“That’s a relief,” Brewer said. “Because I’m not going to take it.”
“I wish you’d reconsider,” Court said.
“There are a dozen people who can help you with this,” Brewer said. Bitter cold air rushed into the car as Brewer opened the door. “I don’t do off the books. And I don’t take assignments in the backseat of a car.” He stepped out into the night and shut the door.
Court held both hands up in despair. “For Christ’s sake, Sauer. Are you out of your mind?”
“It killed me to hear you begging that bastard,” Sauer said.
“He was going to say yes!”
“Bullshit.”
“Sauer, you’re so pissed off, you can’t even think straight anymore. That guy outranks us by a mile. He’s up for Bobby McCall’s job. And he’s got a reputation for being a dangerous guy. I warned you not to tangle with him. So what do you do? You try to order him around like a clerk. Even an idiot could tell that you were trying to make him refuse. And now he did!”
They watched Brewer’s car pull away. The two red taillights disappeared in the darkness.
“You’ve ruined us, Sauer.”
“Maybe if everyone else refuses the job, they’ll let us go back and find the bastards in Vienna.”
More snowflakes fell out of the darkness into the light of a streetlamp.
Chapter 6
Brewer drove in heavy traffic over the Potomac and entered the Pentagon parking lot. In the southwest corner of the southwest sector of the South Parking Area, away from all other vehicles, as instructed, at precisely 4:00 P.M. he parked and waited. A whistling frigid wind pushed against his car.
A few minutes later a Pentagon parking-lot shuttle bus approached and stopped at the designated bus stop. The driver looked at Brewer then looked at the far distant Pentagon entrance. He pointed a questioning finger.
Brewer shook his head and the bus drove off.
He studied the faint smudge of sunset in the black clouds and felt the wind rock his car. A snow sky at dusk. In the arctic breeze a cardboard coffee container bounded along like an escapee. He told himself that he should follow the container and flee the place. The instructions ordering him here were the most absurd he had ever received. If they hadn’t been relayed by his own case office, he would never have obeyed them.
“Okay, Brewer. I’m going to read these instructions to you just as I got them. Ready? You’re to be in the Pentagon parking lot, southwest corner of the southwest sector of the South Parking Area at precisely four P.M.—that’s 1600 hours. Park and wait for a charcoal-gray stretch limousine. The chauffeur of the limousine will step out with a newspaper under his left arm. He’ll walk over to a navy-blue escort car and get into the backseat. You will then get into the front seat of the stretch limousine. Do not attempt to look into the backseat. Repeat: do not attempt to look into the backseat. Got it?”
“What is this—amateur night at the legion hall?”
“Sounds like a kid’s game, Brewer, but that’s what it says on this paper.”
“Is this one of your cases?”
“Nope. I’m just a messenger boy on this one.”
“This have anything to do with that slide show I was shown the other day?”
“Beats me.”
“Who is it? Who am I going to talk to?”
“How would I know, Brewer? Whoever he is, he obviously doesn’t want you to see him.”
Slowly, from behind him, approached a charcoal-gray stretch limousine with dark one-way windows, followed closely by a navy-blue Chevrolet sedan right out of the federal motor pool. The two cars crossed in front of Brewer’s car then drove in a circle around him, slowly, studying him.
The chauffeur parked the limousine six spaces away from Brewer’s car. When he stepped out, a great puff of tobacco smoke came with him and blew away in the wind. The chauffeur walked over to the navy-blue Chevrolet, holding the bill of his cap against the biting wind. The edges of a folded newspaper fluttered under his left arm.
Brewer walked over to the limousine and got into the driver’s seat. The interior was filled with cigar smoke.
“Don’t you have an office?” he asked.
“Don’t get shirty,” said a voice in the backseat. “There’s a good reason for this.”
Brewer didn’t recognize the voice.
“Now listen, Brewer. They tell me you’re very good at what you do, and you’d better be because I’m about to bet the farm on you. It’s that simple.”
The accent was monied New England, Boston, with a private-school overlay. Choate, Harvard. Not a civil servant. A presidential appointee probably. A ranker. Now listen, Brewah.
Brewer said, “Nothing is that simple.”
In the failing light the chauffeur, in the backseat of the escort car, chatted with the driver. Two silhouettes in silent pantomime.
“All right, Brewer. Now listen carefully. I have a very very very important assignment. It involves the Soviets. It’s going to be a tough, dirty fight. The action is going to be very fast and there’s going to be a lot of hard hitting. It’s going to be dangerous. It’s going to mean working outside regular channels, and that means working without a net. I want to emphasize that, Brewer. No net. Clear so far?”
“Yes,” Brewer said. It was clear. There was to be no crapping around. A heavyweight from the front office in a big car had come to preach the gospel bluntly to his sin-blackened soul: Do this job, do it now, do it right, and don’t talk back.
The man’s voice said, “If you get into any kind of a sticky situation, you know there are people in high position who can protect you. You have my word on it—even though you don’t know me.”
Brewer smiled. In Washington there was only one thing worth less than a man’s word. A stranger’s word. “I know all about the protection of people in high position,” he said.
The voice ignored that. It went on—accustomed to commanding, to persuading, to applying pressure, accustomed to speaking bluntly to subordinates. “We have to have a man who really knows the ropes. Someone resourceful, who can work with minimum direction—out of sight of the mother church. Someone who has a lot of contacts in all the intelligence organizations, here and abroad—and who can call in old favors. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” Brewer said.
“I went over your record very carefully. The job I have in mind fits you to a tee. You have a strong background in Soviet military high-tech, you have an excellent record in counterespionage. You’ve done this kind of job before—countering Soviet thefts of U.S. technology. And you’ve got a brilliant record as a smuggler yourself, so you know how smugglers think. You have a reputation for keeping your mouth shut. You come with the highest recommendations from a number of sources. So you’re a known quantity I can trust and rely on. In short, on paper you’re perfect for the job. Okay so far?”
“Yes.”
“Before I tell you another word about it, you have to make a decision. You can walk away now and no hard feelings. Or you can stay and take the assignment. If you stay, you’re in for keeps. There’s no way to back out. You stay until the end. Clear?”
“Yes,” Brewer said.
“Now listen, Brewer. I won’t say that if you refuse this we won’t be able to find someone else to do it. But on such short notice, that’s pretty close to the truth. The normal channels are paralyzed. The bureaucratic infighting is the worst I’ve ever seen. The two department heads who should be cooperating to stop this problem in its tracks won’t talk to each other and are refusing each other’s phone calls. The Congress has bottled up a bill in committee that might help, but I hear it could take two years and probably never come out at all. Meantime we’re hemorrhaging technology to the Russians. The Soviets are on the biggest looting spree in history. Okay so far?”
“Yes. Were you the one who ordered me to see that slide show?”
“Yes. I wish I could give you more time to think it over, but I can’t. I have to know right now.�
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“Nothing happens until my record is cleaned. I want my name cleared of the prison record.”
“Yes, yes. And you want the McCall appointment.”
“No. I don’t want the McCall appointment. I want my name cleared, as promised.”
“Now wait. Listen Brewer. I can take care of your name and record immediately. That’s not a condition. About the McCall job—”
“Forget McCall’s job. I’m no longer interested in it,”
“May I ask why?”
“I don’t let people coerce me.”
“That’s not our intent.”
“I’m supposed to start Monday at McCall’s desk. Instead you’re here to bend my arm into taking an off-the-books assignment. That means you’re holding up the McCall job. That’s blackmail.”
Several clouds of cigar smoke came sailing into the front seat.
“Okay, we’ll discuss that later,” the voice said. “What do you say? Can you make a decision this fast?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. What is it?”
Another cardboard coffee container went bounding across the parking area. A second warning. Brewer looked over at his car; he considered walking back to it and driving away.
“Clear my record first,” Brewer said. “Then call me.” He opened the latch on the door.
“I’m calling you,” the voice said. “Here.” A thick brown envelope was extended over Brewer’s shoulder. “Shut the door.”
Brewer pulled the door shut and took the envelope.
“It’s all there, Brewer. The petition to the court. A transcript of the hearing. Official documents. Testimony of witnesses. Unequivocal evidence of the framing. The judge’s response. The official court order. A full pardon. Correspondence to all the official bodies and records-keeping authorities and their letters of compliance. A written apology from the United States government. A salary check covering the entire period you were imprisoned, including every penny in back pay plus interest. Restoration of time on your pension. A copy of your current personnel record, with no record of your false imprisonment. And a press kit containing a complete coverage of the events. Everything your attorney, Madeline Hale, asked for. Your name is immaculate.”
Brewer studied the papers carefully, doubtfully.
“Miss Hale sends you her fondest regards, by the way.”
Brewer fanned the papers. At last. Delivered in the backseat of a car. He fitted them back into the envelope.
“The announcement of the pardon will be on the six o’clock news tonight, per Miss Hale’s instructions. Now—” Another bank of smoke filled the car. “The question is, are you in on this deal or not?”
“Yes.”
“You’re in?”
“I’m in,” Brewer said.
“You are a perplexing, nettlesome man, Brewer.”
“Are you calling me a pain in the ass?”
“Yes.”
Brewer heard the rear window roll down. A cigar struck the paving with a brief shower of sparks and rolled away in the waning daylight.
“Okay,” the voice said. “I want now to apologize for Sauer’s behavior last night. I wanted him to handle this so that he could win back some of his self-esteem. I failed to realize how angry he was. My apologies. Now I’d better tell you what the assignment is. The moment I do, you’re at the point of no return. Clear?”
“Yes.”
“Christmas Eve in Vienna, the Russians stole nearly a million dollars worth of incredibly sensitive military computer equipment that was illegally shipped there by smugglers in the United States. They not only got matériel we badly wanted them not to have, they made a laughingstock of us in Europe. If you listen, you can hear the German guffaw, the British titter, and the French sigh.”
“I’ve heard them laugh before,” Brewer said.
“Yes. The Russians have been making fools of us for years. I’ve read your reports, Brewer. All of them. You obviously feel there’s one person smuggling the most sensitive technology.”
“Yes.”
“So do I. What I want you to do is find that man.”
“That’s it?” Brewer asked. “Find one man?”
“That’s it. Find him. Above all else, find Mr. X.”
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why?”
The man sighed mightily. “Brewer, you are as maddening as a gored bull.”
Brewer waited.
“All right,” the man said. “We have something coming down.”
“What?”
“Something new and sensitive.” Smoke from a fresh cigar came in waves now. “You’re going to say, Why don’t we turn this problem over to our counterintelligence people? The answer is, if I put this assignment in that loosey-goosey bureaucracy, it’ll leak all over the place. And the Soviets will have the damned thing in Zeleenograd by breakfast tomorrow. So I can’t go through regular channels.”
“How many people know about this new and sensitive something?”
“Two.”
“The White House?”
“The White House!” the man said. “Listen. There are so many cuckooboo chatterboxes in the White House, I can’t even tell the President about this at this juncture. Not yet anyway. The only reason the Russians haven’t been able to find the damned thing is I haven’t told the White House.”
“I’ll need to talk to Sauer again,” Brewer said.
“Sauer? Yes. Of course.”
“When can I see him?”
“How about tomorrow morning? I’ll arrange it. And I’ll tell him to polish up his manners.”
“I can handle him. From here on I report to you?” Brewer asked.
“You report to me.”
“And who are you?” Brewer turned around and looked into the backseat.
He needed only a glimpse. He didn’t recognize the man, but he recognized the type. The rumpled suit, the bow tie, the watch chain across the vest that covered his rotund belly. But most of all he recognized the expression on the scowling face: haughty, patrician, arrogant. Faces like that washed into Washington in great waves with every new administration and washed out again a few years later, defeated by the enduring capital bureaucracy.
From a face of about sixty under sparse gray hair, two quick-tempered eyes looked back at Brewer.
“They warned me about your insolence,” he said. “You were told not to turn around.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Limoges.”
“When do I start?”
“Right now.”
Carrying the thick brown envelope, Brewer walked over to his car and drove off.
Chapter 7
At dusk all of Washington hurried home. The rising wind was hurtling a bitter cold front into the city, blowing trash cans, tattering flags, whistling in the shroud lines, rocking loose windows, reaching through the thickest coats—effectively shutting the city down tight and promising a heavy snowfall by morning.
Police vans cruised up and down, trying to coax street people into the warmth of shelters. Weathermen speculated that the Potomac might freeze over for the first time in many decades.
When Brewer opened the door to Margie’s apartment, she observed him from the kitchen. He shoved the manila envelope up onto the shelf of the closet then hung up his coat.
“Hello,” she said softly.
“Hi.”
“Is that what I think it is?”
“Yes.”
She turned back into the kitchen. “Okay, Brewer,” she called. “Stand by. The time has come.” She came back with a small bottle of champagne and two glasses. “I’ve been saving this bottle for the occasion.” Deftly, she unwound the wire, squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her thumbs on the cork. It flew across the room with a loud pop.
“Here’s to you, Charlie,” she said. She handed him a glass. “Congratulations. A very dirty piece of business is laid to rest.” She toasted him.
“Thanks,” Brewer said.
“You’re all put back together, Charlie. Humpty Dumpty finally beats the rap.” She poured more champagne into his glass. “Monday morning you start a new job, a new career. The past is past. You can walk away from it all.”
Walk away. He looked solemnly at her. Walk away from the Limogeses, away from the McCalls, away from the blackmailing and false imprisonment and the mounting madness. Walk away from everything but memory.
And how was he to walk away from his own personality, which had gotten him into the whole mess? The character traits that had him fenced about like a cage—the fool, the gull, the ass.
After dinner he said, “I decided I don’t want the McCall job.”
“Oh.”
“It’s time for me to get out,” he said.
“Out? Out like in leave the government?”
“Yes.”
She nodded slowly. “You should have gotten out long ago, Charlie. Before McCall shoved you into prison.” She took his hand. “Where will you go?”
Where would he go? He’d never had to ask himself such questions before. He was a mole emerging from its burrow for the first time to stare at the stars, unable to comprehend such vast spaces.
“I have to talk to some people,” he said.
She searched his face again. “Can you really break away, Charlie?”
“Why not?” he answered. “Meantime, I’ve got one last assignment.”
“One last assignment.”
“Yes.”
“You wouldn’t kid a public servant, would you, Charlie?”
“It’s the last job.”
“Get out now,” she said.
“One more job,” he said.
Margie had fallen asleep in her gown on the couch, her Boston grandfather’s clock prating the seconds behind her. He had picked his way slowly through the papers in the brown envelope, finding Madeline Hale’s touch on every page, every paragraph. And on every page, every paragraph, was memory; his arrest in Central Park, the trial and prison—mostly prison—the bars, corridors, faces of prison, the suicide of Jason Poole.
Still half asleep, Margie stood and pressed her face against his cheek and yawned. He watched her weave her way to the bedroom.
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