Mike Lawson - House Divided

But what the hell was Dillon up to? About the only thing Dillon had told him that he believed was that Dillon didn’t want to expose Bradford, and DeMarco believed this for one simple reason: for the old spy to expose Bradford, he’d have to expose himself. But Dillon had to know Bradford wasn’t going to resign. All Dillon had done by playing the recordings for Bradford was tip his hand. Bradford now knew everything Dillon knew.

So what was Dillon doing?

DeMarco didn’t have a clue.

As DeMarco continued to drive toward Maryland, random thoughts bounced around inside his brain. He wondered how Mahoney was faring. Had it not been for Dillon, he would have called Mary Pat again to ask, but he didn’t want to do that now. If he called, Dillon would know and then he might figure out DeMarco’s real relationship to Mahoney and find a way to exploit the situation. And what was the point of calling? Hell, Mahoney was going to be all right. Nothing could kill the bastard. In a day or two, he’d be sitting up in his hospital bed eyeing the derriere of every passing nurse.

He thought for a moment about his kitchen; he’d missed the appointment with the contractor who was supposed to give him a repair estimate. Assuming he lived through this thing with Dillon and Bradford, he still had a fight with his insurance company to look forward to.

He also wondered how much danger Angela was in. He hadn’t liked the idea of her being sent to Afghanistan in the first place, but he hadn’t been too worried about her because he figured she was probably sitting in the U.S. embassy in Kabul being guarded by a battalion of marines. But now, thanks to Dillon, he knew she wasn’t in Kabul; she was playing spy games on the Afghanistan-Pakistan border. He wished she’d quit her damn job and take up an occupation that was safe, sane, and normal-and one where she could be with him every night. He also wondered if Bradford knew he was dating Angela and, if he knew, whether Bradford would hold that over his head as Dillon had done.

Then, thinking about women who put their careers ahead of their personal lives, he wondered about Diane Carlucci. Had she given him up to the NSA to protect her FBI career, or did Dillon force her in some way? Whatever the case, he wondered if he’d be hearing from her in the future. It seemed unlikely.

He hit a red light-and noticed a liquor store on one corner. That’s what he needed: a drink. There was no booze at the safe house and DeMarco was a man who liked a martini in the evening, and sometimes more than one. He thought of saying out loud: I want a bottle of vodka waiting for me when I get back to the safe house, like he was ordering from room service. He knew if he spoke inside the car a gaggle of NSA spooks would hear him, including Alice, who was following him. And then he thought: Why not? All they could do was tell him no.

But then the pinball that was his brain bounced off in another direction: Liquor store. Ray-Ray Jackson.

He stopped for the next red light and looked at the street sign. He was on the corner of New York and Florida-and the liquor store where Ray-Ray worked was about eight blocks away.

A man named Curtis Jackson supervised the janitors in the Capitol. His office was right down the hall from DeMarco’s, in the subbasement of the building; as the years had passed, DeMarco and Jackson had gotten to know each other fairly well. Jackson had four children. The oldest one played catcher for the Mets Triple A team in Buffalo. His twin daughters were both in college at Howard-and the tuition was breaking Jackson’s back. His other son, Raymond-Ray-Ray-had already graduated from college with a degree in computer sciences; he was the guy DeMarco called whenever his home computer went on the fritz. But now Ray-Ray was going for his MBA and, because his father couldn’t afford to pay his tuition too, he was working at a liquor store in the District.

What DeMarco was about to do could put Ray-Ray in danger, but probably not too much. And he had to try. He had to do something that would give him some leverage over Dillon.

He needed paper. Then he thought: What if Dillon had put a camera in the car, too? Well, he’d find out in a minute if there was one. He slowed down so he would hit the next light on the red. Paper. He needed paper. He opened the glove box and saw the owner’s manual. He flipped to the back of it where there were a bunch of blank pages and where, if you were totally anal, you could record your maintenance history. He ripped out three of the blank pages.

The light changed. While driving he searched for a pen. He needed a pen. No pen in the glove compartment. He checked the console between the front seats. No pen, but there was a Magic Marker. That would work.

He managed to hit the next three stoplights when they were red-he was probably driving Alice crazy, driving so slowly-and at every red light he wrote on the blank pages from the owner’s manual, now certain there wasn’t a camera in the car or somebody would have scolded him.

“DeMarco, why are you turning?” Alice asked, her irritation apparent.

DeMarco ignored her.

“DeMarco! Get back on New York and stay on it until you reach-DeMarco, goddammit, why are you stopping?”

“You see that liquor store over there, Alice? I’m gonna buy a bottle of vodka. There’s no booze at the safe house, and after what I’ve just been through, I feel like getting drunk.”

“We’ll get you some booze. Just keep going.”

“And I gotta use the can.”

“I said keep going.”

“Alice, I want some booze and I wanna take a leak, and if you don’t like it, you can kiss my ass.”

He heard Alice scream something as he got out of the car.

He walked into the liquor store and saw Ray-Ray was alone behind the counter, sitting on a stool, reading a college textbook. His laptop, which he practically slept with, was sitting on the counter. Ray-Ray smiled when he saw

DeMarco and started to say something, but DeMarco held up his first piece of paper and waved it frantically in the kid’s face. The paper said, RAY-RAY, SHUT UP! DON’T SAY A THING! NOT A WORD!”

“Hey,” DeMarco said, still showing the paper to Ray-Ray. “I need a fifth of Stoli and a small bottle of vermouth.”

Ray-Ray stood there, frowning now, not having a clue what DeMarco was doing-and that’s when DeMarco handed him the second note.

“You got a bathroom here?” DeMarco said as Ray-Ray read the note.

DeMarco held up the third note. It said: YOU GOTTA DO THIS FOR ME, RAY-RAY. IT’S IMPORTANT, REALLY IMPORTANT.

Ray-Ray nodded and said, “The bathroom’s back there, sir. I’ll get your vodka.”

DeMarco grabbed up the notes and walked to the bathroom. Once there, he flushed the notes down the toilet, then flushed it a bunch more times, and then made as much noise as possible pulling toilet paper off the roll. By then he figured Ray-Ray had accomplished his task-it would have only taken him a minute-so DeMarco left the restroom and walked back to the sales counter.

“Thanks,” he said to Ray-Ray, as he took a bag from him containing the bottles of vodka and vermouth-and at that moment Alice stepped into the liquor store. She looked at DeMarco, then over at Ray-Ray, and then stood in the doorway, blocking the exit, until DeMarco reached her. Speaking softly, so Ray-Ray couldn’t hear her, she said, “Give me the recorder, DeMarco.”

“Sure,” DeMarco said, and he switched the brown paper bag containing the booze from his right hand to his left, reached into the pocket of his eavesdropping suit coat with his right hand, and passed her the recorder. Alice looked down at the recorder to make sure it was the one he’d been given by Dillon, and as she was studying it he stepped around her and walked back to his car.