Three Jack McClure Missions Box Set (24 page)

“Absolutely,” Calla said.

“Tonight. Same time, same place.” Kray broke the connection.

26

“Goddamnit!”

Secretary Dennis Paull rarely lost his temper, but as those who worked closely with him could attest, when he did fly into a rage, it was best to say, “Yessir!” and get out of his way.

“Goddamnit to hell!” The Secretary of Homeland Security had his cell phone jammed so tightly to his head, circulation was being cut off to his ear. “The occupants were roasted alive, then.”

He listened intently to the harried voice on the other end of the line. The call had come in just as he was about to go into a debriefing with the POTUS, the Secretary of State, and one of the ranking generals—he forgot who, they all looked, spoke, and thought alike—who had just returned from the successful arm-twisting of the Russian president, Yukin. The POTUS was jubilant. He told Paull to get his fanny over to the West Wing, that they were all going to gorge themselves on beluga caviar, a parting gift from Yukin, who had knuckled under to the president’s agenda.

Paull had been on his way to see his wife, not that she would recognize him. But when he failed to see her during the week, his heart
broke all over again, and thoughts of their courtship and early years together would flood through him like a riptide, threatening to spin him away on whatever mysterious current had snatched her away from him. For an insane moment, he had contemplated the unthinkable: defying the president, sitting with Louise, holding her hand, willing the puzzlement out of her eyes and mind, willing her back to him. But then his survival instincts, honed by decades inside the Beltway, came to the fore and saved him.

Paull was about to say something but caught himself in time. He was standing on the blue carpet that led to the Oval Office. He was surrounded by polished wood paneling, cream paint, and the hushed sounds of a staff that ran like a well-oiled machine. Like the emanations of magnetic north, he felt the waves of power so close to the Oval Office. He was not fooled, however; the power lay in the office, not in the man who temporarily inhabited it. He strode down the hall, and then ducked into a small room, an extra office that was deserted. His phone was specially designed by the magicians at DARPA, ensuring that his conversations would sound like gibberish to anyone picking up the bandwidth. Nevertheless, he was cautious about his own voice being overheard.

“You’re sure they’re dead,” he said into the phone.

“They had no time to get out,” the man on the other end of the line said. “And believe me, no one short of Superman could have survived that blaze.”

“How the hell did this happen?”

“The best I can tell, McClure pissed them off. He got on to them; he sicced his ATF pals on them. They couldn’t believe it, so they went after him.”

Paull rolled his eyes. Why did he have to suffer these incompetents? But he already knew the answer. Incompetents were who this Administration hired. “And,” he prompted.

“They got a little overzealous.”

Paull had to count to ten before he could say in a low voice, “You call firing handguns on the parkway ‘overzealous’? This wasn’t a termination mission, for the love of Mike.”

Silence on the line.

Paull felt as if his eyes were bugging out of his head. “It sure as hell wasn’t a termination mission.”

“Sir,” the disembodied voice replied, “they sure as hell thought it was.”

“What about your car?” Nina said.

Jack drove south on Kansas Avenue. Considering the gray BMW, he thought it best not to be driving his car the rest of the day. “After we’re done, you can drop me back here.”

“It may be nothing but a burned-out husk by that time,” Nina said.

“Or it might not be there at all and I can requisition a new one.”

“Har-har.” Nina banged down her door lock. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“Take a look at the list.”

Nina took up the two sheets Armitage had given them, her eyes scrolling down the list of names. “What am I looking for?”

“Known criminals.”

“Let’s see.” Nina ran her forefinger down the list on both sheets. “Nope. Nothing shouts out at me.”

Jack made another turn, onto Peabody Street NW. He checked the rearview mirror. He was justifiably paranoid about tails. “Try the second sheet, fourth name from the bottom.”

“Joachim Tolkan? What about him?”

“Twenty-five years ago, his father, Cyril, was a notorious criminal in this section of the District.” Jack put on some speed. “Ran numbers, drugs, and explosives out of the All Around Town bakery.”

Nina laughed. “That’s where I get my croissants and coffee. There are maybe a dozen of them throughout the District.”

“Back in the day,” Jack said, “there was only one.”

Perhaps Nina heard something in his tone. “You knew the father, this Cyril Tolkan.”

“He murdered someone.” Jack slowed as they approached the old tenement, home of the original All Around Town bakery. “Someone close to me.”

Nina frowned as Jack pulled to a stop on Fourth Street NW between Kennedy and Jefferson. “This isn’t some kind of personal vendetta, is it, because we have no time for extracurricular activities of any nature whatsoever.”

Jack was sorely tempted to describe in detail Hugh Garner’s manhandling of Peter Link, but decided against it. Instead, he said, “I have a hunch. If it doesn’t pan out, I’ll drop it and we’ll be back to square one.”

He knew he was on edge. Why would any of the four order him tailed and attacked? Was it Armitage they wanted silenced? The state of unknowing was not a pleasant one for him. He resisted the urge to call Bennett; he knew the chief would contact him as soon as he had dug up anything of substance.

A bell sounded as they entered the bakery. The place was much as he remembered, full of the delicious swirl of butter, sugar, yeast, baking bread. He remembered in vivid detail the first time Gus had taken him here. In his mind’s eye, he could see Cyril’s goons standing around, reading the racing forms, waiting for their orders to dispense drugs or weapons, pick up payments, and if the envelope was a little light, to deliver a bloody payment of their own. He remembered the balding man behind the counter who gave him a chocolate-chip cookie. And Cyril himself, with his dark, olive eyes, his Slavic cheekbones, and his sinister air. Today, however, there were only a couple of elderly ladies buying their daily bread. They
smiled at him as they walked out with their sweet-smelling purchases.

“Name’s Oscar. Can I help you?”

A short, squat man in a baker’s apron, with a monkish fringe of hair around the circumference of his milk chocolate scalp and a wide flat nose that must once have been broken regarded them with curious eyes and a welcoming smile. The current All Around Town bakery was a couple of light-years from the shop Cyril Tolkan had presided over.

“I’ll take a square of crumb cake.” Jack turned to Nina. “And you, sweetheart?”

Nina, unfazed, shook her head.

Jack grinned at Oscar. “The missus is a bit shy in this neighborhood.”

“I understand completely.” Oscar had a spray of freckles over the flattened bridge of his nose. He placed Jack’s crumb cake in a square of paper on the top of the glass case. Addressing Nina, he said, “How about a chocolate-chip cookie?” He picked one out of the pile, held it out. “No one can resist one of our chocolate-chip cookies.”

Jack remembered. Even stale it was good.

Nina gave a tight smile, took the cookie.

Jack took out his wallet.

“The cookie’s on the house,” Oscar said.

Jack thanked him as he paid. He bit into the crumb cake, said, “Delicious.” As he chewed, he said, “I wonder if Joachim is around.”

Oscar busied himself arranging a tray of linzer tortes. “Friend or business?”

“A little of both.”

Oscar seemed to take this nonanswer in stride. “The boss’ll be back tomorrow. He’s in Miami Beach, for his mother’s funeral.”

Jack looked around the room, munched on his crumb cake. “You know what time he’ll be in?”

“First thing in the morning,” Oscar said. “I just got off the phone with him.” He took a tray of butter cookies from a thin lad who’d appeared from the oven room. “Any message?”

“No.” Jack finished off the crumb cake, brushed his fingertips together. “We’ll be back.”

Oscar held aloft a couple of cookies. “Something for the road?”

Jack took them.

27

The Renaissance Mission Church is more than a place of worship for Jack; it’s his schoolhouse. It doesn’t take long for Reverend Taske to unearth the root of Jack’s reading difficulties. As it happens, he’s studied a bit about dyslexia, but now he studies more. Every evening when Jack arrives after work at the Hi-Line, Taske has another idea he’s found in some book or other pulled from libraries all over the District.

One evening Jack is particularly frustrated by trying to read a book—this one is of poems by Emily Dickinson. He lashes out, breaks a glass on Reverend Taske’s desk. Immediately ashamed, he too-quickly picks up the shards, cuts the edge of his hand. After throwing the glass into the wastepaper basket, he goes over to the armoire, takes out the first aid kit. As he does so, his eye is caught by something on the floor of the armoire. Pushing aside some boxes, he sees what looks like a door.

Just as he’s pushing the boxes back in place, Reverend Taske comes in. Within the blink of an eye, he seems to take in the entire scenario. He holds out his hand, and once Jack gives him the first aid kit, gestures for Jack to sit down. He looks at the cut on Jack’s hand.

“What happened?”

“I was having trouble reading,” Jack said. “I got angry.”

Taske searches to make sure no tiny bit of glass has lodged itself in the wound. “The glass means nothing.” He begins to disinfect the wound. “But your anger needs tending.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack says.

“Before you allow your temper to flare, think about why you’re angry.” Taske bandages the cut, then indicates the armoire. “I expect you’re wondering where that trapdoor leads.” He regards Jack sternly. “I can trust you, can’t I?”

Jack sits up straight. “Yes, sir.”

Reverend Taske gives him a wink. “You see, back in the thirties, when liquor was outlawed, these buildings were under the control of bootleggers—people who dealt in illegal liquor. There’s a tunnel under here that leads into Gus’s back room.” He closes up the kit, puts it away. “Now, let’s get back to Emily Dickinson.”

“I’ll never be able to get it,” Jack says in despair.

Taske bids him put down the slim volume. “Listen to me, Jack. Your brain is special. It processes things in a way mine can’t—in three dimensions.” He hands Jack a Rubik’s Cube. “The idea here is to get a solid color on each side of the cube. Go on. Give it a try.”

As Jack turns the cube, understanding comes to him full-blown, and he manipulates the mind-bending puzzle. He hands the cube back to Taske. Each side is a solid color.

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” Taske says. “All the current literature claims you wouldn’t have trouble solving Rubik’s puzzle, but four minutes!” He whistles. “No one else I know can solve this, Jack, let alone so quickly.”

“Really?”

Taske smiles. “Really.”

Though it’s in a run-down neighborhood that could charitably be called marginal, the Renaissance Mission Church attracts a high level
of media coverage and, therefore, attendance from local politicos. This is due to the benevolent work Reverend Taske does, rehabilitating hardened criminals of thirteen or fourteen, turning them into citizens of the District who make tangible contributions to their neighborhood. Taske’s admirable goal is to rehab the entire area, not by inviting white entrepreneurs to take over failing black businesses, but by creating black entrepreneurs who have the tools to turn these businesses into moneymaking operations. Unfortunately, in his neighborhood, the businesses that make the most money are those that run numbers, deploy prostitutes, deal drugs. Old habits are hard to break, especially those that have proved painlessly lucrative for their bosses. No schooling is needed, no learning to abide by the laws of the Man. No need to become civilized—or even civil, for that matter. All that’s required is muscle, guns, and a pair of brass balls.

That includes Andre. After taking his lumps from his boss, Cyril Tolkan, for beating up on Jack, Andre has moved up Tolkan’s crooked corporate ladder with alarming rapidity. Part of his motivation, of course, was to get out of Tolkan’s doghouse, but far more worrying is the flame of his ambition, which is burning brighter than even Gus had imagined. Andre never comes to the church anymore, and ever since Reverend Taske returned from Andre’s new lair with a black eye and a lacerated cheek, he doesn’t even mention his name. Gus, enraged, wanted to go after Andre himself, but Taske wouldn’t let him. Jack happens to overhear their conversation early one Sunday morning, which takes place in the rectory, where Jack is laboriously working his way through
The Great Gatsby.
The novel is interesting because, like Jack himself, Gatsby is an outsider. But it becomes downright fascinating when Jack, thumbing through a biography of F. Scott Fitzgerald he takes out of the local library, learns that the author was, like Jack himself, dyslexic.

“I’ve had enough standin’ aside while Andre goes off on ev’rybody,” Gus says.

“You just can’t abide him taking business from you,” Reverend Taske responds.

“Huh! Looka whut he did to you!”

“Occupational hazard,” Taske says. “You’re not my daddy, Augustus. I can take care of myself.”

“By turnin’ the other cheek.”

“That’s how I was taught, Augustus. That’s what I believe.”

“Whut you believe ain’t nuthin’ but a jackass’s brayin’.”

Jack sucks in his breath. He is compelled to get up, creep down the hall, put his eye to the crack between door and jamb he makes by pulling with his fingertips. In his limited line of vision, the Reverend Taske is eclipsed by Gus’s planetary shape.

“Because your ire is up, I’m going to ignore your insult to me, Augustus, but I can’t overlook your blasphemy toward God. When we’re done, I want you to make penance.”