“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. After that, I was strong.”

“Then why did she tell me that you also confirmed the rumor that I was sleeping with my co-clerk?”

A wide smile spread across Ober’s face. “That one I told her just for fun.”

“Thank you,” Ben said sarcastically. “Because of your idiocy, Lisa is now invited to my house for Thanksgiving.”

“She’s going to your house for Thanksgiving?” Ober laughed. “She’ll be eaten alive there! Oh, is this great, or what?”

“You may want to tell Lisa to wear a bulletproof vest,” Eric said.

Shooting a scowl at Eric, Ben turned back to Ober. “Just wait until I get your mom on the phone.” Picking up the blue duffel that was at Nathan’s feet, Ben headed toward the stairs. “You may want to bring the straitjacket back from the cleaners, just in case.”

Chapter 9

AT NOON THE NEXT DAY, LISA ENTERED THE office and announced, “They postponed it again.”

“How?” Ben asked, looking up from one of over two dozen cert petitions piled on his desk. “It’s Saturday-the justices aren’t even here.”

“Osterman just called Joel from home. They still haven’t decided it.”

“Unbelievable,” Ben said. “What was the reason? Do they want to make Grinnell the most drawn-out decision in history?”

“They actually made the deadline next Tuesday.”

“They moved Conference from Wednesday to Tuesday?”

“Just for next week,” Lisa explained. “They wanted to make sure everyone had off the day before Thanksgiving, so it has to be decided by then.”

“That was nice,” Ben admitted.

“They have their moments,” she said. Lisa sat down on the sofa and took off her shoes. She looked at her watch. “Only eight hours until the big meeting. Are you getting scared?”

“I definitely have butterflies.”

“At least now you don’t have to worry about being tricked into revealing the Grinnell decision.”

“I learned my lesson, thanks,” Ben said curtly.

“Don’t take it personally.”

“How can I not take it personally?” Ben asked.

“I’m not saying you’d blurt it out,” she said, “but your face might give it away if he asked you how the decision came out.”

“My dear, when one has a poker face like my own, one does not worry about giving things away.”

“In your little mind, do you really believe you have a great poker face?”

“I know I have a great poker face.” Ben gave her a stone-cold stare.

“That’s your poker face? You look constipated.”

“I look fierce,” Ben said, fighting to keep his features at full intensity. “I’m a wolf on the hunt. I’m prowling. I’m sleek.”

“You’re dreaming. If I saw someone looking at me like that, I’d think they were severely medicated.”

Coming out of character, Ben wagged a finger. “Don’t underestimate the power of a medicated stare. That’s how we won the Cold War.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “And Reagan’s entire reelection campaign was based on the success of the medicated stare.”

“I’m not listening to you.”

“If that’s the way you want to be, I should tell you that denial is a terrible psychological deterrent. It harms you in ways you cannot imagine.”

“It’s okay,” Lisa said. “I like to live life on the edge.”

At seven-thirty that evening, Ben packed up his briefcase and took his coat from the closet. “You all ready?” Lisa asked.

“I think so,” Ben said. He put his coat on his desk and felt his chest, checking for the fifth time that his microphone was properly attached. “I think that’s it,” he added, once again grabbing his coat. “As long as Nathan does his job, this should all work out. By tomorrow, we’ll have a bribery charge and a positive I.D.”

“Call me when everything is finished. Good luck,” Lisa said, leaning over to Ben and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

Ben smiled. “How hard did you have to fight your urge to slip me the tongue?”

“I could barely restrain myself,” she said. As Ben walked to the door, she added, “Just make sure you get Rick to proposition you. Without that, all we have are some pictures of two men eating dinner.”

“Consider it done.”

As Ben headed up Massachusetts Avenue, his mind was flooded with anxiety. Looking for people who might be following him, he glanced over his shoulder at two-minute intervals. The November night was cold-freezing to Washingtonians-and he turned up the collar of his coat. I come from Boston, he thought. This weather shouldn’t bother me. Half a block away from the Thai restaurant, Ben glanced over his shoulder. No one. Then he started speaking into his chest. “Breaker One-Nine, Breaker One-Nine, do you read me? This here’s Ober’s father, Robert Oberman, and I was wondering if my son is still lightweight in the brain. Do you read me?” As he approached Two Quail, he saw that the window table was empty. He once again peered over his shoulder. Still nothing. Finally, he glanced in the window of the Thai place and saw the disguised figures of Nathan and Ober. The two friends wore Washington, D.C., sweatshirts and matching mesh baseball caps from the Smithsonian. With cameras by their sides, they fit in perfectly with the late-fall tourist crowd. Nathan gave Ben a small but unmistakable thumbs-up to let him know that the receiver was working.

Walking up the stairs to Two Quail, Ben wondered what time Rick would show up. I’m sure he’ll be a little late, he thought.

Located in an old brownstone behind Capitol Hill, Two Quail was unassuming. All that identified it as a restaurant was the tiny burgundy and white sign above the entrance. What it lacked in elegance on the outside, it made up for with its opulent interior. Filled with antique furniture, Two Quail was designed to resemble a family home, where every room was a dining room. To further the lived-in look, the tables in the restaurant offered unusual seating arrangements: sculptural sofas, Art Deco love seats, antique wingback chairs, and refinished, upholstered benches. Ben approached the maître d’, who was dressed in black wool pants and a black cashmere turtleneck. “Hi, my name is Ben Addison. I’m supposed to meet a friend here in about five minutes.”

Looking down his list, the maître d’ said, “Yes, Mr. Addison, we have a reservation for two at eight o’clock. Would you like to sit now, or would you rather wait for your friend?”

“If it’s okay, I’d rather sit now.”

“Of course. Right this way.” He led Ben to the table by the window. “Enjoy your meal,” he said as he placed a menu in front of him.

“I’m in,” Ben whispered into his chest. “Can you still hear me?” From his vantage point, Ben could make out a distinct nod from his friends in the restaurant across the street.

“What’s he saying?” Ober asked.

“Hold on a second,” Nathan said, focusing on the voice that came through the tiny earplug he was wearing. “He asked if we can hear him.” Nodding his head, Nathan forced a smile and said to Ober, “Now all we have to do is wait.”

At a quarter after eight, Rick still hadn’t arrived. Where the hell is he? Ben wondered, taking a thin breadstick from the basket at the center of the table. Maybe he’s not coming. Maybe he saw right through our plan. No, there’s no way. He’ll be here. The skinny bastard’s greedy. He’ll definitely be here.

“Can I get you something from the bar?” the waiter asked.

“Huh?” Ben asked, startled.

“Can I bring you a drink while you’re waiting?”

Ben looked down and saw that he had crumbled the breadstick into tiny pieces that were now dispersed across the starched white tablecloth. “No. No, thank you.”