Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

Drummond glanced at his deputy, understanding now creeping into his consciousness. “He didn’t…”

“Greg?” Jones asked, gesturing to the phone.

Drummond pressed an outside line and turned his phone to face the FBI director, who dialed his deputy’s office at the Hoover Building.

Vorhees looked up at the cameras from his prepared statement, a gaggle of flashes going off at the same instant, then back to the two pages, which he gripped like a lifeline. “Mr. Royce, upon returning from his trip, met with me and made the offer to give Mr. Kostin a position with his company, if I could render assistance in getting him into the country and protecting him while here. It was feared that, should Mr. Kostin’s past line of work become known, he could be the target of threats from individuals opposed to his presence. The Immigration and Naturalization Service agreed to quietly help in the matter, providing not only entry but also an assumed identity for Mr. Kostin to use. Once here he became Nicholas King.”

“INS,” Jones said while on hold. “Who gave them the power to do that?”

“I wonder how Limp Dick voted on the INS budget increase,” Healy wonderingly suggested.

The DCI gave a slight nod, but said nothing.

“I believed, from Mr. Royce’s assurances, that this unusual undertaking would help to reduce future threats to this nation’s security by preventing a Russian weapons scientist from being lured to work in countries similar to the ones I have mentioned. At no time was I aware that Mr. Kostin was going to become involved in the activities he undertook while here. At no time.

“Of course, I will cooperate fully in any investigation of this matter. Immediately upon learning of the situation from newspaper accounts I drafted a letter for transmittal to Director Gordon Jones of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, whom I also assured of my cooperation. Because of the ongoing investigation being conducted by the FBI, I will not make any further statements concerning this matter until it is appropriate.” He looked to the reporters a final time, folding and pocketing his statement as he did. “Thank you.”

The once brash, seemingly Teflon personality turned away from those gathered to hear his statement and disappeared through a door, the view cutting back to a white-haired anchor once the door was closed.

“What the hell was he thinking?” Bud asked the screen.

“When does he think?” Healy asked more profoundly.

DCI clicked the set off and let the remote drop on his desk with a plastic-versus-wood slap. He took the list before him and crumpled it into a ball, tossing it into the wastebasket for two points. “We have a list of one renegade Russian now.”

And who else? Bud wondered, still staring at the now blank screen. The unknown. The goddamned unknown.

Frankie dropped the receiver into its cradle while still recording the information on a legal pad.

“Where are they located?” Art asked impatiently, the CNN wrap-up of the unexpected news conference running in the background. Agents Hal Lightman and Omar Espinosa stood waiting for the same information.

Frankie finished noting what Lou Hidalgo’s secretary had read to her from the Chamber of Commerce directory. “Royce Pharmaceuticals has its main facility in Santa Clarita. Old Road and San Fernando.”

“That’s a half-hour at most from King’s place,” Espinosa commented.

“From Kostin’s place,” Art corrected. “Frankie, find out if Monte Royce is at that location or if they have a corporate headquarters somewhere.”

“Gotcha,” Frankie said, picking up the phone once again.

“Hal, now that we have a place of employment, you and Omar start feeding Royce Pharmaceuticals into the equation,” Art directed. “All the people we interviewed, go back to them and throw Royce into the picture. See if it rings any bells.”

“What about Allen?” Lightman asked.

Art mentally checked the assignments he’d given so far. He had forty agents — twenty teams — assigned to work with him fulltime, and he’d divided those into two groups: those checking on King, now Kostin, and those working on Allen. “Burlingame is running the Allen side. I think he’s running down Freddy’s old probation officers. Find him and fill him in.”

“Okay,” Lightman said with an eager nod. He and Espinosa were on their way without delay.

“Got him,” Frankie said. “His secretary says he’s in. I told her we want to talk to him. She said a whole slew of reporters do, too.”

“Let’s step on it then,” Art suggested, grabbing his coat.

“I like progress,” Frankie commented, following her partner to the elevator.

“So do I, partner,” Art agreed, though he knew that the difference between real progress and a wild goose chase was often indistinguishable until it was too late.

John Barrish sat alone in the family room of the house he could not really call his home, staring at the television as the CNN anchor blabbered something over the live picture of Congressman Richard Vorhees trying to evade the pack of reporters as he hurried to his car. Two uniformed police officers were attempting, with some success, to keep the microphone-armed mob at a distance, allowing the limping legislator a scant fifteen feet of breathing room.

“Fucking bastard,” John muttered. The idiot had to go and jump in front of the cameras and blab his head off. “You stupid son of a bitch.”

“John?” Louise Barrish said, walking into the family room. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine,” John said tersely, the unspoken ‘ Get the hell away from me’ tagged on to the cold assurance. His wife retreated back into the kitchen without saying anything more.

Why did he have to say anything? John wondered with frustration. He had to remind himself that Vorhees didn’t know anything of substance, but now the State pigs would have another target to pursue, one that did know something… or too much .

No . John wiped that thought away, focusing again on the picture of Vorhees hobbling away from the media, trying to save his own skin, all because of an error in his judgment. Because he trusted the wrong people.

That he had, John Barrish thought, but those who trusted too much were often used just as much, and Vorhees had unknowingly offered his services with no reservation. Barrish knew he could continue being angry at the half-crippled member of the State machinery, but really he wanted to laugh. He watched Vorhees try to run, doing that silly half-skipping thing that approximated a trot. The man had acted like a fool, and he looked like one, too. They could have anything from him — and they would. He was as easy to manipulate as soft clay.

John chuckled, smiling knowingly at the TV. He laughed fully now, watching the picture change as a cameraman got past the police and took a low shot of Vorhees limping up to his car, the alabaster dome of the Capitol providing a suitable backdrop. “And we’re not even done with you yet, you beautiful, gullible gimp.”

Stanley Barrish rarely looked better. The suit was new, a gray number with pinstripes subtle enough that one might think he was trying to avoid being pretentious, and the tie, chosen by his mother, had a hint of red to imply that there was a confidence despite the youthful appearance of its wearer. In one hand a soft leather briefcase said comfort mattered, as did the slightly bloused white shirt. All in all, when combined with the youngest Barrish boy’s blond good looks, he appeared to be an up-and-comer in the business of his choosing.