When they reached the corner of Jim Daniel Dannerman’s block Sergeant McEvoy had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting the overflow from a minor riot going on. Two sidewalk vendors were having an argument in the snow. It had got violent. Punches were being thrown, and one of them had overturned the other’s tray of inflation-beating collectibles. Tarot cards and genuine guaranteed simulated Confederate currency were all over the sludgy, gray-black snow at the curb. The bystanders had joined in, and two street cops were doing their best to cool everybody down. When they caught sight of Master Sergeant McEvoy’s uniform they hastily cleared a path for the Bureau van.
In front of Dannerman’s apartment building Hilda unbuckled herself and looked over at the sergeant. “Target status?”
Sergeant McEvoy already had his head down over his instrument panel. “He’s back in his room. He got himself one of those gyro sandwiches at the place on the corner and took it back to his room to eat.”
“I hope he eats fast,” Hilda said, stepping out into wet slush.
A little man was waddling hastily toward her. He wore a fleece jacket, a wool cap and an armband that said Neighborhood Watch and he was shaking of all things, a golf club at her. A golf club! Obviously one of those nuts who had some sort of airy-fairy objection to carrying a gun like everybody else. He was belligerent enough for anybody, though. “Move it, lady!” he barked. “No double-parking today; you got to leave room for the plows to get through.” Then, as he caught sight of the sergeant stepping out of the other side of the van- Sergeant Horace McEvoy, in full Federal Police Force uniform, big as a house and with his hand on the butt of his shotgun, the man added, “Oh.” He didn’t look impressed. He just looked surly, but he backed out of the way.
As Hilda got out of the elevator on Dannerman’s floor she saw the landlady peeking at her out of one of the rooms. Clearly the woman recognized Hilda Morrisey. She didn’t say anything, though she was looking surly, too.
The colonel let herself into Dannerman’s room with her own key, and caught him in the act of taking off his wet socks. He was sober, if unshaved. He didn’t look like the agent she had commanded through a dozen tough assignments, but then no one could look like an agent when he was wearing a house-arrest radio collar. “Oh, shit, Hilda,” he said, wearily but unsurprised. “Don’t you ever knock? I could’ve been doing something private.”
“You don’t have anything private anymore, Danno,” she told him. “Did you sign that release yet?”
He touched his spy collar. “You know damn well that I didn’t.”
She nodded, since it was the truth, but only said, “Then put your socks back on. They want you in Arlington. You can eat your lunch on the plane.”
Dannerman didn’t ask any questions-not in his room, not in the car that took them to the VTOL pad by the river, not on the way to Arlington. He chewed away at his cold and congealing lamb sandwich with full attention. He didn’t even ask for anything to drink with it. When the sandwich was all swallowed and its paper wrappings neatly stowed in the seat back Dannerman closed his eyes. He kept them that way until the plane circled the Washington Monument, preparing to set down at the Bureau’s pad across the Potomac. Colonel Morrisey approved. It was precisely the way she would have comported herself if, unimaginably, she had ever found herself in his position.
Hilda Morrisey was as fond of Dannerman as she ever let herself get of any of the field agents she was charged to run. She certainly didn’t spoil them, but they were-well-family. As long as they remembered that she was the head of their family, with the power to punish or, occasionally, reward, Hilda gave them her unflinching support and even a little bit of as much as she had to give in the way of affection. Dannerman, now, had had quite a lot of both. The man was often a pain in the ass, and irritatingly likely to go off on tangents of his own, and at such times he needed to be brought back in line. But he generally got the job done.
Hilda’s affection for Dan Dannerman wasn’t sexual. At least it wasn’t exactly sexual, though at rare times when she had nothing better to do she had let herself daydream a little about Danno as a stud. She certainly wasn’t sexually jealous of him. She knew that he was currently banging some actress in that little theater group in Coney Island he played around with, plus God knew how many other previous women, now and then, when he was out in the field-well, God knew, but He wasn’t the only one who knew. So did Hilda, because it was her business to know that sort of thing. She had sometimes even felt a little hostility toward the other women she knew Dannerman bedded, like that Kraut terrorist bimbo who had put him in the hospital. Hilda had to admit she’d enjoyed putting the cuffs on that one.
Federal Reserve Inflation Bulletin
The morning recommended price adjustment for inflation is set at 0.37%, reflecting an annualized rate of 266%. Federal Reserve Chairman Walter C. Boettger predicts continuing moderation in the inflation rate for the next sixty days.
But it didn’t pay to think that way about Dan Dannerman. Not only could she not afford to get sexually involved with anyone in that much deep shit, but he was her property. The Bureau had strict rules about that. And so did she.
Dannerman opened his eyes at last when the sound of the plane’s engines changed. They were switching to hover mode; they had arrived. While the plane was depositing itself on the landing pad by the three-story structure that was the visible part of the Bureau’s headquarters Hilda peered outside. Three people were waiting in the cold drizzle. It wasn’t until they were out of the aircraft and Sergeant McEvoy and the two headquarters guards were hustling Dannerman away that Hilda realized that the third of the waiting men, his face obscured by the rain hood, was Deputy Director Marcus Pell himself.
Pell didn’t offer to shake hands, and Colonel Morrisey didn’t bother to salute. “Good to see you again, sir,” she said, electing to be a little more deferential than usual. “Now, unless you’ve got something you need me here for, I guess I’ll just catch the return flight.”
He gave her the smile she specially disliked, the one that said he was about to give her an order she didn’t want to hear. “Not today, Hilda. I want you to sit in on the Ananias team briefing before we interrogate your boy again.”
“Sir! I’ve got this Japanese car-parts thing-“
“Screw the Japanese car parts. Don’t look so unhappy; we’ve got some lunch for you, if you haven’t eaten yet? Fine. Let’s go.”
There was no use arguing, but she hesitated. “What about Dannerman?”
“Well, what about Dannerman? He can sweat for a while. Do him good.”
The Operation Ananias team had expanded since the last time Hilda visited Arlington. A dozen people waited in the deputy director’s private briefing room, half of them strangers. As promised there was a small salad and a plate of sandwiches at each place on the blond-oak table, and big ceramic coffee jugs scattered handily about. Some people were eating, and that was good enough for her. As soon as she was seated she began to follow their example.
The deputy director, in no hurry to get started, was thoughtfully sipping at a cup of coffee while keying through his notepad. The men and women around the table were murmuring to each other or staring into space-except for the woman across the table, who was signaling for Hilda’s attention. It was Pell’s vice deputy, Daisy Fennell. She was pretending to scribble with one hand on the palm of the other, looking at Hilda with a questioningly raised eyebrow. Hilda got the message. She shook her head: no, Dannerman hadn’t signed. Fennell pantomimed a sigh of resignation and went back to her own notepad.
Hilda chewed methodically (lettuce crisp, good; but whoever had had the idea of putting fruit-flavored dressing on it needed reeducation) as she sorted out the people on the team. The screen ID’d the civilians at the table for her and the Bureau personnel were mostly easy: Daisy Fennel, two of the staff psychologists, the elderly Asian woman who was in charge of electronic operations. That left one she couldn’t quite place; a Bureau man, she was sure, but what was his specialty?
She got no help from Marcus Pell, either. As he refilled his coffee cup, he said, “Might as well get going. All you Bureau people know each other, of course, and I guess the rest of you have introduced yourselves around already. The colonel here is Hilda Morrisey, who has been Agent Dannerman’s keeper. Hilda, this is Dr. Xiang-li Hou, from the Naval Observatory-“ And went around the table, repeating what the screen had already said. The stout black woman in the paisley dress turned out to be a cerebrospinal surgeon from Walter Reed; the two youngish women with the careworn looks were legislative liaison from, respectively, the Senate and the House, and one of them, surprisingly, had her senator sitting next to her: Alicia Piombero, the black woman from Georgia. (Not the worst of the senators, Hilda knew, but still the enemy: the damn Congress was always trying to mess around in Bureau business.) The aggressively trim-looking man with the obvious hair transplant was a brigadier general from the Pentagon; the one who looked like a prosperous corporation lawyer was. Was some kind of a lawyer, at least, though his specialty wasn’t given. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, though. He might almost have been a somewhat older edition of Wilbur Carmichael, whom- Hilda glanced at her watch-if this damn meeting ever got itself over with, she might still get a chance to see that evening.