beer and the information, she rose and pushed past the screen door. It squeaked angrily on its rusty hinges as she disappeared out into the empty space beyond the elevated porch.
CHAPTER 11
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Jonathan Harper’s elegant brownstone was located in DuPont Circle on historic General’s Row. The line of town houses had been constructed in the late-1800s and given to former Union army generals in lieu of a pension, the federal government finding itself somewhat short on funds at the time. The buildings had admirably withstood the ravages of time, towering over the narrow street below, just as they had more than a hundred years earlier.
Surprisingly, it was not difficult for Ryan to find a place to park his car on the street. As he walked with Katie up the front steps, he found himself wondering if Harper took advantage of his influence to ensure that the Metro PD kept the curb in front of his home clear of vehicles. Ryan knew that he would do the same if he were in the DDO’s position. They were greeted warmly at the door by Julie Harper, a short, slightly overweight woman whom Ryan had known and liked for as long as he had her husband. He introduced the two women and moved gratefully into the warm interior of the house. Jonathan was waiting for them in the dining room.
“Ryan, that face looks terrible.” Turning to Katie, he said, “It must be embarrassing for you to be seen with him.”
Katie smiled and hooked her arm into Ryan’s, pulling against him playfully. “Absolutely,” she said. “I’ve started walking a few steps behind so people won’t know we’re together.”
Harper laughed as Kealey sent a rueful grin in his direction. “John, this is Katie Donovan. Katie, John Harper. He’s the deputy director over at Langley—my boss, in other words.”
Jonathan shook hands with her warmly. “Thank you for coming. Ryan talks about you all the time. It’s starting to affect his work, not that he ever did too much in the first place.”
Katie laughed as Julie emerged from the kitchen with the first of several steaming dishes in her arms.
The food was delicious, a light meal of grilled lemon chicken with baked potatoes, a fresh salad, and French bread, all served with cold white wine. The talk across the table became easier and more animated as the night wore on and another bottle of wine was consumed. Long after the meal concluded, the two women wandered off to the living room with Julie clutching a third bottle, giggling softly at a shared joke.
Jonathan laughed as they walked away, shaking his head. “They certainly seem to be getting along.” Kealey smiled in agreement. His host lifted his glass and stood up. “I need to go over a few things with you,” he said. “Let’s talk upstairs.”
Ryan followed Harper up to the second-floor study. The walls were paneled in dark mahogany, a large part of the space consumed by an immense desk of burnished wood centered on a fading Persian rug. Taking a seat in one of two comfortable leather armchairs, Jonathan noticed the look on his friend’s face and smiled knowingly.
“I know, it’s a lot different from the rest of the house,” he said. “I needed at least one room without floral décor and rose-patterned wallpaper. You might have the same problem if you’re not careful.”
Ryan laughed. “You might be right about that.”
“She seems like a great girl. I’m glad you brought her.”
“It was the least I could do. She flew in from Maine just to see me after the bombing. It’s been four days, though; I think she’s starting to get tired of being cooped up in the hotel all day.”
“It’s the safest place for her, Ryan. They bumped up the threat level again, you know; we’re at red now, a ‘severe’ risk of terrorist activity, whatever the hell that means. You should probably just send her home.”
Kealey shrugged. “I like having her around, and I’m worried about her being at the house all alone. Besides, she already called the university and dropped her classes for the semester. I tried to talk her out of it, but she said she needed a break anyway. I can hardly send her back to Maine now.”
“Yeah, well…” All of a sudden, Harper looked uncomfortable. Ryan wondered why, but the other man had already changed the subject. “Listen, I want your opinion on something. What do you think about adding March to the Bureau’s list of Most Wanted Terrorists? The idea keeps popping up.”
The younger man shook his head immediately. “You said it yourself, John. That would cause a huge uproar in the media and it probably won’t get you any closer to catching him. There’s no way you can do that quietly.”
Harper took a sip of wine and nodded thoughtfully. “The president agrees with you.” Ryan looked up sharply and Jonathan continued: “The director was asked—and by that I mean ordered—to appear before the National Security Council two days ago. You can probably guess that it wasn’t for a pat on the back.”
“I’ll bet.”
Harper shrugged. “To be fair, he wasn’t singled out; the top people over at Customs, Homeland Security, and the Bureau got the same kind of chilly reception. Nevertheless, our mandate puts us in the spotlight on this one.”
Ryan thought about that for a second. “I don’t see how,” he finally said. “The fact that March managed to sneak himself and 50 pounds of SEMTEX H into the country can hardly be blamed on the Agency.”
“You’re missing the point, Ryan. Discovering the link between March, Al-Qaeda, and Iran did fall on us, and the consensus on the Hill is that we should have done it a lot sooner. Either way, the NSC advises that we are now the lead agency responsible for tracking down Jason March. Moreover, they want it done quietly.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right, then,” Kealey said drily. “I thought they might be asking something difficult.”
Harper ignored the sarcasm. “I’ve been batting some ideas around with Director Andrews. The only thing we can agree on is that March is the closest thing to a weak link the organization has. After all, he’s the only one going back and forth, leaving a trail with every step he takes—”
“Which we haven’t been able to pick up on,” Ryan reminded him.
Harper tilted his head slightly, seemingly conceding the point. “That’s not entirely true. As far as Senator Levy goes, we still have nothing. You’re right about that. The vehicle was rented under a fake name, of course, and the FBI hasn’t been able to dredge anything up on the launcher that March dropped in the Haupt Garden. The rain washed away any prints there might have been on the weapon, which is why we didn’t get a positive ID right off the bat. We might have something in the bombing, though. I got a call this morning from Virginia. A DEA agent based at the Norfolk office was trying to crack a drugs-for-guns ring being run out of a waterfront bar, of all places. Anyway, his informer sees Michael Shakib’s face spread all over CNN and tells the agent that he’d seen Shakib meeting with someone in the bar two weeks earlier. He said he only remembered because they got into an argument, and the owner told them to take it outside.”
“Who was Shakib talking to?”
“Guy by the name of Elgin, Thomas Elgin. He’s a piece of shit—his sheet makes for extensive, if unimpressive, reading. Even worse, he’s a registered sex offender. Raped a thirteen-year-old girl back in 1990, did ten years in Marion for it. You have to wonder
