Fonduing Fathers (23 page)

“Thanks,” I said, hefting it. “Doesn’t feel as though there’s anything in there.” I studied the outside. “Who is it from?”

“Beats me.”

“I appreciate you walking this over, but I’m sure you could have left it when you stopped by earlier.”

“It only arrived an hour ago. That’s not why I stopped by before.” He blinked and held up the file folder. “I have this for you. I thought it best to discuss this when no one else was around.”

He had my interest now. Tucking the diplomatic pouch between my elbow and ribs, I took the file folder, opening it as I asked, “What is this?”

“You seemed interested in Pluto,” Quinn said, “and you mentioned your dad worked there a while back. I thought I’d dig up whatever I could from our files,” he added.

“That was nice of you,” I said sincerely. What I held in my hands looked to be almost identical to what Gav had come up with. I wasn’t about to tell him that, and I took my time paging through the copies he’d made, trying to buy myself time. If I was reading signals correctly, this was a twist I hadn’t expected, though Virgil and Bucky had. Not only that, I didn’t want Quinn “helping” me overmuch with this project. At this point I didn’t know what I might find.

“I can’t thank you enough,” I said. Before he could provide ideas on how I might be able to thank him, I held up the diplomatic pouch. “I guess I’d better see what’s in here before I leave, don’t you think?”

I turned the kitchen lights back on and placed the pouch on the nearest horizontal surface, opening it and wishing Quinn would leave. To his credit, he didn’t crowd, remaining a respectful distance away while I retrieved and opened the single sheet of folded paper within. The note instructed me to visit a franchise restaurant on G Street. Once there, I was to walk in and order a small coffee and a bagel. “Okay,” I muttered to myself. More cloak-and-dagger.

“Bad news?” Quinn asked. “Anything I can help you with?”

“I’m fine,” I said with a glance at my watch.

“You’re leaving, obviously. Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

That was about the last thing my mysterious colleague would want to see, being escorted to the rendezvous point by a Secret Service agent. “Thanks, but that might be awkward.”

Quinn confused my meaning, but for once I was grateful to be misunderstood. “Oh, sure. See you later.”

I breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone.

TRAFFIC BEING AS BAD AS IT WAS, I DECIDED to walk to the coffee shop rather than flag a cab. It was still warm, and would be for a few more hours, but I kept up a brisk pace, needing to stretch my legs, to move. I enjoyed being outside in the fresh air.

I scurried across G Street and spotted the coffee shop immediately, set back from the road in a sea of concrete. The neon
OPEN
light hanging in the window was unlit and as I drew closer I realized that all the inside lights were off. A sheet of paper had been taped inside the glass door with hand-lettered words:
SORRY. CLOSED DUE TO ELECTRICAL PROBLEM. SEE YOU TOMORROW, WE HOPE!

I fisted my hips. “What now?” I asked rhetorically. Not expecting an answer, I leaned forward, cupping my hands against the glass to peer into the darkened coffee shop. No one inside. At least, no one in the public part. I detected shadows moving in back.

I turned around, scanning the area for anyone who looked as though he or she might be looking for me. No one jumped up and waved hello or took any notice of me. Commuters rushed by: men in suits and business casual and women in skirts and gym shoes, purses pulled tight to their sides. All
of them walking with purpose. Tourists maintained a more leisurely pace as families consulted colorful maps and pointed south and southwest.

The note instructing me to show up here didn’t specify a time. I wondered if my late departure from the White House had caused problems after all. If it had, Yablonski would no doubt give Gav an earful about me.

There wasn’t much for me to do but go home to my apartment and await further instructions, if any. I was disappointed in one sense, relieved in another. Although Yablonski may very well be a valuable ally, and despite Gav’s insistence otherwise, I got the distinct impression he hadn’t liked me very much. Even more, I think he didn’t like the fact that I’d become important to Gav.

I waited another moment, giving my fellow commuters one last look. A bum on a bench stared at the sky with one hand pillowing his head. He mumbled to himself, didn’t even turn my way. Ten steps away, a young guy in a black suit paced while talking on his cell. He stared right through me. Clearly, he was seeing whoever was on the other end of his invective-littered rant.

I turned away from the coffee shop, bumping into a blonde man. Twenty-five, tall, wearing a gray suit and a loosened blue tie, he was out of breath. “They’re closed?” he asked, looking over my shoulder at the taped sign.

Was this my contact? “Apparently.”

“Hi,” he said. “Are you meeting someone?”

A-ha. This had to be him. “I think so.”

“Who are you here to meet?” he asked.

He hadn’t given the code word. “Why don’t you tell me first who you’re meeting?”

Momentarily disconcerted, he straightened his tie. “I’m sorry it’s closed. Maybe there’s another place to have coffee nearby?”

“I think you and I are meeting two other people,” I said. “I’m not your blind date.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I guess I’m mistaken,” he said, stumbling over the words.

“Got it,” I said, taking my leave. “I hope you find her.”

I was about to leave the general area—to grab the Metro and head home—when my stomach reminded me it had been quite a while since I’d eaten. I remembered that I didn’t have much in my house to choose from, either. Although I’d helped myself to a few tidbits during the afternoon, I needed a more substantial meal. Less than a block away was a fun new create-your-own-salad place. I headed for it.

Within minutes, I took a seat at a counter facing the window and watched the passersby as I dug into my arugula salad with fresh tomatoes and shaved Parmesan. I’d have to tell Gav about the glitch with the closed coffee shop. Maybe he’d be able to get in touch with Yablonski and make things right.

I wondered what Yablonski had wanted to tell us.

I finished my salad, took a last sip of water, and tossed my trash, wishing I could talk to Gav right now. I knew he’d be tied up late into the evening, so there was no hope of that. I’d stuffed the information Quinn had provided about Pluto into my cavernous purse. Maybe when I got home I’d go through it. The chances of Quinn uncovering an important tidbit we’d missed were slim, but I preferred to be thorough. Plus it would give me something to do tonight all by my lonesome.

I’d just stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the salad shop when a car pulled up into the no-parking zone in front of me. The dark sedan had tinted windows, a dented passenger side door, and a crooked bumper. The driver got out, stood in his open door, and waved to me. “Ms. Paras?” he asked.

“And you are?”

“Come with me,” he said.

I wagged a finger at him, taking note of the busy sidewalk
around me. “I’m not about to get into a car with a person I don’t know.”

The guy was mid-forties, maybe older. Paunchy, with a ring of brown hair around his sweating head, he wore a plaid short-sleeved shirt and a glare of impatience. “Ms. Paras, how do you think I know your name if you’re not supposed to come with me?”

Too many people—some with diabolical plans in mind—had attempted to get me to go with them. “Sorry,” I said, hands up in the air. “Not going to happen.”

We were starting to cause a scene. People were giving us odd looks as they swerved around me on the sidewalk.

I gave the guy one more moment to provide the code word, then decided to walk away.

He grunted loud enough for me to glance back. He’d leaned toward the open door, keeping both hands on the roof, looking like Kilroy but without the overhanging nose. He held up an index finger, which I assumed was a signal for me to wait. I didn’t.

I heard the door slam, and Mr. Plaid Shirt jogged toward me, sweat stains darkening his shirt deeply below both arms. “Wait,” he called, without shouting.

I let him catch up. Nothing at all like the young man purportedly waiting for his blind date, this guy’s breathless speech came out with chunks of spittle. “What the heck is wrong with you?” he asked by way of greeting.

“I don’t know you,” I said. “Unless you can prove who you are, I’m not going anywhere with you.”

He rubbed the side of his face, glancing back at the idling sedan. “Oh yeah, right. Hang on. I remember. Balloons. Happy now?”

I gave him the evil eye. I didn’t want him to be right, but he was. “What’s your name?”

“You don’t need to know.” He pinched my elbow between his thumb and forefinger. “Can we get going now?”

I yanked my arm free. “I am perfectly capable of walking on my own. I am not getting into that car until you tell me where we’re going.”

“He said you were difficult,” the guy mumbled.

“Who said that?”

This sweaty guy had big eyes, the kind that look like giant white cue balls with itty-bitty dark marbles in their centers. “You got any idea how much trouble you’re making for my boss?”

“No, I don’t.”

By this time, we’d reached the car. He didn’t answer, simply opened the back door on the passenger side and ordered me in.

I wasn’t happy to be herded like a reluctant sheep, but I obliged.

“Good evening, Ollie,” Quinn said from the other end of the backseat.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” I ASKED.

“I was supposed to meet you at the coffee shop,” he said, with an amused shrug. “We didn’t anticipate an emergency closure.”

The bald fellow had closed my door and come around to the driver’s seat. He pulled into traffic, muttering up a blue streak.

“Wait, I don’t get this. Why didn’t you say something back at the White House?” I asked. “And…wait.” It dawned on me that I hadn’t ever met Quinn until our stealth operation at the Food Expo on Saturday. “Hey…are you really a member of the Presidential Protective Division or are you just a plant?”

Quinn leaned back against the door, watching me. “Good job. You put that together fairly quickly.”

My brain was on overload. “But why?”

Quinn seemed far more at ease here than he ever had at
the White House. “A gentleman you and I both know…the gentleman you will meet with this evening…” He waited for me to acknowledge that I knew he was talking about Yablonski. I nodded. “That man put me on special assignment to keep an eye on you at the White House.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t ask. I do what I’m told.”

“But today in the kitchen, we were alone,” I reminded him. “Why didn’t you say something there?”

“We can’t take chances of anything we say being overheard.”

This was too much intrigue for my tastes. I rubbed my forehead, vaguely aware that we’d turned and were heading west. Trying again, I asked, “You don’t know why I’m meeting with…this gentleman, do you?”

“Not yet,” he said.

“So where are we going?”

“Let me ask you something,” Quinn said as the bald guy took a right turn. A break in traffic allowed him to speed up, which he did with gusto. “What business do you have with our mutual friend? And what does any of that have to do with the information in that file I gave you?”

“Who says they’re related?” I shot back. “Why did you make those copies for me, anyway?”

“There’s nothing in there you couldn’t have found on your own,” he said.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“No,” he said, “I didn’t.”

We were silent for about a mile or so. “Massachusetts Avenue?” I asked when we made another left. “Are you taking me to one of the embassies?”

Again not answering me, Quinn asked, “What is your real interest in Pluto?”

“Why do you care?”

He leaned forward, speaking softly, but there was an edge to his voice I didn’t understand. “I don’t believe for a moment
that it’s because your father used to work there. Everyone in the Service knows about your tendencies to get into trouble—”

“Why?” I asked before I could stop myself. “What’s going on with Pluto?”

I should have let him finish. From the way his face closed up it was clear he’d believed I knew more than I did. I felt more in the dark than ever. “I’ve got nothing against the company,” I began carefully. The last thing I wanted to do was say anything that brought my father’s service record into question. That was another matter, one completely separate from his Pluto days. I didn’t want anyone looking into that until I had gotten the information, myself. “I was interested in the company because my dad died when I was really little. Anything I can learn about him is like gold to me.”

His scornful gaze didn’t soften. “I’m not sure I buy it. Not that it matters. Our mutual friend will deal with this.”

The “mutual friend” euphemism again. “Does
he
know who I’m meeting?” I pointed to the driver, who seemed to be constantly checking his mirrors and blind spots. Suddenly it dawned on me why. “Does he think we’re being followed?”