Robin Cook - Marker

"This morning, between seven and eight. The name was Susan Chapman. Did you know her?"

"Susan Chapman! Of course I knew her. She was the incompetent charge nurse on my floor."

"That's what we thought, and frankly, that's why we are concerned. We wanted to be reassured you weren't involved, considering your reputation, Doc JR. I know that officer bastard in San Diego had it coming, but you did shoot him, even if not lethally. Are you sure this Susan Chapman didn't get in your face and push you over the edge, something like the marine officer? We feel it is kind of a coincidence she got shot, considering your history, and she being your immediate superior."

"Is that what this is about? You think I shot Susan Chapman? Hey, no way! I mean, Susan and I might have had our differences, but that was minor stuff like her always giving me the crap patients or giving me lip because I sat down for two seconds. There's no way I'd shoot her. Come on! What do you think I am, crazy?"

"The point here is that we have to be certain your behavior is beyond reproach. I made that very clear when I recruited you into the program. Remember! There can't be any ripples. Of course, all this is predicated on your wanting to remain an active participant in Operation Winnow."

"Absolutely," Jazz said with conviction.

"You're happy with your compensation, and I trust this SUV we're sitting in has been an enjoyment?"

"There's no question. I'm very happy."

"Good! Now, do I have your word that if there's a problem in any aspect in relation to your position, or your fellow workers, or the work that you do for us, you'll give me a call with the special number I gave you? I trust you still have the number?"

"I thought that telephone number was just for emergencies."

"I'd consider what I'm talking about an emergency. I want you to call if you are ever tempted to do anything out of the ordinary, particularly anything violent that might stimulate an investigation like I'm certain this murder of the charge nurse will do. Remember! I told you from the beginning that for us, security is of the utmost importance, since any breach could put the entire operation in jeopardy. I'm sure you don't want to do that."

"Of course not."

"We consider any type of investigation worrisome, especially if you are drawn into it."

"I agree."

"Then we see eye to eye."

"Most definitely."

Mr. Bob turned to his companion. "Is there anything you'd like to say or ask Doc JR?"

"How many days a week do you come to this sports club?" Mr. Dave asked. He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward slightly.

Jazz shrugged. "I don't know, maybe five or six, sometimes even seven. Why?"

"So, other than your apartment or the hospital, this is the only other place you spend significant amounts of your time?"

"I suppose."

"Any current boyfriends or close girlfriends?"

"Not really," Jazz said. Although she could not see the man's face, from his voice, she felt that Mr. Dave was younger than Mr. Bob. "What the hell are these questions for?"

"We always like to know our agents," Mr. Bob said, "and the more facts we have, the better we know them."

"Seems rather personal to me."

"That's the kind of operation this is," Mr. Bob said with a smile. His teeth looked particularly white in the dim light. "Do you have any questions for us?"

"Yeah! What are your real names?" Jazz laughed nervously. She felt she was at a distinct disadvantage with them knowing about her and she knowing nothing about them.

"Sorry, that's confidential."

"Then I don't have any questions."

"Okay," Mr. Bob said. "We have something for you: another name. I trust that you are working tonight."

"Absolutely! I'm on the next four nights, so I'm available. What's the name?"

"Clark Mulhausen."

Jazz repeated the name. With a new mission, she was now fully recovered from the shock of the men surprising her in the Hummer and from Chapman's murder being mentioned. In fact, she was now elated. She was, in her words, jumping right back into the water.

"So you'll be able to do Clark tonight?"

"Consider it done," Jazz said with a confident, wry smile.

Mr. Bob opened his door and got out. Mr. Dave did the same on his side. "Remember! No ripples!" Mr. Bob reminded her before closing his door.

"No ripples," Jazz repeated over her shoulder, but she wasn't sure the men had heard, because both rear doors closed simultaneously as she spoke. She watched the two men walk down the row of cars toward an H2 Hummer that was a spitting image of hers. Jazz hadn't noticed it when she'd come into the garage. As soon as the men climbed into their vehicle, Jazz started her engine and backed out of her slot.

"Creeps," she muttered as she drove toward the ramp leading up to the street. Although she was excited about getting another name and glad everything was copacetic about Operation Winnow, she was aggravated by the way she was being treated. She didn't like being subservient and talked down to, which is what the conversation with Mr. Bob and Mr. Dave had been like. Even the names of the two men were stupid and a slap in the face. She also vaguely wondered how much they were being paid for each sanction if she was getting five grand. Hell, she thought, she was doing all the work.

"So, what do you think?" David Rosenkrantz asked Robert Hawthorne.

Bob was in the driver's seat, slowly drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and staring out the windshield at the bare concrete wall while he mulled over their conversation with Jazz. He had yet to start the car. Dave was in the passenger seat, eyeing his boss.

"I don't know," Bob said finally, throwing both hands into the air. He shook his head and turned to his underling. Bob was a big, athletic-appearing man with coarse features that contrasted with his Italian suit. The natty dress was a relatively new affectation. Most of his life had been spent in military fatigues, roaming the world on special ops as a member of the Army's Special Forces. "Running this operation is a classic catch-22. We spend so much effort finding and cultivating these antisocial fruitcakes who are willing to carry out the missions without compunction, but then we have to deal with their craziness. This Rakoczi is a case in point. Can you imagine she actually tried to shoot that marine officer in the nuts just because he made a pass at her?"

"Yet she's effective," said Dave. Dave was in his mid-twenties, almost half Bob's age. He was of a slighter build but equally athletic. He'd been recruited by Bob in prison, where both had done time: Bob for nearly killing a gay man who had made the mistake of approaching him in a bar, and Dave for simple grand larceny.

"She's the best we have," Bob answered. "That's why I'm torn. There's no pussyfooting around with Radoczi. We give her a name and bam, the person's gone the same night. Not once has there been any hesitation and excuses like we've had to put up with, with all the others. But like I implied to her, I'm afraid she might be a loose cannon."

"Do you think she was involved with the murder of the nurse?"

"To tell you the truth, I have no idea, although I wouldn't put it past her. At the same time, I know she wouldn't do it for fifty bucks, so maybe it was a mugging. I just don't know. I'd hoped that by surprising her, we'd have a better idea."

"She didn't react much when you first mentioned the nurse's name, but then she seemed to get a little mad."

"I got the same impression, but I don't know how to interpret it. Like most of our emissaries, she has a history of not getting along with her superiors, so the news that Chapman was dead might have just made her feel good about not having her around anymore." Bob started the vehicle's engine and twisted around to back out of the parking slot.