29
Turn off the recorder. This isn’t for attribution. I told you that already.”
Grant Breedlove clicked a button, and the red light faded. He said, “But you’ve already said you have no idea what I’m talking about. Why would you care if you were recorded?”
The waiter came by, dropped off a crystal glass full of expensive bourbon, then stood there expectantly. Located just blocks from the White House, Old Ebbitt Grill was an institution of political horse trading in Washington, DC, dating back more than a century. Crowded even during off-hours, it was jam-packed at 6:00 P.M., the tourists easily distinguishable from the power brokers by the cameras around their necks. Because of it, the waiter had no patience for someone who was going to take a booth and not order food.
Gerald Walker, the secretary of Homeland Security, picked up the glass of bourbon and gave the waiter a look that reminded him of his station. “Give us a minute, please.”
Gerald fiddled with his glass until the man was out of earshot, then said, “I’ve been here twenty minutes and you haven’t asked me a damn thing about my department. I’m not even sure why I agreed to show up.”
Grant leaned back. “That’s bullshit and you know it. Something’s afoot. I can smell it. I’m not asking for you to leak. I have that already. I’m asking for some administration perspective. Whether you give that is up to you.”
Gerald rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah, whatever. Maybe if you gave me a question I could answer, we’d get somewhere.”
Grant said nothing for a moment, then, “Okay. Here’s what I think. You tell me if I’m close: We’re pulling out of Afghanistan, wanting to leave as rapidly as possible, no combat forces left, and someone’s come up missing. Someone important, which is going to cause all kinds of hell about withdrawal. The Taliban have him, and, after the last POW, are demanding some type of exchange. A big one.”
“What the hell has any of this got to do with DHS? How would I know?”
Grant held up his hand. “Hear me out. So, we have one American who was held for five years—a possible deserter—and we release five Taliban. Now, they have another. Someone who’s the son or daughter of someone important—but from the last firestorm there’s no way the administration can deal for him. At least not in public. They want to keep it quiet. Conduct the negotiations in secret. Get the guy back without any fanfare, since the last one was an abortion. How am I doing?”
Gerald rattled his glass and said, “As a fantasy, pretty good. Honestly, I don’t know where you guys come up with this stuff.”
“Mr. Secretary, I’m currently going through every single soldier and civilian in a war zone who’s even tangentially related to a political elite. The records are open information. From there, I’m going to start sending emails. When one doesn’t come back, your side of the story is going to be decidedly less rosy. More like a Watergate cover-up.”
Gerald drained the last of his bourbon and said, “Once again, I have no idea about any of this. Department of Homeland Security wouldn’t have a say in this even if it were real.”
He stood, and Grant grabbed his arm, saying, “Then why are you going to all of those off-the-books meetings?”
Gerald shook his hand free and said, “Let me guess: You’re talking to Rivers. Because I’m canning his ass for fraud.”
Gerald saw a flicker and knew he’d hit pay dirt. “Grant, you should really vet your sources a little more. He’s being fired for travel fraud, taking trips on the government dime for personal business. Which I guess explains why your last story had DHS filling American skies with killer drones armed with Hellfire missiles. Your sources are shit.”
Grant watched him walk away, then shouted above the noise in the restaurant, “I’m still going through the names.”
Gerald waved a hand without looking back, fighting through the crowd to the front door. Grant watched him go, then signaled the waiter for the check. He threw a twenty down, enough to cover the glass of water for him and the bourbon for Gerald, then stood, scribbling in a notebook.
He reached the door and stopped, surveying the room one final time, a reflex to see if there was anyone of interest he could annoy or groom for a source. Lost in his own world, searching for the power elite—or those scrambling to achieve that lofty position—he ignored anyone who worked the room as beneath his interest.
Others focused on the same story did not possess his snobbery. Because of it, Grant failed to notice his waiter curiously working underneath his vacated booth.
* * *
Acting dejected, the waiter told the woman who was assigned Grant’s section that the booth had left without dinner.
The waitress laughed, saying, “You still owe me twenty for giving you the table.”
He passed the money, then wiped sweat from his brow. She said, “You okay? You look a little sick.”
He said, “Yeah. Just a little pissed at the lack of a tip. Tell Carver that I’m going for a smoke break.”
She said, “You still got tables . . .”
Pulling off his apron, he said, “Cover for me. I’ll be back in twenty.”
He exited on Fifteenth Street and went north, turning onto G Street. He walked about a block and entered a parking garage, hugging the wall to let cars pass. He went straight up the ramp, winding around and moving directly through where cars were trying to pass.
He reached the second level and went left, to the end of the garage. He saw the white Ford and felt his heart rate increase. He waved his hand, hoping the man behind the wheel would see it in the rearview, not wanting to surprise him. From their earlier meeting, he had an instinctive feeling the end result wouldn’t be good. Like waking a sleeping Doberman.
He paused, waving again, staring at the silhouette in the driver’s seat for a reaction. The car’s lights flashed against the wall and he started forward blindly, without looking. He leapt out of the way as another vehicle came around the turn much too fast for the space. A horn honked, and the idiot was gone.
Jesus. Never again. I’m never doing this again.
He darted across the space and opened the passenger door, taking a seat and pulling out the digital recorder he’d been given four hours before.
He said, “They came, and I managed to get their table, but they didn’t eat.”
“Did they talk at all?”
“Yes. I don’t know what about, but they did talk.”
“How long?”
“Maybe twenty minutes. The older guy seemed pissed. He left early.”
The man grunted and said, “Okay.” Nothing more.
The waiter screwed up his courage and said, “You’re still going to pay me, right? I mean, it’s not my fault they left. I took a huge risk.”
The man looked at him, and he felt the same fear he had when he’d agreed to this stupid idea. Like his bladder wanted to release right there in the car. He said, “Never mind. You keep the money. We’re even.”
The man tossed a bundle of bills in a rubber band into the waiter’s lap and said, “Go.”
When he was halfway out the door, wanting desperately to get back to the safety of his job, his new employer touched his arm. A light caress that brought him up short. The man said, “You understand what will happen if anyone hears about this, correct?”
He looked into the black eyes, devoid of any emotion, and understood the man never made a threat. Only a commitment. In abject fear, he felt his bowels want to release. He said, “Yes, yes. Of course. Believe me, I want nothing to do with this.”
The man nodded and he fled the parking garage before Black Eyes could change his mind. He emerged back onto G Street and felt more secure, the people swirling around him. He speed-walked back to Ebbitt Grill, questioning why he’d ever agreed to do the eavesdropping.
It was the damn accent. All jovial and safe.
He wondered what the entire affair had been about, but not enough to investigate. No way would he investigate. The waiter would work at Old Ebbitt Grill for another five years, never knowing his part in the greatest manhunt since Osama bin Laden. Every March 17, when the patrons wore green and the bar descended into chaos, he would be reminded of the man with black eyes.
And he would fear the man’s return.