Deja Vu. Fern Michaels
sake, Span, will you get real here? The president is beyond that kind of petty crap. I never even believed she was engaged to begin with. That’s something the media came up with on a slow news day.”
“I’m not saying you have to buy it. I stated my personal opinion. But let’s get back to Jellicoe and how he wormed his way into the Agency. I compiled a rather thick dossier, and as a show of good faith, I’ll messenger it to your office first thing in the morning. It details his life from the day he started his own business. He worked around the clock, did favors, ingratiated himself with anyone who could help him. It didn’t take that long because the man always delivered on whatever he promised.
“He could cut corners, make things happen that we couldn’t do because our hands were tied legally. I think it’s called plausible deniability. It worked for him, for the Agency, for the president, and he’s been through four presidents. Likewise three directors, not counting me, at the CIA. As long as the job got done, whatever that job was, everyone was happy. Including me. He was the Pentagon’s Golden Boy. He got every lucrative contract there was and then some. I’m laying it out for you and not making excuses.”
Yantzy looked down at his steaming spring rolls, and then across at Span. “Okay, I can accept that. I’ll look forward to receiving the file tomorrow. How thick is thick?”
Span grimaced. “‘Thick’ is a word. Pounds is more like it. I’m talking boxes. Six, to be exact. And let me tell you right here and now, we missed the name change. Not me and my agents; the first set missed it back in the day. We had no idea Jellicoe’s real birth name was Andrew Graverson. So you can hang that one on me if you want. My guys or I should have caught it, but we didn’t.”
Yantzy said, “Shit happens. I’ve made my own mistakes where Jellicoe’s concerned. Let’s just call a truce here, okay, Span? Let’s put our heads together and come up with a plan before we find ourselves in the unemployment line. I, for one, happen to like my job, and obviously you like yours since you had a pass after your surgery and didn’t take it but elected to return to head up the Agency. I consider Jellicoe your headache, not mine. He comes under your purview. The Bureau will help if need be. Thirty days isn’t very long. Don Frank is not going to be any help at all. He’s too busy covering his own ass to worry about yours or mine.”
Span poked at his salmon burger. He’d only eaten half of it even though it was good. After his surgery he’d made a pact with himself, and that was to never clean his plate and always walk away a little hungry, and it was working for him. His doctors had told him a little more than a month ago that he was in the best physical shape since his midtwenties, and he intended to stay that way. A pity those damn doctors didn’t evaluate his mental state. He looked around, his eyes going to the mirrored wall. His eyes popped so wide Yantzy looked up, then into the mirror to see what he was seeing, which was Elias Cummings offering up a sloppy salute of sorts.
“Fuck!” Span said under his breath, his lips barely moving.
Yantzy pushed his plate of spring rolls to the center of the table. “The Big Five!”
“And all of them are untouchable.”
“What the hell are you talking about, untouchable? How do you figure?”
“It’s your turn to get real here. Emery is married to one of the vigilantes, Nikki Quinn.
“Navarro, my predecessor at the FBI, is keeping company with another one of the vigilantes, Kathryn Lucas. That photographer, Espinosa, is tied to still another vigilante, Alexis Thorne. And Robinson is engaged to the editor in chief of the Post. That guy Wong, Jesus, he’s a one-man fucking army and he trains my agents, yours, too, and all of law enforcement. He’s also married to another of the vigilantes, Yoko Akia. Any further questions, Yantzy?”
Yantzy dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “I imagine by now Cummings has informed the little group all about our informal meeting at the White House. Informal meaning Robinson can relate whatever Cummings is telling him to his girlfriend, who is the editor in chief of the Post, and we’ll be reading about it tomorrow with our morning coffee. I sure as hell would like to know who owns that rag.”
“Scuttlebutt has it Countess de Silva owns it, but like I said, it’s just scuttlebutt. Ownership is buried so deep a proctologist couldn’t find it on his best day. We’re going to look like assholes tomorrow once the paper hits the street. Speaking of that rag… don’t you find it just a little strange that the Post always got there first when it was something about the vigilantes? The Post always got it right, like they had an inside track. Spritzer is a personal friend of Lizzie Fox, that hotshot attorney who represents the vigilantes. Spritzer is engaged to Robinson. Robinson is partners with Espinosa and the two of them are best buds with Emery, Navarro, and Wong. The whole goddamn thing is incestuous. So, in summary, yes, I think there is a good chance the scuttlebutt is true and de Silva now owns the Post. Now do you understand the meaning of untouchable?”
Yantzy flinched and nodded as he plopped down two twenty-dollar bills and shoved back his chair. “If we ever do this again, you’re paying, Span.” Standing, he turned to look at the chattering group and the array of beer bottles lined up like soldiers sitting on the table. All five men waved cheerily as the director of the CIA and the director of the FBI stomped out of the Dog and Duck, but not before Espinosa got his pictures, which were already on their way to Maggie.
“Do you think it was something we did?” Bert cracked.
“We did wave. Maybe there is some kind of Agency rule saying that’s not allowed.” Jack guffawed.
“I got their pictures,” Espinosa said proudly.
“Maggie’s going to love you. Did you upload them to her?” Ted asked.
“I did! And her text says, ‘What else?’ She wants to see us like now.”
“Are any of you interested in their conversation?” Harry asked.
“Now that would be nice. They were like two scalded cats, in my opinion. And they didn’t finish their food. Oh, Jesus, I forgot, you can read lips. What? C’mon, Harry, what’d they say?” Jack almost shouted but caught himself in time and lowered his voice.
All five men leaned into the table. “They said we are untouchable!”
“No shit!” Bert said in awe. “What else did they say?”
Harry told them, enjoying the stupid looks on their faces.
Eyes wide, jaws dropping, the boys listened as they absorbed Harry’s tale.
Jack bowed his head. “Oh, wise one, I will never ever, as in ever, doubt you again. Harry, I am so impressed, I can’t find the words to tell you.”
“Eat shit, Jack. It always comes down to brains and brawn, and I’ve got them both. God must have gone to lunch when it was your turn in that department.”
“You can’t hurt my feelings, Harry, because I know you love me like I was your own brother.” He made a kissing sound with his lips.
Harry reached across the table and tweaked Jack’s ear. Jack went to sleep. “Anyone else want to take on my prowess? Ha! I didn’t think so.”
“How … how long is he going to … you know … sleep?” Espinosa asked uneasily.
“How long do you want him to sleep?” Harry asked.
“Till we’re out of here, and he gets stuck with the bill.” Ted laughed as he leaned as far back in his chair as he could get so Harry couldn’t reach him.
“Okay,” Harry said agreeably. “He might not like it when he finds out it was your suggestion.”
“There is that. Okay, wake him up, and I’ll use my expense account. Maggie will be happy to okay it.” He flagged down the waitress in the yellow boots and handed her his credit card. When she returned, he signed with a flourish and was on his feet a second later. Jack woke up in time to wave good-bye.