Threat Level Black - Страница 3

Burned.

That was a better word. He had been burned.

Howe pulled on the gray suit pants over his white shirt.

So, if he’d been burned, why was he back in D.C.?

Because his mother had been excited by the fact that the national security advisor to the President of the United States had called her son not once but twice. And actually spent several minutes chatting with her.

Chatting was the word she had used.

The national security advisor to the President of the United States. We chatted for quite a while. A very, very nice man.

She had had the same tone in her voice nearly twenty years before, when he was a high school junior being courted by colleges offering athletic scholarships.

He looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and laughed at himself. At thirty-five, he might be a bit younger than some of the people he brushed shoulders with in Washington, but he wasn’t going to pass for a high school kid anymore — though in some ways he felt like one again.

National Security Advisor Dr. Michael Blitzand, to hear his mother tell it, the President himself — wanted Howe to take on a very important job. But what job that was hadn’t been made clear. Howe figured it was as some sort of advisor to the President, a glorified pencil sharpener more for window dressing than anything else. He wasn’t going to take it, but the truth was, he was getting bored hanging around his parents’ house in rural Pennsylvania; he could do with the change of scenery. And sooner or later he did really have to decide what the hell it was that he was going to do when he grew up.

Howe laughed again. Then, remembering it was still god-awful early, he clamped his mouth shut, grabbed his suit jacket, and went down to see if he might find a place for breakfast.

Chapter 4

...

HELLO AMANDA

GOING TO MSCW. CAN YOU GET ME OUT? BEST CHANCE THURS. PLEASE! I HAVE INFORMATION.

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Chapter 5

The knock on the door had a familiar rap to it, the sort of hollow sound Death might make if he had a hangover.

“Fisher. I know you’re in there,” said a voice not unlike Death’s own.

“He’s not here,” said the FBI agent.

“We need to talk.”

“So talk, Kowalski. You’re good at it.”

“Face-to-face.”

“This early in the morning? I don’t know if my stomach can take it.”

Fisher refilled his coffee and lit a fresh cigarette: no sense approaching a Defense Intelligence Agency agent unarmed, even one like Kowalski.

“Why the hell aren’t you working up some plans to take over a minor country, like France or Germany?” he asked as he opened the door.

Kowalski stood in the hallway of Fisher’s small apartment building, flanked by a pair of men Fisher didn’t recognize. Their suits were pressed and their ties didn’t clash: The DIA was recruiting a better class of people these days.

“You’re dressed,” said Kowalski.

“Sorry to spoil your thrills,” said Fisher. He took a sip of coffee. “What happened? You took a wrong turn at Gomorrah and got lost?”

“Can we talk inside?”

Fisher stood back and let the three men enter the small studio apartment. When Kowalski was inside he turned to the other two men. “This is what working for the government will get you.”

“If you’re lucky,” said Fisher.

“That coffee or motor oil you’re drinking?” asked Kowalski.

“Both.” Fisher turned to the two men Kowalski had brought with them. “You guys are DIA?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I could tell from your haircuts.”

“Don’t mind Fisher. He comes off like a real jerk, but once you get to know him you’ll see he’s worse than he looks,” said Kowalski. “Have some coffee, boys. Your widows will be well cared for, I promise.”

“Don’t want the full breakfast?” Fisher asked.

“We had breakfast on the way, sir,” said the taller of the two men.

“Kowalski made you pay, right?”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

“Same old Kowalski. You see his tie? Some of those stains are five years old.”

“It’s a design, Fisher. This is an expensive silk tie that my wife gave me for my birthday. I don’t wear clip-ons like you.”

Fisher considered demonstrating the disadvantages of Kowalski’s sartorial preferences but decided the tactical advantage might come in handy if he had to choke him some day.

Kowalski put his head inside the small fridge at the side of the kitchenette. “You got stuff growing in here.”

“Penicillin. Saves on doctor bills.”

“God,” said Kowalski as he adjusted his coffee. “This is almost drinkable.”

“If I’d known you were coming I would’ve gone all the way.”

Fisher walked into the other half of the apartment, pausing over a pair of card tables that served as his combination dresser and entertainment center. He took his watch, wallet, and Bureau credentials off the ancient Philco TV, then examined his gun, a .44 Magnum nearly as old as the black-and-white TV set and arguably only half as deadly.

“So, how much do you know about the E-bomb?” asked Kowalski.

“I don’t know anything,” said Fisher.

“I heard Macklin called you in to consult.”

“He called me in to look at a computer video of New York City blowing up. He thought I’d be nostalgic,” said Fisher.

“Homeland Security is peeing in their pants,” said Kowalski. There was a note of triumph in his voice. “So you coming aboard or what?”

“I’m not doing anything unless they roll back the cigarette tax,” said Fisher. “Why are you here?”

“Because we’re the ones who came up with the intelligence on the E-bomb in the first place. Macklin didn’t tell you I was the guy who figured it out?”

“No. But probably he had trouble putting your name and the word intelligence together in the same conversation.”

“We’re putting together a joint task force. Homeland Security. DIA. And you.”

“Me?”

“We can use somebody for comic relief.”

“I’m too old to run away and join the circus.”

“Listen, Andy, this is going to develop into a big one. When we bust this, we’ll be on 60 Minutes.”

Fisher thought he detected a smirk from Kowalski’s taller sidekick. There was hope for the country yet.

“You really do want to join up,” added Kowalski. “I told Macklin it was a great idea. That’s why I’m here.”

Fisher took the cigarette butt down to the nub, then put it out in a glass of water in the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Under ordinary circumstances he would have left it there, but since he had company he thought it best to keep up appearances: He leaned over to the nearby window and tossed the butt down into the alley.

“So? You in or out?” asked Kowalski.

“Boss promised me a nice Internet porn case if I show up for work before noon today.”

“Internet porn? Come on. That’s not your style. You’re a high-tech guy. National security. Lives on the line. Not T & A.”

“Nothing wrong with a little T & A now and again,” observed Fisher.

“Seriously, Andy. Come on. Macklin wants you. I want you. We could use some help determining if this thing is real or not.”

“No, thanks.”

“Could be a career boost. Jump in pay — get you into some upscale digs.”

“This place isn’t upscale?” Fisher spread his hands around his domain. “Listen, I have to get going. Thanks for the wake-up call. But I got a question for you.”

“Yeah?”

“A serious question.”

“Shoot.”

“How come you used the salad dressing instead of milk in your coffee?”

Chapter 6

Howe handed his entire wallet to the Secret Service agent, letting him examine his license even though his ID had been checked twice before and he already knew his name was on the list of visitors. He’d been to the West Wing of the White House only once before, and that time he had been accompanied by a high-ranking assistant to Blitz, Howard McIntyre, who’d smoothed him past all the security hoops and barriers. It was somewhat different this time around. To the men checking his ID he was just another name on the list. Howe thought he liked it that way.