John Gilstrap - At all costs

One way or another, Jake figured this would all be a done deal within the next sixty minutes. Surely, the cops had zapped his prints off to be identified by the FBI. When the results came in, he was done. Christ, he’d be lucky if they didn’t just shoot him there on the spot. That was the negative side. In the plus column, Lucas Banks seemed genuinely pissed that the feds had arrested him in the first place, and truly committed to getting him off. If Jake had ever doubted the value of excellent customer service, he was a devoted believer today. The lawyer’s promise to get him out was a genuine source of hope.

So the clock ticked on. If only to pass the time, Jake replayed his conversation with Carolyn in his head, trying to remember if he’d given anything useful to the cops. He assumed that the conversation was taped; but even if it wasn’t, it may as well have been. The cops stood close enough to share his shoes. Carolyn fully understood what was at risk here, and he was confident she knew precisely what to do. Each time he replayed the words, he relaxed a little more, confident they’d given nothing away.

The sound of an opening door drew his attention toward the chief’s office, where he’d seen them all disappear so long ago. From the grim expression on Rivers’s face, Jake couldn’t tell whether his ordeal was over or just beginning. When Lucas emerged, though, and fired off a wink and a smile, Jake knew he was a free man.

He felt himself flush in a burst of excitement and anxiety that left him a bit dizzy. Not wanting to look too happy, he suppressed the triumphant grin that fought to assert itself and donned a concerned frown instead.

“Don’t look so glum, Jake,” Lucas said. “You’re free to go.”

Jake released just a bit of the smile, then looked toward Irene, who ignored him altogether as she produced a tiny key and removed the handcuffs, first from the chair and then from Jake’s wrist. As she folded the cuffs at their chain and dropped them into the pocket of her blazer, she extended a reproachful forefinger at her ex-prisoner. “Don’t you ever point a gun at me again, do you understand?”

Jake brought his eyebrows together and pretended to be scared. “Yes, ma’am.” Street clothes shrink you by half, lady. “And thanks for understanding.”

She measured Jake for a moment longer, then ended the encounter with a brief nod, before turning on her heel and heading for the coffee room.

He turned to the lawyer and shook his hand warmly. “Lucas, I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” As he spoke, he felt a twinge of remorse for what his newfound friend was about to go through. “You really saved my life, buddy.”

Lucas smiled broadly and clapped Jake on the shoulder. “No, Jake,” he corrected, “Agent Rivers over there is the one who didn’t shoot you. All I saved was your reputation.” They shared a chuckle. “I wish I could offer you a ride home, but I’ve got some paperwork over at the courthouse.”

Jake waived the offer. “God, no,” he said. “I’ll just walk uptown and get a cab.”

Chief Sherwood entered the conversation and placed a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Sorry for all the confusion, Mr. Brighton,” he said, extending his hand. “Peter Sherwood, chief of police. This guy fought like hell for you. I’m tempted to wreck my car just to do business at your shop.”

They all laughed. “We try to do our best,” Jake said, sloughing off the compliment. The clock buzzed again, and here he was, small-talking with the goddamn police chief! “Listen,” he said, as if unexpectedly struck with an idea, “I’ve really got to run. As much fun as I’ve had here today, I’ve got to get going.”

“Why don’t I get an officer to drive you home,” Sherwood offered. “Or back to your shop.”

Jake smiled but shook his head. “No, that’s okay. I’ll catch a cab.”

“The hell you will,” Sherwood huffed. “The least I can do is give you a ride, for Christ’s sake.” He called to one of the uniformed officers. “Jason! I need you to give Mr. Brighton here a ride.”

Jake’s stomach knotted tight. “No, really,” he insisted, hoping his voice wouldn’t crack. “You have bad guys to catch. I don’t want to be a bother.”

Sherwood made a show of walking away, not listening anymore. Jake was stuck. The nearest place to catch a cab would be out in front of the Sears store uptown, and that was nearly a mile away. No one would willingly walk that distance if they didn’t have to. Unless, of course, they had something to hide. He needed to be very careful here.

Young Jason-Officer Slavka, by his name tag-approached cheerfully, twirling his key ring on his finger. “Would you like to follow me, sir?”

Not on a bet, Jake didn’t say. As he trailed the young officer out the squad room door and down the front steps, he waved one last time to Lucas Banks.

With speed zones and traffic lights, the shop was a half hour away. No way could Jake risk that kind of exposure-in a police cruiser, no less! By contrast, the staging area lay just on the other side of the business district, maybe a ten-minute drive from the police station on a bad traffic day.

Excuse me, Officer, but would you mind dropping me off at a place where I can stage a more convenient getaway?

The absurdity of it all made him smile, even as his eyes stayed focused on the cruiser’s two-way radio. When the balloon went up, he figured that’s how the announcement would be made. How the hell was he going to bluff his way out of this one?

For years, he and Carolyn had planned for this moment as a distant, improbable “if.” If something happened, and they had to run, this is what they’d do. They’d developed endless checklists of ifs, each of which carried its own solution. By careful planning, they’d taken some of the edge off their fear.

Now, he realized, by obliterating that edge, they’d inadvertently opened the door to complacency. It had been months since he’d serviced the escape van; nearly a year since he’d been to the safe house. For all he knew, both had burned up or been stolen. In the context of a plan governed by ifs, he’d been able to justify these lapses, rationalizing that he could always catch up.

Now, though, the ifs had blossomed into whens, and the weaknesses of their plan were startlingly clear. By rights, the feds should have nailed him already. But for a random act of inattention by some midlevel clerk on the other end of a modem, they’d have identified Jake for who he was an hour ago. How pitifully ironic. All the planning, all the contingencies, all the clandestine trips and purchases, came down to stupid luck, in a game where the odds were hopelessly stacked against him.

And here he was joyriding in a damn cop car!

Think, Jake. Think.

As Jason navigated the traffic circle at Maple Avenue and Tobacco Trail, Jake saw the five-story hospital in the distance, and a plan materialized out of nowhere.

For roughly ten months out of the year, from noon till two, Monday through Friday, the center of power in Washington, D.C., shifted from the halls of the Capitol and the Executive Office Building to a handful of elite dining establishments. When meeting with charity organizers, industry leaders, or sports heroes, the natural choices for lunch were the Washington landmarks: The Palm, Old Ebbitt Grill, and the Hay-Adams Hotel. In these places, where the press mingled freely with their prey, the rules of engagement were clear. Anything said to anyone-from one’s entree to a request for directions to the men’s room-was always on the record.

Those public watering holes provided extended research opportunities for gossip columnists-a place to be seen-but matters of substance were rarely discussed there. The real business of politics required privacy: a place where security was more important than the quality of the food, and the maitre d’ knew who could be allowed to sit in sight of whom. Eddie Bartholomew ran such a place, the Smithville Restaurant, on Connecticut Avenue near Woodley Park. Everyone who was anyone had passed through Eddie’s place over the years, on their way toward greatness or obscurity. Yet, when pressed for a name, Eddie could never remember a single one. Maple paneling covered the walls of the Smithville, with gorgeous Constable landscapes occupying the spaces reserved in the high-profile restaurants for autographed glossies of the owner shaking hands with his celebrity guests.