Stuart Woods - Iron Orchid

Lance and Kerry walked out of the room, and Lance tapped Holly on the shoulder as he went. “Follow me,” he said.

Holly followed Lance down the hall to his office. He stopped, said goodbye to Kerry Smith and motioned for Holly to come in and sit down.

“You look upset,” he said. “Do you have any questions? If so, ask them now and never again.”

“Who was the corpse found in the wreckage?”

“It was Teddy Fay, and don’t you ever let me hear you doubt it.”

“Was the homeless man who lived in the basement ever found?”

“These people move freely about the city; now that his home no longer exists, I’m sure he has taken up residence elsewhere.”

“I saw Teddy Fay on the street; he spoke to me.”

“Oh? Do you know that?”

“I know it.”

“How?”

“Instinct.”

“Instinct isn’t good enough when you have to sign your name to the kind of report that Kerry and I are submitting to our superiors. You were mistaken; you simply saw an old man. Is that clear?”

“Can we talk, off the record, for a moment?”

“Just this once, then we’re done with it.”

“Do you really think this is over?”

“I do. Teddy pulled up stakes: he abandoned his base and a workshop that he went to a great deal of trouble to assemble.”

“Did we find anything of use among his papers or on his computer?”

“All the paper in the place had been shredded and burned; the computer hard drive had been reformatted, so every byte was scrubbed from it.”

“So we still don’t know exactly how he got into the Langley mainframe or who his contact was?”

“We have no hard evidence that he ever got into the mainframe, and a very thorough internal investigation has determined that no one at Langley aided him in any way.”

“Suppose he starts killing again?”

“I’ve no reason to suppose he will, but should that happen, I’ll screw that elephant when it sits on me. If he pops up someplace else and starts killing, he won’t be Teddy Fay, he’ll be someone else. Are we done?”

“Won’t we all have to answer to our superiors, if that happens?”

“Let me give you an important lesson in politics, Holly: Kerry’s superiors and mine-at every level, right up to and including the president of the United States-are going to be vastly relieved when they read our report. All of them participated in covering up the fact that Teddy was still alive; the president told the congressional leadership of both parties the truth, and they helped cover it up, in the hope that we would stop Teddy before his continued presence became known to the press. They’re all going to feel very good about this.”

“But it will come out, eventually, won’t it?”

“Certainly not. Teddy Fay’s body will be cremated before the day is out, and his ashes will occupy a landfill on Staten Island. If rumors start, they’ll have nowhere to go.”

“But the president will be part of a big cover-up.”

“No, he will not. He will receive our report and accept it, because it is in his interest to do so. He will have no knowledge of anything outside that report, and thus he will have nothing to cover up. Now are we done?”

Holly took a deep breath and nodded. “We’re done.”

“If you think about it, you’ll know that you have nothing to be anything less than proud of. Don’t let your mistaken identification of an old man trouble you; there is nothing whatever to support that identification.”

Holly nodded. “I understand. Do you know what my next assignment will be?”

“You’re not going back to the Farm or to Langley. You’re going to be staying here, with me. It’s been intimated to me that the Agency’s New York station will be reorganized in this building, under me. You’re going to like your assignment.”

Holly smiled. “Good. What’s next?”

“Something interesting.”

“Tell me.”

“After you’ve had twelve hours sleep and a couple of days off. Go home, see your father and his girl and Daisy. I’ll see you Monday morning. Merry Christmas.”

Holly got up and went home.

BOB KINNEY CAME HOME from the Bureau at midnight. Nancy was waiting up for him.

“Want some eggs?” she asked, kissing him.

“Love some,” he said. “I didn’t get any dinner.”

“Can you tell me what was going on?”

“You know I never tell you Bureau secrets.”

“Of course not.”

“Teddy Fay is dead.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“You know it. I expect that opinion is being voiced at a number of residences around the city, including the big white one on Pennsylvania Avenue.”

“Is there going to be an investigation of all this?”

“You can’t investigate something that never happened.”

“That’s your story, and you’re sticking to it?”

“You got it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I hope so, too, baby.”

“You want bacon or ham with your eggs?”

“I want you with my eggs.”

“Done.”

WILL LEE WAS IN BED, watching a DVD of Casablanca, when Kate came home from work.

“You’re pretty late,” he said. “I didn’t know people at your level of government service worked after midnight.”

Kate dropped her clothes on the floor and crawled into bed with him, snuggling her warm body against his. “Why, Mr. President, you’re not wearing any clothes.”

He groped around. “Why, Madame Director, neither are you.”

“Hang on,” she said. “I’ve got some news that will put you in the mood.”

“I don’t need any news to get in the mood,” he said, turning toward her, “but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“You’re right. It was Teddy Fay who shot Ali ben Saud this morning, then blew up an office building under construction across the street from the U.N.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I just thought you’d like it confirmed. What you don’t know is that they found Teddy Fay’s body in the wreckage of the building, along with the homemade gun he used.”

“So, it’s over?”

“It’s over.”

“Are we going to announce anything?”

“I’m certainly not, and you’re crazy, if you do. Tell your congressional leaders and tell them to sit on it.”

“What happens if they don’t?”

“Then they’re guilty of hiding the whole business from the American people.”

“I don’t know if I’m comfortable with this.”

“You made that decision weeks ago, pal; learn to live with it.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“You know I’m right.”

“Now can I molest you?”

“You’d better.”

They reached for each other.

THREE WEEKS LATER, Irene Foster got home, tired and not a little drunk. Her living room was piled with boxes; her walls and bookcases were bare; there were still sheets on her bed, but that was the only comfort of home left in her little townhouse.

From somewhere, she heard the muffled ring of a cell phone, and she tore at her handbag looking for it, finally dumping the contents on the floor.

“Hello?”

“Hello, yourself.”

“Thank God, I was beginning to think…”

“Don’t ever think that”

“Where are you?”

“Somewhere in the Middle East.”

She laughed. “Oh, that is very good news.”

“I thought so, myself. What have you been up to?”

“Today was my last day. There was a party; I’m roaring drunk.”

“I wish I were there to take advantage of you.”