The height of the tourist season had passed, and the crowds at the museum were sparse this early in the day. When Dana entered, she found herself in a large open space where she could look up unimpeded to a dome ceiling five stories above her. A ramp wound upward to the exhibits on each floor. From the top of the ramp, an observer could look down on the visitors as they entered. It was an excellent place to check to see if someone you were meeting had a tail.
Gorman had not given Dana a description of the person she was going to meet or a name, but she assumed he’d given her contact her description. After wandering aimlessly around the entryway for a few minutes, Dana concluded that no one was going to approach her there, so she started up the ramp and began wandering through the exhibits. She was alone in one of the galleries studying an exhibit of Pacific Northwest Indian artifacts when a man walked in front of the display case. He was wearing a Washington Nationals baseball cap, a shiny Nationals jacket, jeans, and running shoes. His complexion was pale, and his brown eyes were focused on a collection of Tlingit cedar-bark baskets.
“Do you think the Tlingit Indians believed in vampires?” he asked.
“Beats me,” Dana answered, “but I’m a reporter working on a story for Exposed about Indian legends, so read the paper next week and you’ll know the answer to your question.”
“If you go to the end of this exhibit and look left, you’ll see a stairwell. Why don’t you go up to the landing on the top floor and check for vampires. I’ll join you when I’m satisfied you haven’t been followed.”
Dana entered the stairwell and walked to the highest landing. A few minutes later, Gorman’s contact joined her.
“What do you want to know?” he asked. Dana appreciated the lack of chitchat. She also noticed that he hadn’t told her his name, and she assumed he’d only give her a false one if she asked.
“I was working on a story and I was threatened. I’m guessing the person who threatened me was sent by Dennis Masterson. How worried should I be?”
The man chuckled. “That one is easy. Having Masterson mad at you is like being on the receiving end of DEFCON 1. When Masterson was head of the CIA, he could send a drone with a nuclear warhead into your bathroom while you were on the potty.”
“But he’s not head of the CIA now, so how dangerous is he?”
“Very. He can’t send the drone anymore, but someone like that has assets that will do whatever for a price, and Masterson has the money to pay the price.”
“OK, you’ve succeeded in scaring me,” Dana said.
“Then I’ve done you a favor. Do not fuck with this guy.”
“One more question. The person who made the threat was about six two; solid build like a linebacker, blond, and I thought I heard a Scandinavian accent.”
“The Swede. I think his name is Thomas Bergstrom, but I wouldn’t bet on it. He uses a lot of aliases. When Masterson was with the CIA, Bergstrom was the person he used for the dirtiest assignments. I would take any threat he makes very seriously.”
“Would it do me any good to go to the authorities?”
The man laughed. “Masterson is the authorities, even if he’s not in government anymore. My advice, do what you were told to do or be prepared to sit up with a shotgun every night for the rest of your life. Oh, and don’t start your car, ever.”
“You’ve made your point.”
“Good, because the person who set up this meet likes you and wants you to live to a ripe old age. That story you were working on is not worth your life.”
“One more thing. I know where I can find Masterson, but where can I find Bergstrom?”
The man’s face lost all trace of humor. “Are you wearing earplugs? Did you fail to hear everything I just told you? The last thing you want to do is find this guy, because it could be the last thing you do.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I still want to know.”
“Yeah, well, that’s something you can do on your own. It’s a crime to help someone commit suicide.”
The man shook his head before stalking off. He looked sad, like a patient teacher who had tried his best but had finally given up on a spectacularly dull student. Dana knew that she’d screwed up. Pat had called in a chit for her and she’d blown it. She was deciding whether she should go after the contact and apologize when her cell phone rang.
“Dana,” Ginny Striker said, “I may be in trouble and I need your help.”
Chapter Fifty
Ginny’s office was three doors down from the fire stairs in a row of broom-closet-size spaces that were reserved for new associates. By seven thirty, an eerie silence had replaced the hum of activity that filled the floor during working hours. The only sound Ginny heard was made by a vacuum cleaner on the far side of the building. There were usually a few of her fellow wage slaves toiling away in the evening, but the last person to leave had said good-bye at seven fifteen.
Ginny concentrated on a memo Stewart had written justifying waterboarding and other interrogation techniques that sounded vaguely similar to stuff she read about when she was studying the Spanish Inquisition. She had to admit that the assignment was interesting, even if Stewart’s positions were appalling. She shuddered when she thought that the woman who’d written these tracts might soon be sitting on the Supreme Court, and she felt a twinge of conscience about the part she was playing, no matter how small, in seeing that she got there.
The hum from the vacuum cleaner grew louder, and Ginny stood up to shut her door. When she looked down the aisle she saw a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a baseball cap and the uniform of the cleaning crew slowly maneuver the machine in and out of a group of cubicles used by the secretarial staff. Most of the cleaning crew was Hispanic, and the man’s blond hair and Nordic features surprised Ginny. She stared for a moment, then shut her door.
Ginny made some notes on a legal pad. She paused to think about a way to spin the conclusion of Stewart’s memo so the nominee wouldn’t sound like a cross between Hannibal Lecter and Torquemada and was suddenly aware that the vacuum cleaner sounded like it was right outside her door.
When The Swede arrived at the fire exit, he left the vacuum cleaner running to cover the sound of his approach and pulled his Glock out of his coveralls. Masterson had called him that afternoon and told him that one of the firm’s associates had seen Ginny Striker using a cell phone to take pictures of the contents of a file in the drawer marked “Ta-Tm.” He believed it was the TA Enterprises file. Masterson wanted the cell phone, he wanted the names of anyone who had seen the pictures, and he wanted Striker neutralized.
“Drop the gun,” Dana Cutler commanded from the entrance of the secretarial cubicle in which she’d been hiding since six that evening.
Most people would freeze in this situation, but Bergstrom reacted instinctively and sprayed shots in Dana’s direction as he powered backward through the fire door. Dana threw herself to the floor and barely avoided the bullets that flew by her. She was starting to look up when she heard the steel door slam shut. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of following Bergstrom. Then Ginny’s door opened and Striker stepped into the hall to see what had made the dull cracks she’d heard over the whine of the vacuum cleaner.
“Get back,” Dana shouted, even though she was pretty certain they were safe. Ginny backed into her office and closed the door, and Dana scouted the area around Ginny’s office before knocking.
“What happened?” Ginny asked.
“The cleaner was getting ready to kill you. I had the drop on him, but he surprised me and got away.”
“Were those shots I heard?”
Dana nodded.
Ginny stepped back and sank onto a chair. Her breathing was shallow.