Tomahawk (44 page)

Cottrell said, “Look, I'm sorry I blew up-at you down there. I was scared.”

“I was scared, too.”

“You didn't wimp out Maybe you did the right thing.”

“Maybe,” he said. “I don't know, Sandy. Sometimes it's real hard to tell.”

He stayed alert all the way back to the car, but they didn't see anyone else.

26

 

 

 

“It was the same thing Colonel Zhang said in the restaurant,” he said the next morning, in Attucks's office.

Across from him, the agent leaned on one arm, forefinger extending alongside his right eye. Pat Bepko sat to the side, equally intent. They had both remained motionless through his story. Their initial attitude had been skeptical. “So now you want to cooperate” had been Bepko's words when he'd phoned to ask for a meeting.

Now he was explaining why. Attucks's office was in the huge moated FBI building on Ninth and E. Dan had been talking for nearly half an hour. Now he fell silent and waited for their reaction.

Neither spoke for a time. Bepko smoked reflectively. Attucks looked out the window, down at the city.

“The note?” the FBI man said at last. Dan passed it over. Attucks examined the paper, the envelope, and the printing, then shook his head. “Could have come from any dime store in the District.”

“It sounds to me like they put these guys up to scare her. Or scare me, through her. Frighten her, rough her up, then give her the letter, addressed to me. I read it and get the point: give them what they want, or she gets hurt.”

“Only it didn't happen quite that way,” said Bepko softly.

“Obviously discovering that makes a difference in how I feel about cooperating with you.”

Contemplative silence again. At last Attucks rose and took a turn around the room. “Obviously. But the question
that occurs to me is: They haven't contacted you since then? Since your fiancee's death?”

“No.”

“They know it went wrong. So they know they no longer have that handle on you. Why should you come back, offer to help them?”

He took a deep breath. “I've thought about that. First, they probably don't suspect I know they were linked to it. Assuming I don't, and I have loyalty problems, or money problems, or both—which you said they'd probably already found out about—wouldn't it make sense for me to have second thoughts? And look them up again?”

They considered this. “It might be credible,” said Bepko. “Sort of a belated walk-in.”

“It could also be risky,” said Attucks. “Using an urban gang for threats, enforcement—that's new, a disturbing development. Could get dangerous fast, if you slip up. Or even if you don't, if they begin to suspect you for some other reason. Does that put you off?”

“No,” said Dan. “As long as we can nail whoever put that gang out on that trail that night, looking for her. And that reminds me.” He went over what the boy had said again, finishing with “And he mentioned a name. Something like Reeney. And I thought, There's a guy in D.C. Homicide named Joe Ogen who seems to know the gang scene. Or says he does. Maybe he could make something out of that.”

“A slim lead, but we'll pass it on,” said Attucks, making a note.

“About helping us. Am I hearing that's your sole motivation? Revenge?” Bepko squinted at him doubtfully.

“Pretty much. Yeah. Why? Isn't that enough?”

“Suppose we say yes? Axe you prepared to follow orders?”

“Sure. Though I still have things I want to get finished up around the office here before I leave, too.”

Bepko said, “All you need to do is the foreplay, get Zhang hot. Then we'll go in and fuck him.”

“Okay. But I'll need a letter.”

Attucks looked blank. “Letter?”

“Yeah, stating what you want me to do, and that it's
being done on behalf of the FBI and NIS. I don't want the Navy coming back and charging me with spying, and you guys hold up your hands and say, ‘Who? Never heard of the guy.' Call it paranoia.”

“I call it covering your one-and-only ass, and it makes sense to me,” said Bepko.

“With a hand-carried copy to Admiral Niles. And he signs off on it.”

“Done. Maybe I should say now that we'll cover any incidental expenses you incur—say like he wants to meet you for dinner at 1787 and you get stuck with the tab. Though they'll usually pick up anything like that.”

“Save the receipt,” said Bepko.

“No,
don't
save the damn receipt,” said Attucks. “That could tip him off you're expecting to be reimbursed. Enough about restaurants. Your side of the deal: Give Zhang a call. Tell him you got what he wanted—a unit phone book, was that it? That's a common way to start— and set up a meet.”

“One piece of advice,” Bepko said. “Don't act too eager. Reluctance, suspicion, and a touch of cupidity play a lot more believably.”

“When do you want me to make the contact?”

“You're sure you want to go through with this? No more playing coy?”

“I told you. I'm on board now.”

“Then there's no time like the present.” Attucks pulled a file folder off his desk. He put Zhang's card, the embassy card Dan had turned in through Toya, in front of him; then shoved his phone across.

After a moment, Dan picked it up. He tapped in the number and took a couple of deep breaths while it rang.

The woman who answered said Mr. Zhang was not in town. He was in Mexico City, observing a hemisphere security conference. Before he had time to register disappointment, she suggested he speak with the assistant air attaché, Lt. Col. Li Chenbin. Dan said all right. Hadn't it been somebody called “Li” Zhang wanted him to meet?

Bepko and Attucks watched silently. He looked away from them, rubbing his mouth.

A new voice came on the line. It spoke in Chinese,
then quickly switched to a fast, colloquial English. When Dan introduced himself, the man said yes, he'd heard Dan's name before. “How can I be of service to you, Mr. Lenson?”

“Well, I have something Mr. Zhang—Mr. Xinhu— which is his name?”

“Zhang is his last name. Mr. Zhang is correct.”

“I have something he was interested in. A phone book. For the Joint Cruise Missiles Office.” Bepko had advised him not to act eager. But he had to keep his real emotions from showing, and that was hard. “He said it was worth something to him.”

The other man didn't react for a moment. Then he said, “Well, I'm due at the airport soon, as it happens. Headed for Europe.”

“When will you be back?”

“Not for a week or so, and things are busy after that. Where will you be the week of the eighth?”

He ran down his itinerary. Li kept raising objections: He would not be available; it was not a good time; he would be on travel. Finally, Dan said, “Well, I guess we can't work this out. Sorry I bothered you, and thanks for your time.” Bepko and Attucks exchanged startled glances.

The voice on the other end said, “Wait. Let me make sure we have your number…. It's in Arlington, right?”

“That's right. I live on Cleveland Street.” He gave him the number at his apartment. “Don't call me at the office, all right?”

“No, I wouldn't do that. You travel a great deal in your position, don't you?”

“I sure do.”

“Where?”

“Well—Florida, Texas, the West Coast—”

“Perhaps we can set something up. It might not be right away, though.”

When Dan hung up, he blew out. “I don't think he wants to see me.”

“He's suspicious. Which I'd be, in his shoes.”

“Or else he's got something else working, some other
way into the project,” Attucks said. Bepko looked dismayed.

Feeling somehow as if he'd failed, Dan said, “So what do I do now?”

“Just wait,” said Bepko. “You're in play now. He may come back. He may not. Welcome to the glamorous world of counterespionage. Eighty percent of our time in this business amounts to variations on standing around with our thumb up our collective ass. So stay in touch, and thanks for coming in.”

Dan stood. They waited, Attucks slowly tapping a pencil against his phone. He searched for some parting comment, but didn't find anything inspiring to say. So finally he just picked up his cap and left.

27

 

 

 

Some weeks later, he sat belted in as the plane crayoned white circles above Southern California. The crowded interior stank of sweat and alcohol. Another half hour, the pilot had promised, and that had been forty minutes ago. He caught the sweet smell of whiskey as the drink cart rattled nearer. Another round of complimentary beverages. He loosened his tie even more, wondering what had gotten into him to travel in blues.

In spite of himself, he eyed the cart as it paused beside him. The cute little bottles that tinkled so lightly, that glowed amber and clear and gold and ruby…. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and reached deep inside. And when the flight attendant asked him what she could get him, he said all he wanted was an orange juice.

He was amazed. So far, it was working. It wasn't
easy,
but it was working.

Sandy had called him after their night on the towpath. She asked if he wanted to go to an meeting with her. She knew of one not far from his apartment. “You sounded serious about wanting to do something. Are you?”

“I'm serious, I think.”

“Can you do it alone?”

He thought about the racks of beer at the 7-Eleven, about drink menus at restaurants, about wetting-down parties, hail and farewells, tailgate parties…. “No, I can't.”

“That's called being honest. Then if you can't alone— and you really want to—you better come with me.”

They met in the basement of a church in Ballston. It wasn't what he'd thought it would be like. A speaker talked about how he'd done it. Dan could relate to everything he said. And they weren't selling anything, as far as he could see. Just the chance of getting some shit off his back, stuff he'd been carrying around for years. So he went back the next week. And found another meeting, in Crystal City, a lunchtime brown-bag one that met in a conference room at Crystal Plaza.

He hadn't done much else but that since the incident on the towpath. The only thing he had left to do was work late and go to meetings. It was that or go crazy.

It had taken a couple of weeks, but at last the assistant air attaché had called back. They'd gone around for a while about where to meet. At last they'd settled on San Diego. Li said he'd be in Silicon Valley at a conference, that he could fly down for a day. Only he didn't say exactly where they'd meet. Instead, he gave him a number to call when he arrived in California.

Spycraft, Dan figured.

And after that, he'd be getting under way with
Merrill
Still sealed into the aircraft, beginning its thirtieth circle in the holding pattern, he yearned for it. Sakai and Burdette had gone on ahead to get things set up. At sea, damn it, maybe he could shake some of this depression. Quit thinking about everything he'd lost…

“You in the Navy?”

The middle-aged civilian next to him hadn't said a word the whole flight from Cincinnati.

“Yeah.”

“My neighbor's son's on the
Thomas Edison.
Ever heard of it?”

“A missile boat?”

“No, a submarine.”

Dan said right, a missile submarine. The civilian said, “What're you going to do about this guy Khaddafi?”

“What about him? I haven't been keeping up with the news.”

“All this terrorism he's sponsoring. Why don't we go in and bomb that crazy fuck?”

“They decide things like that a lot higher than me, mister.”

“This is your pilot speaking. Sorry to have to tell you this, but there's going to be a slight additional delay before we actually get into the landing pipeline …”

San Diego was sunny, as always. When they came off the freeway, he scanned the forest of masts and upperworks for
New Jersey's
immense cruise-liner funnels. Then remembered: She was in the Med now, centerpiece of the new battle group.