John Miller - The Last Family

Paul Masterson pressed a white disk beside the outside door, and a short man with mean eyes dressed in a jogging suit opened it and frowned at Paul. “Yes?”

“I’m Paul Masterson,” he said.

“I know who you are. Mr. McMillan is expecting you.”

Paul stepped into the foyer. The floorboards were polished to a mirrorlike finish.

“Wait here and I’ll see where he wishes to receive you.” The man closed the door and slid a bolt into place.

Paul stood and admired a painting depicting several Indians on horseback riding amid a herd of buffalo. Two minutes dragged by, feeling more like twenty, when a door opened and a smiling Jack McMillan entered with an apron on. He walked up and hugged Paul dramatically. “Paul! Come in, boy! How the heck have you been?”

Paul had once decided that if God were to take human form, he’d probably model his appearance on Jack McMillan’s. He looked like a cross between Santa Claus without the facial hair and F.D.R. without the wheelchair. He was six feet tall and had wide shoulders, hands like steel, and a belly that was as flat as sheetrock. Paul knew Jack was in his sixties, but he could have passed for ten years less.

“I need to talk to you,” Paul said as he was released from the grip. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“I always have time for you, Paul. Let’s talk inside. I have something going in the kitchen. You eaten?”

“Yes. But I could use a drink.”

Jack was cooking a casserole. He explained that he was having the Speaker of the House for dinner. Jack was married to Martha Hall, a retired actress whose B-movie career comprised three completely forgettable films. Jack had seen one of them, flew his plane out to Hollywood, and three months later came back to Washington with Martha seated beside him. She had been married to him for thirty-five years. Their sons, Terry and Jackson, ran successful businesses. Paul had saved Terry’s life when, as a boy, he’d been swept down a rain-swollen river in Montana. The event had made Paul, a stranger to the McMillans, into a kind of honorary son in Jack’s eyes.

Jack patted the man in the jogging suit on the shoulder. “Artie, get Paul a Scotch and then go watch television while we talk. Martha’s out of town-she’s with Terry in New York. He asks about you. You should call him. How’s Aaron?”

“Mean as a snake,” Paul said. He took the glass of single malt from Artie, and the personal assistant stared blankly at him before he sulked his way out of the room. The Scotch was dark amber, a signal that it had been aged in a sherry cask for seventeen years.

“That man of yours has never liked me,” Paul said.

“Macklin’s been real good to me,” Jack said. “He’s a lousy judge of character, though. If he doesn’t like or trust someone, I know I’ll like ’em. He’s just jealous because I don’t enjoy his company.”

“I need a favor.”

“You do?” Jack slipped the casserole into the oven and set the timer. “What’s on your mind, Paul?”

Paul leaned against the counter while Jack stirred garlic into something he was sauteing over the flame. He told him what had happened to the families of the other agents. Jack asked no questions. In fact, it appeared that he wasn’t paying the story any attention at all. But Paul knew he was listening and analyzing every word. He described what he wanted to do.

“You’ve never asked me for a favor before, Paul.”

“I know. You’re my only hope. Seems no one is returning my phone calls. I know the people I want to talk to are busy, but at one time they did return my calls.”

“Politics is a twisted business, Paul. Guess people need reminding.”

“I don’t think T.C. will cooperate unless I can apply some measure of pressure.”

“T.C. is a horse’s ass.”

Jack sat on a stool and took a sip of his Scotch. “Paul, I’m not saying I can do anything about this. But I got an idea. Let me call a couple of friends of mine. If I were you, I’d go on over to La Cote d’Or for a late lunch. Ask for Raymond, he’s the owner. I’ll call and arrange a nice meal. You’ll love the food. Come back when I got some time, so we can sit down. You need anything else?” He put a hand on Paul’s shoulder and squeezed lovingly.

“Thanks, Jack. Nothing else.”

“If you need anything else, you call me.” Jack was dismissing him.

Paul finished his drink and put the glass in the sink. “Tell Terry I said hello.”

“I will.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Paul said.

Jack hugged him again at the door.

“Stay upright,” Jack said as he opened the door.

Paul turned and walked down the street, and Jack watched him to the end of the block. Then he shook his head. The thought that Paul was probably going to get killed this time out made him sad. He closed the door and went back to his kitchen.

Paul took Lee Highway to the restaurant. The owner of La Cote d’Or was expecting him and showed him to a table in the rear. It was early afternoon, and there were only three people dining in the front by the bar. Paul had the entire dining room to himself.

He sipped a glass of wine, which the owner had personally delivered to him, and lit a cigarette. As he turned his head, he recognized the short, round man who was entering the dining room as the aide of a well-known senator. He strolled to Paul’s table and sat down.

“Mr. Masterson, it’s been a long time. How delightful to have run into you here.”

“Mr. Palmer. Would you care for a drink?” Paul asked.

“That would be great. I understand you called the senator’s office. I’m sorry he was out of pocket.”

“No problem,” Paul said. “No problem at all. I know how busy the senator is with elections looming.”

The aide stared at Paul as though he were the most important man on earth.

Paul looked around at his bedroom in the Willard Hotel, drinking in the decor. As he gazed out of the closest window, he could see the sharpened top of the Washington Monument glowing golden in the early-morning sunlight. After six years in the cabin the suite’s elegance was sobering. I could get used to this again, he decided after inspecting the well-stocked honor bar and refrigerator. Paul had called T.C. Robertson, acting director of the DEA, and asked for a face-to-face, and Robertson had agreed. T.C. owed him, and Paul meant to collect.

Paul looked at the Rolex Submariner that he was wearing for the first time in six years. He was pleased that all it had needed was a winding. In Montana the only clock he’d paid attention to had been his own body’s. The suite he was in was leased by the government and used for visiting VIPs. It was a multiroomed affair with lush carpeting, silk walls, expensive furniture, and views of the capital’s more impressive buildings. There was a living room, a kitchenette and dining area, two bedrooms with large bathrooms, and an office complete with computer, fax, and a secure line. He was impressed by the hospitality of the DEA under T.C. Robertson.

Thorne Greer and Joe McLean were putting the preliminary plans he had given them into operation, approaching the men that he wanted for his team. Most of the names on the list were old-line pros, and Paul had been out of touch with them for years. The talent search was not going that well. They had talked with some old friends, but six years changes people’s priorities. A volunteer mission without funds, which could involve days, weeks, and maybe months of work around the clock, wasn’t a great lead-in. Then add the constant risk to life and limb and the fact that to join might cost a career and pension if anything went wrong, and it didn’t exactly make for a great close on the offer, either.

His idea of a team had changed out of necessity. The team would be young and would have to make up in enthusiasm what they lacked in experience. Paul would rather have seasoned pros, but he had no choice. Now he had to get T.C. Robertson’s approval and support.