Дэвид Балдаччи - The Sixth Man

“There aren’t any bills.”

“What do you mean? He was doing this pro bono?”

“I’m not sure. I guess he might have. Or else he’d set up a different payment system.”

“But he still had to be engaged by someone. He had to contact them. There has to be a legal representation engagement letter somewhere by a person authorized to act on behalf of Edgar Roy.”

“Well, I don’t know who that is.”

“Was this typical for Ted?”

“What do you mean?”

“To hide the identity of his client from you?”

She didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “This was the only time he did.”

“Okay, thanks, Hilary. I’ll be in touch.” He put the phone down and gazed at Megan. “Looks like we have a mystery on both ends.”

The door opened.

Agent Murdock stood there with his men right behind.

“Megan Riley?”

The young lawyer spilled her tea as she stood on trembling legs. “Yes?”

“FBI. You’ll need to come with us.” He looked over at Sean. “And be thankful your ass isn’t being charged with obstruction.”

“How would that be possible?”

“You know the lady is pertinent to our investigation.”

“Pertinent but not a material witness. And I’m entitled to conduct my own investigation.” Murdock started to say something but before he could get the words out, Sean added, “The way I see it I did you a favor. I brought her up to Maine. I’ll be sure to send along a request for reimbursement of her plane ticket to the Bureau.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” growled Murdock. “Let’s go, Ms. Riley.”

Megan looked imploringly at Sean, who said, “Call me when they’re done. I’ll come and pick you up.”

“No you won’t,” snapped Murdock.

“You holding her against her will?”

“No.”

“Then I will pick her up when she calls.”

“You better watch yourself.”

“I suggest you do the same, Agent Murdock.”

PETER BUNTING NERVOUSLY ADJUSTED his tie and nodded at the staffer who had come to escort him to his meeting. He’d been here on numerous occasions, but this time was different. This time he was prepared to have his ass handed to him.

He suddenly stopped and stared blankly at the man who was just now leaving the office he was about to enter.

Mason Quantrell was fifteen years older than Bunting and not quite as tall, with a bulldog chest and a jowly face. His hair was still thick and wavy, though the brown strands had turned mostly gray. His mind was far sharper than his features, his eyes roaming and intense. He was the CEO of the Mercury Group, one of the biggest players in the national security field. Revenue-wise, Mercury was well over twice the size of Bunting’s company, but the E-Program platform gave Bunting greater clout in the intelligence community. Quantrell was from the old school. Spread the intelligence around. Let the worker bees do their thing and feed the government paper mill, spewing out reports no one had time to read. He was the dinosaur making billions off Uncle Sam. Quantrell had hired Bunting to work for him right out of college. And then Bunting had left to build his own empire. Two decades ago Quantrell had been the wonder boy of the private-sector clandestine world before Bunting had replaced him.

They were not friends. In some ways they were even more than competitors. And in Washington there were really no winners or losers, only survivors. And Bunting knew that Quantrell would do everything in his power to knock him off his lofty perch.

“What a coincidence seeing you here,” said Quantrell.

I bet, thought Bunting.

“How’s business?” asked Quantrell.

“Never better.”

“Is that right? I heard otherwise.”

“I don’t really care what you heard, Mason.”

Quantrell laughed. “Well, don’t keep the lady waiting, Pete. I’m sure she has lots to tell you.”

He strode down the hall, and Bunting watched him every step of the way until the aide touched his shoulder, which made him jump.

“Secretary Foster will see you now, Mr. Bunting.”

He was ushered into the large corner office where the polycarbonate glass allowed in ample sunlight, but never a bullet. He sat across from the woman. She was dressed in pale blue – her favorite color, Bunting had observed. Ellen Foster was forty-five, divorced, childless, as ambitious as he was, and brilliant. That was just the way it was. The filter became incredibly picky at this level. She was also blond, slender, and attractive, and she could gallop the range from iron maiden to feminine flirt with ease. That didn’t hurt, either, in this city where honey and vinegar were often used as aphrodisiacs.

Foster, the secretary of Homeland Security – a recent innovation prompted by 9/11 – nodded at Bunting with an unreadable expression. She was an excellent tactician, he knew. She sat atop the largest security agency in the country. It had swallowed turf and budget dollars like a giant vacuum cleaner. This had caused a lot of envy from other agencies that resented the new kid on the block’s heft and reach. But it was the new world, and Foster was the newest member of the Cabinet. She had the president’s ear and confidence. When the person in the White House had your back, you were platinum. Foster knew this, of course. She could afford to appear cooperative and magnanimous to her competitors. For in the end, she knew she would come out on top.

Foster rose to greet him. “Peter, good to see you. Family well?”

“Yes, Secretary Foster, all well. Thank you.”

She motioned to the couch and chairs set against one wall. A pot of coffee and cups were on the table there. “Let’s relax a bit. This isn’t a formal meeting, after all.”

This gave Bunting no comfort at all. More professional executions occurred at informal meetings than did at the official ones.

They sat.

“I saw Mason Quantrell out in the hall.”

“Yes, I suppose you did.”

“Anything interesting going on with Mercury?”

She smiled and pushed the sugar bowl toward him. Obviously no answer to that was coming.

“He doesn’t know about…?” said Bunting.

“Let’s focus on you, Peter.”

“Okay.”

He had just placed the cup to his lips when she struck.

“The vaunted E-Program has obviously crashed off the tracks.”

He swallowed too large a mouthful of coffee and tried to keep his eyes from watering as the liquid burned his throat. He set the cup down, sponged his lips with his cloth napkin.

“We have issues, yes, but I wouldn’t say that we’ve crashed.”

“How would you describe it?” she asked pointedly.

“We’ve gone off course, but we are working hard to get back on. And I–”

She held up a finger, silencing him. Foster lifted a phone and spoke three words. “The reports, please.”

Moments later an efficient-looking aide delivered the folder to her. She leisurely turned the pages as Bunting stoically watched. He wanted to say, You still use paper files? How quaint. But he didn’t dare.

She said, “The report quality has degraded considerably. Usable intel from the E-Program has fallen thirty-six percent. The reports are a mess. The dots are not being connected like they were. You told me the operation would not be measurably impacted. It clearly has.”

“It’s true that the bar has been set very high. But I–”

She broke in again. “Now, you know you have no bigger supporter than me.”

He knew that was a blatant lie but automatically said, “I appreciate that very much. You’ve been a true asset and marvelous leader during very stressful times.” Cabinet secretaries’ butts were large indeed and required an inordinate amount of kissing.