Tom drove to Elizabeth’s apartment house, near DuPont Circle, pulled into the garage, and parked. He took the elevator up to the floor above hers, then walked a flight down the fire stairs and peeked into the hallway. The coast was clear. He walked quickly down the hall, found the door off the latch, and let himself in. “Elizabeth?” he called.
“Have a seat. I’ll be there in a minute.”
He sat down on the sofa and looked around. He’d been there only once before, and it seemed much the same: comfortable.
Elizabeth appeared, buttoning her blouse.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said.
“Fat chance. Drink?”
“I’ve already had some wine with dinner. I’d better not.”
She poured herself one and sat down. “What’s up?”
“First, a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Have you recently had any contact with a female journalist?”
“You mean like Peg Parsons?”
“She’ll do. Have you seen or communicated with her?”
“No, I haven’t. Do you have some reason to believe that I might have?”
“I saw her today, and she told me that she has a source in Sykes’s group.”
“Holy shit.”
“My feelings exactly. Do you have any idea who that might be?”
“Did she say it was a female?”
“No, she used the editorial male gender when speaking of him, but said it might be a woman.”
“I’m the only woman I’ve seen there, so it’s got to be a man. What sort of information did she get?”
“Nothing earthshaking. She said Sykes had seen Holly Barker in New York on television, so he knows she’s not dead.”
“I was with him at dinner when he saw that on TV.”
“How did he react?”
“He seemed annoyed, but he didn’t say anything more about her.”
“I guess he wouldn’t. I got your message about the trackers.”
“Good.”
“I checked them out, and they’re working just fine. I watched his Explorer go into the village for groceries and gas, then return.”
“That’s odd,” she said. “Elroy would ordinarily go in for groceries. Could it have been the liquor store? He might have bought some wine.”
“Could be.”
“Holy shit again!”
“What is it this time?”
“It’s Elroy, the black cook.”
“What about him?”
“He’s got to be Peg Parsons’s source!”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he hates Sykes.”
“How can you tell?”
“It’s obvious, trust me.”
“What’s Elroy’s last name?”
“Hubbard.”
“Do you know anything about his background?”
“He’s retired Navy, where he was a cook — supposedly his last posting was as the chef at the officers club at Naval Air Station Pensacola.”
“I’ll check him out,” Tom said, glancing at his watch. “I’ve got to get home.”
“Is Amanda keeping you on a short leash?”
“You could put it that way,” he said.
She walked him to the door.
“Anything else to report?”
“Nope. Drive carefully.” She let him out and locked the door behind him. She walked slowly back to the sofa. “Elroy,” she said. “Now, whose team is he playing on?”
40
Tom found Amanda sound asleep, so he wouldn’t have to make love for a third time today. He lay on his back, naked, cooling down, and thought about Elroy Hubbard.
Who did he represent in Sykes’s camp?
There were options: he could simply be a source Peg Parsons had cultivated after a chance meeting. Or he could be CIA — they were never shy about trampling on his territory. Or one of the fifteen other intelligence agencies. Not the NSA: too technical. Then who would want what Hubbard had on Sykes? A state agency, maybe?
It took him an hour to sink into sleep, finally, after ten milligrams of Ambien. The following morning he was groggy, as he had known he would be after seeking pharmaceutical help so late. He took a cold shower to wake him sufficiently for action. But what action? He was running Elizabeth Potter as a one-off; there was no team to back her up, just himself. He contemplated creating a team, but he didn’t want anyone to know he was running an agent alone — it would be embarrassing to ask for help at this late date, especially when the life of a president-elect was in play. And he didn’t like admitting that he was working with the Secret Service, rather than with his own Bureau.
He called Mamie Short. She was experienced, inventive, and distrusted by most of the male agents because she was a female agent. There was still resistance to that in the Bureau.
He used his private line to call her on a direct line, avoiding secretaries.
“This is Short,” she said.
“Mamie, Tom Blake. I need to see you outside the office, without our being seen together. Any suggestions as to where?”
“How about my office? This place empties out at noon, like a herd of cattle avoiding branding.”
He thought about that; not a bad idea. “Is there a conference room with a lock on the door?”
“Two doors from my office.” She gave him a room number. “Twelve-fifteen?”
“Good.” He hung up.
At twelve-ten he walked two floors down the stairs and found the room. She was sitting at the table, munching on a sandwich.
“I brought you one,” she said, indicating a brown paper bag at the next seat.
“Thanks, Mamie.” He sat down and took a moment to think about her while unwrapping his sandwich. She was tallish, blond, early forties, casually dressed. Hoover would have hated her on sight.
“I’ve been running an agent on my own, and I need help.”
“And you had to come two floors down to get that?”
“For a variety of reasons, I don’t want to assemble a team.”
“And you don’t want to tell me what your reasons are?”
