"That's it?" Richmond said.
"More or less. For you." Stone looked at Mandor. "You will be needed in San Diego. You'll be working security detail. You won't need to do anything except sit, most of the time."
"That is still pretty vague, Mr. Stone," Mandor remarked.
"We've only just met."
"So all we get is a good night kiss," Richmond joked.
"Yeah," Mandor laughed. "I'm assuming it's outside the law, this thing we'll be doing."
"Laws are sometimes inadequate to deal with reality," Stone said.
"They still put your ass in jail for breaking them," Mandor said. "Mr.
Stone, twenty-five grand apiece is real good money, I'll give you that.
And I appreciate careful security measures. But secrecy bothers me.
A lot."
"Then you have the option of walking away," Stone said.
"Both of us?" Richmond asked. "Because I'm okay with trusting you."
"This is a two-hander, a job for men who are experienced and cool under pressure," Stone said. "I've checked both of you out, Mr. Richmond.
But if you have someone else in mind "
"That won't be necessary," Mandor said. "I'm in." A man did not make money by being cautious. If Richmond was comfortable with this, Mandor could live with it.
"I'm glad to hear that," Stone said. "And don't worry, gentlemen. As you said, Mr. Mandor, the money is good.
Beyond that, however, I must tell you the upside is truly exceptional."
"Are you saying there will be more work?" Richmond asked.
"That's only a small part of what I'm talking about," Stone assured him. "You can't appreciate, yet, how significant your contribution will be. When you do, you will be justifiably pleased."
"It may sound shallow to you, but being well compensated is all the pleasing I need," Mandor said.
"That isn't shallow at all, Mr. Mandor," Stone said. "It's one of the reasons this nation was founded. So that men would be free to pursue financial achievement."
Mandor liked the sound of that. Greed as patriotism.
The meeting wrapped quickly after that. Richmond and Mandor chatted briefly as they walked toward the elevator. Richmond had taken the envelope and put it in his shirt pocket.
"Kind of a toady, don't you think?" Mandor asked.
"Completely," Richmond said. "Which is why he must be sitting next to some pretty serious power. That's the only way a toady gets to swagger like he did."
"I'm with you on that."
"Let's go down separately," Richmond said. "We can meet at the van he's giving us."
"Why? You think this is a setup?"
"I think it's legit," Richmond said. "But we still don't know who he is, or if there are other guys watching him. If there are, they may want to grab us, see what he said. If that happens, one of us needs to be a floater."
A floater was a roughneck term for a jack-of-all-trades who hovered around a group on a rig. He only pitched in when necessary, usually when someone got hurt or a piece of equipment failed.
Richmond had a good point, so he went down first.
Mandor followed a few minutes later. They met by the charcoal gray van.
"How does it look?" Mandor asked.
"As advertised," Richmond said. "The floor is raised slightly in back.
There's a big hollow space under there."
"What do you think it's for?" Mandor asked. "Drugs? Illegals?"
Richmond shrugged. "Does it matter? I've gone through the border checkpoint on 1-15. No one ever stopped me."
Mandor leaned close to his partner. "What about a whack?" he asked in a loud whisper.
Richmond was silent for a moment. "Okay. What about it?"
"This is hit-level money. We've never gone there. Do we want to start?"
Richmond looked at his friend. "We get caught for some of the other stuff we do, it's ten to twenty years. At our age, there ain't much difference between that and a life sentence. I don't have enough to retire. Do you?"
"No."
"Then I say what the hell, we do this. We just watch every step and be a little extra cautious along the way."
Mandor pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and lit it. Richmond was right. What did it matter? Mandor asked himself. Every job has its risk. He had faced danger every day on the rig, from fires to pump room explosions to metal fatigue that could have resulted in the breakup of the platform. If he were a factory worker, he would face accidents or being laid off. Every day, every breath carried risks.
Very few of them offered these kinds of rewards.
"I'll tell you what," Richmond said after thinking for a moment. "Let's have a look at the cash. That will make you feel better."
"Okay."
"We'll leave the van here for a day," Richmond said. "I don't want our friend to think we're careless or predictable. You can come back for it later."
Mandor agreed. They went to their own cars, left the parking structure, and drove to Flamingo. Mandor fired up a second cigarette while he made his way through the thin, early-morning traffic.
There was no logical reason not to go ahead. Pete Farmer had effectively vouched for Stone. The guy was trusting them with a lot of cash. All they had to do for the rest and more to come, apparently was to follow instructions. It sounded easy, like connect the dots. There was just one thing that bothered Mandor. It bothered him more than the other jobs they had taken over the years. Mandor had liked and trusted those other people, the bookies who sent them to collect overdue debts, the mobsters who needed bagmen. He understood them. Eric Stone was a mystery.
But as Richmond had said, they would move one step at a time. In the end, they had one advantage over Stone.
If things went south, they could always put him in that special storage compartment.
NINE
Washington, B.C. Monday, 10:59 a.m.
It was one of those days. A day when Darrell McCaskey was working for everyone but his employer.
When McCaskey worked for the FBI, the agents and field directors called things like this tactical exchange activities. TEA time was when operatives for one law enforcement agency or intelligence group were loaned to another organization. Sometimes it was an official and open-ended seconding, such as General Rodgers being assigned to Op-Center. More often than not, it was unofficial, for a day or two, such as Darrell giving a hand to the postal police.
Or being asked just a few hours later to help Scotland Yard investigate the sudden death of William Wilson. Detective Superintendent George Daily, of the Special Branch of the Criminal Investigation Division, had been asked by the assistant commissioner to rule out the possibility of any "mischief." McCaskey and the fifty-seven-year-old Daily had worked together ten years before on an international investigation of the abduction of Chinese-American and Hong Kong women.
They were being taken to China to help populate a generation that had been gutted by strict birth control policies. Beijing began to worry that there would not be enough children to staff the military and workforce in the twenty-first century. The ring was broken, though the government officials were never punished.
"I'm sure the D.C. medical examiner knows how to do her job," McCaskey told his old acquaintance.
"No doubt," Daily replied. "But questions are already being asked, given Mr. Wilson's standing. The AC would feel very much better if someone with experience in criminal matters had a look."
"Do you have information that Mr. Wilson was the target of any particular group?" McCaskey asked.
"There is no such indication whatsoever."
"So this is a cosmetic application," McCaskey said.
"Hopefully, yes," Daily replied. "None of us wants to find evidence of criminal activity in this matter."
McCaskey looked at his watch. "Tell you what, George. I'll make some calls and get myself invited over this morning. Do you want me to call you at home when I'm finished there?"
"Please," Daily said.
"Same number in Kensington?"
"What was it your Western cavalry used to say? They would not be back 'until the enemy is captured or destroyed." I'll be here until the cavalry drags me away or my wife tosses me out."
McCaskey laughed. He enjoyed Daily. The man took his cases seriously, but never himself. McCaskey also envied the detective's relationship with his wife. When they were working in London, Lucy Daily was openly proud of the work her husband was doing. A childhood survivor of the blitz, Mrs. Daily was a strong supporter of law and those who maintained it.
McCaskey hung up, then called his contact at the FBI, Assistant Director Braden, to get him into the coroner's office. Braden understood the drill and arranged for McCaskey to meet with the medical examiner. The Bureau had a lot of clout with other local offices and set up a meeting for 12:30. McCaskey left his office at once. On the way out, he saw Bob Herbert and Mike Rodgers talking outside Rodgers's office. Herbert looked uncharacteristically sullen. The intelligence chief had lost his wife and the use of his legs in the Beirut embassy bombing in 1983. Tucked in a high-tech wheelchair, Herbert did everything with passion. He laughed hard, fought doggedly, took field assignments whenever possible, and had an explosive lack of patience for bullshit. To see him this quiet was disconcerting.
"Good morning," McCaskey said as he passed.
Herbert's back was to McCaskey. The intelligence chief grunted loudly but did not turn.
McCaskey stopped. "What's wrong?"
"Obviously, you didn't hear," Herbert said. His voice was a gloomy monotone. "Mike Rodgers got canned."
McCaskey's eyes shifted to the officer. "For what reason?"
"I'm budgetary fat," Rodgers said.
"You're saying that Paul signed off on that?" McCaskey asked.
"He signed off on it and delivered the message personally, without offering to resign in protest," Herbert said.
"That would not have accomplished anything," Rodgers said.
"It would have made me respect him more," Herbert replied.
"It also would have been easier," McCaskey pointed out.
Herbert wheeled around. "Are you sticking up for him?"
"I didn't realize we were taking sides," McCaskey said.
"We're not," Rodgers said with finality.
Herbert continued to brood.
"It may be a stupid question, Mike, but how are you with this?"
McCaskey asked.
"I'm a soldier," he said. "I go where I'm told."
That was what McCaskey had expected Rodgers to say.
The general let you know what he was thinking. But with rare exception, he did not let you know what he was feeling.
"Will you stay with the army?" McCaskey asked.
"I don't know," Rodgers said.
"Jesus!" Herbert said. He was no longer brooding. "I can't believe we're hanging here, calmly discussing the screwing of a friend and coworker."
"We're not," McCaskey said. "We're talking about his plans."
"Darrell, the man has no plans; he was just fired," Herbert said. "As for you, you're a company boy, you've always been a company boy, and you'll always be a company boy." Herbert pushed on the hard-rubber wheels of his chair and turned. "You may be next. You need to grow a pair, my friend," the intelligence chief added as he maneuvered around McCaskey.
"Really?" The former FBI agent dropped a strong hand on Herbert's shoulder. He gripped it hard and stopped the intelligence chief from leaving. "Yeah, I'm a team player. Always have been, always will be.
Battles are won by artillery working in tandem, not by loose cannons."
"What is that, a quote from the FBI manual?"
"No," McCaskey replied evenly. If they both got angry, this would get ugly. "That's a personal observation from twenty years of stakeouts, undercover stings, field work, and saving the asses of rogue warriors who thought they could handle entire operations by themselves."
Herbert thought for a moment. "Okay. I deserved that. Now, take your hand off my shoulder before I go rogue warrior on it."
There was a disturbing absence of levity in Herbert's voice. He knew he had been the target of McCaskey's remark and did not like it.
McCaskey let go and stepped to one side. Herbert wheeled away.
McCaskey would try to talk to him when he got back. Herbert's temper had a way of subsiding as quickly as it flared.
Other Op-Center personnel had maintained a discreet distance from the three men. They moved through the corridors in silence, their eyes down or facing straight ahead. But this was an intelligence-gathering organization with sharp political hearing. The employees did not miss much.
"Sorry about that, Darrell," Rodgers said. "Bob's angry."
"He's Bob," McCaskey replied.
"True."
"Look, you've got things to do, and I've got to be somewhere," McCaskey said. "Let me know when you're free for a beer."
"The end of the week should work."
"Sounds good," McCaskey said and shook Rodgers's hand. It seemed a remarkably anticlimactic gesture after all these years and all they had shared. But this was not the time or place for good-byes.
McCaskey hurried down the corridor to the elevator. He got in his car and switched on the new FIAT device, the Federal Intelligence Activity Transponder. It was a chip built into his watch and activated by pulling the stem and twisting it clockwise. The signal was monitored by all mobile metropolitan and state police units. It was basically a license to speed or leave the scene of an accident. It told the authorities that the car was on time-sensitive government business and could not be stopped. The FIATs were introduced two years before so that unmarked Homeland Security officials would not be stopped or detained. Though McCaskey was not on a high-priority mission, Scotland Yard was an important ally. He wanted to get them what they needed as quickly as possible.