T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

“There’s something you need to know,” Jackie said. She told them about the contact made upon stormy Intracoastal waters by a young man who had no idea how to handle this craft.

When she finished, the two women pondered briefly. Trilling said, “Boatman doesn’t mean a thing to me. Or the description. Maybe it was one of Sybel’s people.”

“We can’t worry about that now.” Esther drew herself up and addressed Jackie directly. “We need to invite Wynn Bryant to Rome over the congressional spring recess. And we want you to go with him.”

Jackie found the last segment impossible to grasp. So she focused on, “I don’t have any problem with helping out. But it seems to me a U.S. congressman will have his own agenda. Which I imagine doesn’t include a last-minute jaunt to Rome.”

“Oh, Wynn is going,” Trilling said. “Sybel has already arranged that. We just want to make it official.”

Sunday

Sunday evening Wynn took a taxi from the Willard to Georgetown. The earlier misty rain had departed, so he had the driver drop him a few blocks from the restaurant where he was meeting Valerie. He walked the garish length of M Street, taking in the good-time crowds and the stores and the music that hammered out of every open door. The young and affluent swept by, all wearing the masks of people determined to believe almost anything, so long as it brought them what they wanted.

Midway down the restaurant’s side street, Wynn slowed and called his sister for the fifth time that day. The switchboard operator not only recognized his voice but had grown to share a little of his concern. No, she did not know where the governor’s wife was. No, the governor was still not available. No, she had not passed on his messages because the governor had neither called nor come in. Then, realizing she should not have admitted such a thing, the operator cut him off. Wynn continued down the lane, digesting just how much he had taken Sybel’s open line of communication for granted.

The Ristorante Piccolo occupied a tiny Federal house lit with gas lanterns. Through lead-paned windows Wynn saw an intimate interior whose tables displayed sparkling crystal and napkins with stiff linen wings. The place offered all the charm that Georgetown claimed but seldom delivered.

Valerie was waiting for him at a table by the front window. She stood to greet him, revealing a thigh-length sheath of softly clinging beige. She kissed his cheek and said, “You like?”

“Very much.”

“It doesn’t rank high on the political power list. But the food is excellent and the rooms are small and intimate.”

“Oh. You’re talking about the restaurant.”

She wrinkled her nose, her expression somewhere between a smile and an invitation. Once again, more softly this time, she asked, “You like?”

He still had his hand on the curve of her waist. “It’s like holding a cloud.”

“The material is called pashmina. A mixture of silk and cashmere.” She took a pair of steps and a half-turn. Wynn thought she looked like a dancing fawn. “What would you like?”

Only then did he realize the waiter was watching and grinning hugely. “A minute to catch my breath.”

When they were alone, she said across the table, “You looked so worried when you came in.”

“I can’t raise my sister. She’s always available. Always.”

“Sybel Bryant Wells. Quite a lady, by all accounts.”

“I can’t get over how much you know about me.”

“You’re a person of power, Congressman. Knowing who you are also includes knowing who can reach out and touch you. Friends, family close associates, allies, enemies. Ever since your nomination we’ve had our gophers at work, building your file.” Valerie studied his face. “When you arrived, I thought you still might be bothered by the other night at the Hutchings’ apartment.”

“I am.”

Valerie reached up and stroked a wayward hair from his forehead. “Poor little fellow. Still feeling a little singed?”

“More than a little.”

“Then I’d say Esther Hutchings has received the fate she deserves.” She changed the subject by opening her menu. “Shall I order for us?”

Wynn knew she was playing the mood, controlling the flow. Not minding in the least. “You are one impressive lady.”

She matched the candle’s glow with her own, a look broken off only by the waiter’s reappearance. Wynn listened to her discuss the evening’s choices and instruct the waiter as if he were one of her personal staff. When she turned back and saw his expression, she said merely, “What?”

“I was thinking,” he replied, “I could do worse than put myself in your care.”

That was enough to have her reaching across the table, taking one of his hands with both of hers. “A dream come true for every lobbyist the length and breadth of K Street.”

The constant intermingling of business and intimacy was very jarring, very Washington. “Where would you take me if this was business?”

“It depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether I wanted the world to know we were together.” Her look was a subtle invitation, overlaying the words with a second unspoken message. “For the public meeting, I’d probably select La Citronelle. Ultradull outside, ultrasuede inside. A hundred and fifty a head plus wine. Top French chef. Waiters who love to play the unnamed source to the Post. Great place to leak secrets, let the chief whip know you’ve defected to the opposing team.”

“And if it were a secret?”

“A private room at the Hay Adams. Or the Mayflower. A butler to usher you in, take your coat, guard the door. We’d sweep for bugs, then talk in whispers. And always assume that somehow the secret won’t stay secret for very long.”

“So what’s a nice girl like you-”

She slid her hands away. “Stop. Please. Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”

“All right. Why Washington?”

“That’s better. Honesty always, Wynn. There’s almost none of it in our game. So let’s have it between us.”

“Okay. Fine.”

“I love D.C. Always have. My father was chargé at the British embassy back in the early eighties. Leaving was temporary. I knew I’d come back and make it my home.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s so fresh. Vibrant and new and utterly alive. You don’t know how rare that is in a capital. European capitals are so buried in history and tradition, any hint of freedom is utterly crushed. And Africa, what a dismal place. Asia is almost as bad, all those would-be potentates utterly terrified of change. Believe me, Washington is unique. This place reinvents itself every four years. Democracy in the electronic age. Give yourself a few months, you’ll understand.”

Over dessert Valerie asked him about the previous day’s conference, and heard him out in the intent silence of a professional listener. Then she dismissed everything he said with, “They’re typical of the well-intentioned losers who populate the wastelands out beyond the Beltway. Forget them, Wynn. They don’t matter.”

“Graham thought they did.”

“I can see you were affected by his speech. I’ve heard it too. Passion is infectious, especially when it’s genuine. And Graham Hutchings was certainly genuine in his opposition to the banking industry.” She signaled the waiter for the bill. “Misguided but passionate.”

He started to ask about the source of her knowledge, but she leaned over once more, this time to press a finger to his lips. “A request. Spoken with the wisdom of one who’s been at this game a lot longer than you. Let’s leave it there, all right? It was a mistake for me to bring it up at all.”

“No it wasn’t.”