And for the time being—probably for a while to come after that too—that was about as much as could be said. The general arrived shortly afterward and went into conference with the Querl deputation. All around, as the morning wore on, the winding down and disbanding commenced of the elaborate orchestration of men and machines that had come together to make a last stand. The group found transport to an air supply base in the rear, where Koyne and Davis bade their farewells and departed to report to Air Force administration. Two hours later, Cade and his remaining companions boarded an airlift flight bound for the Los Angeles area. On the way, they restored contact with the Catacombs via one of the temporary satellite links that the Querl were setting up. Yassem, Vrel, Dee, Luke, and Di Milestro had stories of their own to tell, but they were all fine. Los Angeles was going to need some rebuilding in places. But perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing, either.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CARS BY THE THOUSANDS, along with trucks, buses, and planes were pouring back into Washington, D.C., reversing the exodus that had cleared the city of eighty percent of its population. Compared to what had gone on in other places, however, damage in the east was light. Hyadean orbital weapons had dealt effectively with the long-range missiles lobbed from submarines and the easternmost parts of Asia, while conventional interceptors and antiaircraft ground systems had stopped most of the bombers and cruise missiles on their way from Federation territory or from Canada. The ones that got through had not brought the all-out nuclear annihilation of cities that the panic had been about. Now, Ellis’s administration had been toppled by rebellious military chiefs, following the Chrysean pull-out, and what might happen next was anybody’s guess. One sure thing was that the shakeup would be worldwide.
The news going around the Hill didn’t exactly speak of loyal camaraderie and trusty friends staying true to the end. With protectors and patrons tumbling by the hour, and the power holders of yesterday rushing to denounce each other while displaying their own clean hands, distinct risks could attend knowing too much about those with dangerous rivals. Acting as Toddrel’s dirty-work specialist had paid off and brought its benefits; but that same history also meant that Toddrel had much on Drisson that could be bargained or turned around to sanitize his own image. In short, it was time to claim on the insurance.
Drisson pushed a package wrapped in a plastic bag across the table to Laura as they sat in a secluded corner of a cocktail lounge called the Fairway, on the west side of the city toward Georgetown. “Untraceable. All identifying marks removed,” he murmured. He had established long ago that she could use a gun. Making sure of detail was another part of his business. Toddrel was in town, staying at a hotel called the Grantham that he often used, a couple of blocks off Rhode Island Avenue.
Laura took the package and put it in her purse on the chair beside her, zipping the top closed. “You’re really sure you want to trust an amateur with this?” She made it sound mildly playful, as if complimenting his own professionalism.
Drisson smiled. “We both know it has to be this way. You’re sure you have the routine? You call him to say you’re in town and need to talk to him. Turn on the charm once you’re over there. Then do the job after you’ve serviced him. Throw a few things around the room, fingernail scratches on the body. . . . Use your creativity. So when they find him, it’s a simple, open-shut case of Casper getting some relaxation after all the tension, ending up in a fight, and things went too far. Anonymous hooker. No political implications. Clean.”
Laura swirled her drink while she considered, then took a sip. “Isn’t it being a bit overfinicky?” she queried. “From what I hear, political cleanups are likely to be the fashion around here. Is anybody going to be caring about one more, one less?”
“Why risk anything needlessly?” Drisson watched as she thought it through, still looking for the flaws, her gaze darting now across the items on the table, then to the far side of the room. His hand gripped her wrist reassuringly. “Just this one thing, and we’ll be in the clear,” he told her. “Then we break out the stash, make a big transfer to Australia, south of France, Argentina—wherever you want. A year or two of yachts, classy people, sunshine, and beaches while the heat here dies down.”