Don Pendleton - Blood Testament

He loved the town, and hated it, the feelings sometimes surfacing together simultaneously. The nation's capital had nurtured him, allowed him to become the man he was, and it would just as cheerfully destroy him. It would be Cartwright's task to see that no such opportunity was granted to any of his enemies. Or any of his friends, he added silently, relieved by the arrival of the elevator. There were no such things as friends in Washington, not since Lee Farnsworth, and he was reminded of that fact each time he spoke to Gianelli. In emergencies allies would betray you at their leisure once the danger to themselves was past. It was a lesson that America had failed to learn in 1941, in 1945, in '59 and '63 and on and on. It was a lesson Cartwright only had to suffer once before he read the writing on the wall.

Trust no one but yourself. Reveal no weakness to your "friends" or enemies at any time. Permit yourself no public indiscretions and confess no errors of judgment. Stonewall to the end, and cut another deal beneath the table if you have to, anything to save yourself.

He disembarked, abandoning his elderly companions on the fourteenth floor. He took no pains to hide his face from other men and women passing in the corridor as he approached Gianelli's suite. They didn't know him, had no reason to remember him. As perfectly anonymous as any man alive, he reached the door that was numbered 1425 and rapped twice against the polished wood.

The door was opened by a six-foot-eight behemoth, decked out in a suit that seemed about to split along its seams. He held the door for Cartwright, closed and double-locked it when he was inside, and frisked the Company operative for weapons. Cartwright kept the grimace from his face, inured to the embarrassment by now, convinced that Gianelli's private paranoia was a sign of weakness. That could be useful knowledge in the future when the time was ripe for eliminating Gianelli's shadow from his life. Soon.

The ape conveyed him through a narrow entry hall into a sitting room with bedrooms opening off either side. The doors were open, the bedrooms vacant. As soon as Cartwright was delivered, his companion ambled back in the direction of the door to stand his watch.

"You're late."

"I'm never late."

Still, Cartwright ignored the urge to check his Rolex. It was one of Nicky's favorite ploys, Cartwright knew, a childish bid to knock the other side off balance, prior to opening negotiations. It was stupid of him to be playing games with Cartwright at a time like this, and Cartwright made another mental note regarding Gianelli's ego. The fanatical one-upmanship could be a fatal weakness, leading him to reckless action when the chips were down, and it was good to know.

"You want a drink?"

"No, thanks."

"So, sit."

Cartwright sat and waited for the mobster to begin, examining his adversary for perhaps the thousandth time since their association had begun. He might not fit the profile of a mobster, with his stylish haircut, understated suit and jewelry, but there was something oily in the mafioso's mannerisms, even in his voice, that had a way of setting Cartwright's teeth on edge. He felt contaminated any time he came into contact with the man who held his past, his future, in those manicured hands.

"Your end all right?"

"It's covered," Cartwright told him. "I understand you've got the target marked."

"You understand exactly right." There was a shadow of uneasiness behind the mobster's smile. "The bastard's here, and I can tell you that he's hot as hell."

"You were expecting that."

"Damn right. I didn't think he'd take it this fast off the mark, but I was counting on some losses here and there."

The capo's tone betrayed his anger, faint bewilderment at what was happening on the streets of Washington. From quiet sources, Cartwright knew that Gianelli had been taking hits all evening, from the ghetto to his favorite pleasure palaces. It was the price he had to pay for setting up an operation in his own backyard.

"I set the meeting with Brognola as you asked. It's Arlington at midnight."

Gianelli frowned. "I wish we'd set it earlier, the way this bastard's tearing up the town, but what the hell. It's just a few more hours, right?"

"Four hours, thirty-seven minutes."

"Yeah, all right. You mentioned something on the phone about another problem."

Cartwright nodded, drawing cautious pleasure from the mobster's agitation.

"It's the media. Specifically a free lance by the name of Susan Landry. Someone tipped her to the move against Brognola, and she's pressing for supporting evidence."

"Goddamn it. Was it Landry? Why's that name familiar?" Gianelli's scowl was carving furrows in his cheeks. "I know that name from somewhere, dammit."

Cartwright gave it to him on a platter. "She's the one who broke the story on that little business in Virginia. Prior to that, she had alleged connections with your target's Cleveland operation. Someone in the Family up there should have the details."

"Shit, I know the score on Cleveland," Gianelli growled. "The bitch was there, all right. Goddammit, what's she up to now?"

"An educated guess would say that she's attempting to corroborate — or to expose — the evidence against Brognola."

"Christ, that's all we need. The frigging media. How badly can she hurt us?"

Cartwright didn't even have to think about it. "There's a single source of information she could tap, outside this room."

"DeVries."

It hadn't come out sounding like a question, but he nodded all the same, confirming Gianelli's choice of the potential leak.

"We'll have to take him out. You wanna set it up?"

It was the CIA man's turn to frown. "I think it's better handled out of house. Less chance of comebacks in the long run."

Gianelli chuckled. "'In-house,' 'out of house,' what the hell's the difference? I'll handle it, and we won't have no fucking comebacks, neither. Shit, you cloak-and-daggers kill me."

Not a bad idea, thought Cartwright, but he kept the icy smile in place. The time was not yet ripe for dumping Gianelli. Later, when the present mess was all behind them.

"While we're on the subject, Nick, I think you should be covering the meet in Arlington.''

The mafioso dropped his smile, bent forward, elbows planted on his knees. "Why's that?"

"My ass is hanging out a mile for no good reason on this thing. I laid the groundwork, got your target here. It's your show now."

"My show? Your ass is hanging out for no good reason? Maybe you should take another look around and find out who your friends are, Cam. Think about the shit you'd have to wade through if Brognola tied you in with Farnsworth and that fuck-up in Virginia."

"He was nowhere close. You know that."

"What I know is that it only takes a phone call, and your little world goes up in smoke. Capisce? Somebody ties you in with Farnsworth, and you wouldn't have a pot to piss in by this time tomorrow."

Cartwright bristled.

"This has never been about Brognola, dammit. It's about his contact."

"What's the matter, you can't say the name? It's Bolan, asshole. Say it."

"This is childish."

"Say it!"

The explosion took him by surprise, the dark contorted face reminding Cartwright that the mobster might be capable of anything. Behind him in the entryway, he heard the hulking gunner sucking wind and waiting for the order to attack.

He said it.

"Bolan."

Gianelli rocked back in his easy chair, retreating from the brink of detonation, and the sudden shift confirmed for Cartwright that he had been dealing with a psychopath these past two years. "See there? It's easy when you try."

"I've got no argument with Bolan."

"Oh? Well, I'd lay money on it that he's got an argument with you. He lost some people in Virginia, just in case you don't remember, and the bastard has been known to hold a grudge. He finds out you were in the deal with Farnsworth, chances are that you'll be dead before you come to trial."