was a War Hero, after all) in a place where, once the nomination was in hand, the election was an afterthought.

Then he pulled strings until Washington looked like a spider-web, only nobody could find the spider. When it was over, the Congressman was the chairman of the House Intelligence Oversight Committee. He did a hell of a job, too. Every spy outfit anyone had ever heard of had to admit that the Congressman was tough but fair. And the one nobody had ever heard of continued to operate as it always had.

Trotter followed the fallout-shelter signs, the ones that had been put up in the early sixties when, if people looked up, it was even money whether they were checking for rain or for Russian ICBMs. Nobody’d needed the shelters (they were inadequate from the start, anyway), and nobody checked on them or maintained them, but nobody ever got around to taking the signs down, either. They’d become invisible, unless you looked for them.