Nash broke left and headed down the side of the room. He passed several glass-walled offices and kept his chin down. He’d made it to within a few feet of his own office when he heard his name barked by an all-too-familiar voice. Nash slowly turned and faced Art Harris. The forty-two-year-old was the bureau’s deputy assistant director of their CTC division. He was almost six feet tall, had receding close-cropped hair, and mocha-colored skin. He was extremely fit for a man who spent his days behind a desk.
Harris had one hand resting on the hilt of his 357 Sig and the other held a copy of the Post. “You want to tell me what in the hell this is all about?”
“Good afternoon, Art.”
“Don’t good afternoon me. Explain this.”
“There’s nothing to explain.”
“Bullshit.”
Nash pointed at Harris’s hip. “Are you gonna draw on me, cowboy?”
Harris, feeling slightly foolish with everyone watching, took his hand off his gun. “Don’t change the subject. I asked you a direct question.”
“I wasn’t aware that I answered to you, Art.”
“Don’t play games with me, Nash. I’ll have your ass transferred out of here by sundown.”
“Please do. Although I might miss watching you play wet nurse.”
Harris shook the paper. “Stop dodging my question.”
“It’s all bullshit, Art.”
“Fiction?”
“Yep.”
“You know I’m no fan of the Post. They usually manage to put their little spin on most of the propaganda they put out there, but I don’t recall them being in the business of just making shit up whole cloth.”
“I don’t know what to tell ya.”
“How about the truth?”
Nash sighed and said, “Art, I don’t know how to say it any other way. I have no idea what that reporter is talking about.”
“If I find out that you’re lying to me, I’m going to nail your ass to the wall.”
“You arrogant prick.” Nash took a couple of steps toward Harris. “You gonna start investigating people based on what’s printed in the Washington Post? Because if that’s the case, maybe we should investigate you guys for being a bunch of nutless pussies.”
Harris took three quick steps forward and got right in Nash’s face. “You want to take this down to the parking garage?”
“You wouldn’t stand a chance, and you know it.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“I’m sure,” Nash said as he backed away. “Why don’t you call that reporter and find out why he’s printing lies about the CIA. Maybe you could indict him for treason.” Nash slipped into his office and slammed the door. With a smile on his face, he walked over to his desk and looked down at a printed call list. The damn thing was a page and a half long. His wife had called three times. Nash quickly picked out which ones were the most important and then checked his watch. He had about an hour before he’d have to leave for the command performance with the Intelligence Committee. He would have done almost anything to get out of it, but he knew he had no choice. He’d have to sit there and take their pompous shit, and then lie to them, and thank them for their thoughtful and patriotic stewardship.
CHAPTER 31
SENATOR Lonsdale stared up at the vote total on the board and looked around for someone to choke. She’d waited sixteen years for her party to get control of the Senate, and now with a five-person majority they couldn’t even pass a simple spending resolution. She scanned the well of the Senate in search of the majority whip. She’d never liked the little pudd from Illinois and had led a very vocal opposition to his being given the post. Her dark brown eyes zeroed in on him, and she began muttering a few profanities under her breath.
Then, just as quickly as she’d started, she stopped. A placid expression washed over her face as she remembered the admonishment she’d been given by her entire staff a little over a month ago. Something about her looking old, angry, and constipated. It had taken the little pussies two full weeks to work up the courage to tell her that someone had started a Web site dedicated to her declining looks. It had been a full-blown intervention with eight of them filing into her office with a slide show from the Web site. Her chief of staff, Ralph Wassen, who had not been involved in the conspiracy, stumbled upon the intervention and was appalled. Upon seeing several of the enlarged still images of her deeply lined and contorted face, he announced, to the utter delight of all, that she looked like an angry lesbian. Wassen, in addition to being her closest advisor and friend, was also a queen. His sexual preference gave him the cover to say all kinds of politically incorrect things.
As much as it pained Lonsdale to admit it, they were right. It was as if Mother Nature had sucked all the moisture from her beautiful skin and carved deep lines all over her face. That night she’d gone home and looked through a string of recent photographs and was further depressed. It was as if turning fifty-eight had suddenly aged her a full decade. She’d put on at least five pounds, if not ten. She was getting lazy. Lonsdale was not the type to sit around and feel sorry for herself for very long, so the very next day she went on a crash diet, doubled the number of cigarettes she allowed herself from four a day to eight, and began walking and taking the steps every chance she had. She made an appointment with a dermatologist and had already completed two dermabrasion sessions that hurt like hell, but they appeared to be helping.
A month later she’d lost five pounds and was set on losing at least another five. She’d talked to her dentist about getting some veneers for her teeth and was finally convinced it was time to have a little minor face work done. Just around her eyes. None of that Botox stuff, though. She’d come across one too many of those crazy bitches at fund-raisers. They looked like freaks, walking around with that stupid, wild-eyed permafrost expression. She wasn’t going to complain to her colleagues about it, but there was no doubt it was much more difficult for a woman to do this job.
As Lonsdale slid her feet into a pair of black pumps, she reminded herself to keep that placid expression on her face. Slowly but surely she was reprogramming herself to be more self-conscious about the faces she made. She stood and grabbed the bottom of her silver jacket, giving it a tug. Down the aisle she went, tucking first her shoulder-length raven black hair behind her left ear and then her right. As she reached the well, she turned right and slowed as she passed her party’s leadership table.
“Wonderful job, gentlemen,” she said with false sincerity. She stopped in front of the senior senator from Illinois and bent forward. With a congenial smile on her face she said, “Get your shit together, Dickie. You’re embarrassing all of us.”
Lonsdale left the floor and entered the cloakroom. Two of her staffers were waiting for her. A man and a woman, or more accurately, a boy and a girl. The girl had her burgundy leather briefing folder clutched tightly against her perky breasts, and was wearing a short-sleeved ivory cashmere sweater. Lonsdale suddenly resented the woman’s youth. That and the fact that she was pissed about losing the vote caused her to ask a bit impatiently, “What now?”
The woman, in her early twenties, tilted her briefing folder forward and scanned her notes. “You have a photo opportunity with the Pipefitters Union…”
Lonsdale listened as her aide spoke excitedly about the day’s remaining events. It was an entirely boring litany, and she unfortunately had no choice but to attend each and every one. The boy stepped forward. His name was Trent or Trevor or something like that.
“Wade Kline is waiting for you in your office.”
“Which one?” Lonsdale asked, trying to sound uninterested.
“Upstairs.”