Jim DeFelice - Threat Level Black

“That’s the best you can do?” Fisher.

Sammy was too distracted to answer, absorbed in the television broadcast. Every one of his limited brain cells was now devoted to trying to figure out how to extricate himself from this very serious mess.

“If you happen to think of something,” said Fisher, pushing a card to the middle of the table, “call that number.”

He picked up his credentials and took his gun from the bar. Outside, the SWAT team was just getting into place for the raid.

“Short guy with the dumbstruck look on his face in the lounge,” Fisher told the commander. “You can’t miss him.”

“Howe.”

“Colonel, stand by for Dr. Blitz.”

Howe held the cell phone away from his body. He was sitting at the side of a desk in a large room that filled most of the second story of the Circleville police station, going over the incident with one of the detectives for the third time.

“I have to take this, and it’s kind of private,” he told the man.

“My part is wrapped up just about anyway,” said the detective amiably. “I’m going to go get a Coke. When you’re off the phone, we’ll go talk to my boss, okay? Back in room two downstairs?”

“Yeah, okay,” said Howe as the detective got up.

“Colonel, I hope you’re okay,” said Blitz over the cell phone.

“I’m fine,” said Howe.

“I understand the FBI caught some of the people involved.”

“Yes.”

“I have some other news.” The national security advisor paused for a moment; Howe could hear him murmuring something to one of his assistants before coming back on the line. “Your clearance has been restored. The CIA people made a mistake.”

“Okay.”

“I’m wondering if you could come over to my office and look at some photos we have. We want to confirm they’re the UAVs you saw in Korea.”

“All right. It may take a while. I’m at the police station, making a statement,” said Howe.

“Understood. But the sooner the better.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sin Ru Chow, whose status as lowlife was attested to by all and sundry, had vanished, and not even the experts on lowlifes at the Washington, D.C., Police Department could locate him. Fisher told the detective he talked to there that they could remove the underworld thug’s photo from their rogue’s gallery; it was a good bet that the next time he was seen, it would be on a mortuary slab.

With the safety pins holding his pants together beginning to chafe, Fisher returned to his apartment for a fresh suit. The phone rang as he was coming through the door; he answered it, hoping it was someone trying to sell him vinyl siding.

“Andy, where are you?” asked Cindy Malone, Jack Hunter’s secretary. “Jack’s been trying to get ahold of you all day.”

“Shouldn’t cost more than a few thousand to repair,” Fisher.

“A few thousand for what?”

“Which?”

“Don’t be smart, Andy.”

“That’s what they pay me for, isn’t it?”

“What did you break this time?”

“I’m not telling you until the bill comes in,” said Fisher. He’d been thinking of the warehouse roof; the repair bill for the bullet holes in the helicopter would undoubtedly hit five figures if not six.

“Jack is having a press conference first thing in the morning and he wants you there,” said Malone. “Since you rescued Howe.”

“No, thanks. I have to get up to New York. Listen, if you want my advice, tell him not to hold a press conference.”

“Why not?”

“We haven’t broken the case yet.”

“But Howe’s okay. The press wants a hero.”

“Or a goat,” said Fisher. “Tell Hunter to hold off.”

“But, Andrew, please.”

He hated it when she said please.

“I’m telling you, Cindy, we haven’t figured it all out yet.” He glanced at his watch. “What are you still doing in the office? It’s after eight. You’re missing your Wheel of Fortune reruns.”

“I had to stay until I got you.”

“Well, now you can go.”

“Please. The press conference is already scheduled. It’ll make Jack very happy. And problems with your expenses are much easier to smooth over when he’s happy,” she said. “Tell you what: You do this, and I’ll get him to sign some blank vouchers right when he’s smiling for pictures. How’s that?”

“I have more important things to do than press conferences,” Fisher told her.

“Like what?”

“Like putting on my pants,” he said, hanging up.

Fisher stood at the window of the Scramdale-on-Hudson train station, gazing out at the parking lot as it filled with morning commuters. There were more luxury SUVs per square inch in Scramdale-on-Hudson than anywhere in the universe. This was no doubt a function of the difficult terrain, where investment bankers and entertainment lawyers daily negotiated such dangers as overfertilized lawns and exotic clematis.

The parade of Mercedes and BMWs up to the station was broken every so often by a Volvo wagon, undoubtedly driven by renegade hippies struggling to get by on trust fund money. It was a good bet their nannies lugged D. H. Lawrence in their diaper bags rather than the de rigueur Shakespeare to read aloud at naptime.

Fisher lit a cigarette as a Crown Vic appeared in the parade. The car was stopped twice by the lot attendants, trying to enforce local regulations against riffraff. Fisher ambled down the steps as the car finally pulled up. He tossed his cigarette to the curb and got in.

“You better pick up the butt or they may give you a ticket for littering,” said Macklin, who was behind the wheel.

“If you drive out to the end of the lot you can cut over the dirt and get onto the highway.”

“That’ll get us going back toward the city,” said Macklin.

“That’s where we want to go.”

“Why?”

“I want to talk to Mrs. DeGarmo again.”

“Faud’s landlady?”

“Yeah. She’s the only woman in Queens who knows how to make a good cup of coffee. The stuff they have at the station is atrocious.”

Mrs. DeGarmo remembered Fisher a little too well.

“It’s about time you come back,” she said, laying on the bad grammar and Italian accent for effect when he and Macklin rang the bell. “The leak, she still leaks.”

“I was afraid of that,” said Fisher. “This is my assistant,” he added, gesturing to Macklin. “He’s an expert in leaks.”

“Where’s your tools?” asked Mrs. DeGarmo.

“We investigate, then we get the proper tools,” said Fisher. “Is that coffee I smell?”

She eyed Macklin suspiciously.

“I brought more doughnuts,” said Fisher, holding up the bag.

“All right, you come in,” she told Fisher. Then she turned back to Macklin. “You, I don’t know about.”

“Mrs. DeGarmo, we’ve met before,” said Macklin. “I’m with Homeland Security. Remember?”

She squinted at the ID card he produced.

“Oh, okay, come in,” she said, waving her hand. “If Andy says.”

“He’s good with a flashlight,” said Fisher, who was already in the hallway.

Fisher went into the bathroom, taking off the top to the toilet tank.

“It’s already been searched, Andy,” said Macklin, coming in. “I keep telling you. Faud Daraghmeh’s probably back in Egypt.”

“He’s from Yemen.”

“Whatever.”

Fisher searched the bathroom carefully, discovering that Mrs. DeGarmo had changed her denture cream. He asked her for the key to Faud Daraghmeh’s apartment, which had not yet been rented out.