The Book of Spies

23

Washington, D.C.
THE MAN parked his car on a dark residential street in the gently rolling hills north of downtown Washington. In the distance, the tall dome of the Capitol shone like ivory. He opened the car door, and Frodo, his little terrier, leaped out, wagging his tail.
With the terrier leading, they walked down the sidewalk, all part of the man's cover, and turned onto Ed Casey's block. The man noted another early dog stroller heading toward him through the still shadows. As he always did, he assumed an indulgent dog-owner's smile and nodded in greeting. Then he pulled Frodo off the curb to give the pair a wide berth.
As soon as the other walker was out of sight, the man stopped beside a Eugenia bush whose low branches brushed the ground. He slid Frodo's leash underneath, and Frodo followed, crawling in and circling around. His little black eyes peered out.
"Stay." He gave the hand command.
Frodo immediately settled back into the foliage, invisible to anyone who passed. They had done this many times. Frodo would not move nor make a sound.
After a careful look around, the man sprinted across the lawn to Ed Casey's clapboard house and examined the doors and windows on the first floor. All were locked, including French doors overlooking a goldfish pond in the rear yard. He returned to the French doors. No dead bolt. Slide locks had been installed, but no one had bothered to engage them. He loved the way people were lulled into complacency by the passage of uneventful time. His profession depended on it.
With a small tool, he popped open the French doors and stepped into a shadowy family room. He liked to have house plans, but there had been no time to get them. When he hired him for the job, Doug Preston had been able to pass on only Ed Casey's address.
Cautiously he padded across thick carpet into a central hall. A grandfather clock ticked rhythmically. There was no other noise. He listened at the foot of the stairs, then ducked his head into open doorways--a living room, a dining room, and a kitchen. All deserted. He opened the only closed door. Bingo--an office.
Keeping his ears tuned for movement upstairs, he headed straight to the desk, where a computer sat. He went to work, installing tiny wireless transmitting devices inside the hard drive and keyboard.
Finished, he listened to the house again. Silence. He slipped out of the office and let himself out the French doors. The early-morning sky was still black. Tomorrow night he would return and remove the bugs, lessening the chance anyone would ever know his business tonight.
Pausing near the street, he surveyed the area. At last he strolled to the Eugenia bush and gestured. Frodo scooted out, and the man gave him a dog biscuit. Whistling to himself, he walked his pet back to the car.
Johannesburg, South Africa
IT WAS half past noon in Johannesburg when Thomas Randklev received a call from the Library of Gold director. As soon as he hung up, Randklev phoned Donna Leggate, the junior U.S. senator from Colorado. It was only 5:30 A.M. in Washington, and it was quickly apparent she had been asleep.
As soon as he said his name, the tone of her voice modulated from gruff to welcoming. "This is an odd time to be calling, Thom, but it's always good to hear from you."
He knew it was a lie. "I appreciate that. I'd like a bit of information. Nothing unseemly, of course."
"What can I help you with?"
"This is about a woman named Gloria Feit, who's with your Clandestine Service. We'd like to know for whom she works and what she does."
"Why are you interested?"
"I'm not at liberty to say, except it involves someone special like you, someone we like to give good service to--one of our investors. Certainly nothing about your national security. It's just business."
She hesitated. "I'd rather not--"
He interrupted. "I hope your shares in the Parsifal Group are making you smile."
A widow, Leggate had been appointed to the Senate to succeed her husband when he died four years earlier. Her husband's debts had left her in a precarious financial position, but because of Parsifal, she was earning far more than her husband had. She was also far more ambitious, but in Washington ambition unsupported by money was just another social affectation.
Her tone was guarded. "Yes, very much so."
"And of course there are the dividends," he reminded her.
"Even better," she admitted. "But still . . ."
Although unsurprising, her reluctance was annoying. They needed her to move on this, and fast--but he was not ready to tell her that yet.
"You're on the Senate intelligence committee," he pointed out. "You've brought a CIA employee, Ed Casey, into Parsifal. Tell him to e-mail someone at Langley for the information. If you feel you can't, you'll have to drop out of our special club for investors, and I'll transfer your shares to another of our groups. You can count on the returns being decent--but they won't support you in your old age." He let that sink in. "On the other hand, if you can do us this favor, you can stay in the club, continue to recruit selected others, and receive a sizeable contribution to your reelection campaign."
"How sizeable?" she asked instantly.
"One hundred thousand dollars."
"Five hundred thousand would make the sun shine a lot brighter."
"That's a great deal of money, Donna."
"You're asking a huge favor."
He was silent. Then: "Oh, hell. All right, I agree--but only if you call Ed Casey immediately."
"If I'm awake, he can damn well get his butt out of bed, too."
"You always could charm me, Donna." He smiled to himself. She had quit negotiating too soon. He had the director's approval to go to $800,000.
"And you're a delightful rogue, Thom," she said. "Love that about you. Tell me, will you be needing any other favors?"
"Perhaps. And remember, you can ask occasionally, too. If it's in my power, I'll be delighted to help. After all, we're friends. All part of the same club."