“I’ve been thinking about how you want to move forward, and I think the only thing that’s holding us back is our uncertainty with regard to the Goldsmith matter.”
“Right.”
“I need a certain comfort level, Morris, that we’re done with that.”
“I concur. The fact is, Howard, ever since Goldsmith—poor Barton, God bless his soul—took his own life, I’ve felt that the risks have been minimized. The scandal of it all, being branded as some kind of traitor to his own government, it was more than he could bear, and totally unfair. His number one concern was always for Americans, for their safety.”
Howard paused, then said, “Morris, do you think it’s conceivable that people within the agency would have any reason to be monitoring you in the wake of all this?”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Let’s imagine a hypothetical. Let’s suppose the CIA had people watching you. Just suppose. What would their motives be?”
“The only one I can think of is, those who were close to Goldsmith, those who know what he was doing, who were complicit in what he was doing, would be worried I might come forward. But they’d also know that such an action on my part would be political suicide.”
Howard concurred. “Do you think, in the early stages of this, before Barton took his own life, he might have had people watching you and, I don’t know, maybe even Bridget?”
“Why the hell would they be watching me or Bridget? Is something going on I don’t know about?”
“Of course not. You know I tell you everything.”
“That’s never been true, Howard. You tell me everything I need to know, and don’t tell me the things it’s better I not know.”
Howard had to agree with that, too. “All I’m saying is, before you get back in the game, we have to imagine certain scenarios, as unlikely as they may be, and develop strategies for dealing with them.”
“Agreed, but this is crazy talk. Look, forget about the business with Goldsmith. It’s going to be okay. And the thing is, while we sit around waiting to be sure the problem’s gone away, we’re wasting valuable time. We need to sit down now and plot out our next move. We need to decide on key people, who we’re going to use. We need to start studying our opponents’ weaknesses. Jesus, Howard, I hardly need to be telling you this. You wrote the playbook.”
“I know.”
“Let’s get together tonight.”
Howard knew what that meant. It had been their routine, over the years, to get together after midnight and work through till dawn, drawing up battle plans. It was when they got their best work done, when there was no fear of interruptions.
“Yes,” Howard said. “That’s what we’ll do.”
“Good. Talk to you later, my friend. Lace up those boxing gloves.”
Morris hung up.
Maybe, before tonight’s meeting, Howard hoped, there’d be some answers from Ray Kilbride.
LEWIS was about to board his short-haul flight north when his cell rang.
“Hello,” he said.
“I understand you’ve been trying to reach me,” a man said.
“Victor,” Lewis said. “Thank you for calling.”
“What can I do for you?”
“It’s about a former employee of yours.”
“Living or dead?”
“Living.”
That narrowed it down for Victor. Very few people left his employ. “Okay,” he said.
“I engaged her services, and she made a very big mistake.”
“Really.”
“It’s reflected badly on me. She’s rectifying the problem she created, but when the matter is resolved, I have to make this right. For my own reputation.”
“I understand.”
“But I felt I owed you the courtesy of letting you know about the course of action I want to pursue. If you object, I won’t do it.”
“I should have done the same thing myself, but I was weak,” Victor said. “I took her in, treated her like a daughter. How does she thank me? She leaves. You won’t get any trouble from me on this.”
“Thank you. How are things in Vegas?”
“Too many people are bringing their children.”
Lewis said good-bye, put his phone away, and got on the plane.
FIFTY
BACK at the house, I said to Julie, “Let’s take a walk.”
We headed out the back of the house and down the hill, to the creek.
“I’ve got some calls in to the cops in Tampa,” Julie said, tapping the cell phone bulge in the front pocket of her jeans. “See what else I can find out about Fitch.”
I nodded.
“You’re kind of quiet,” she said.
“I’m thinking about some things Harry said. About Thomas.” I told her about his speculation, that Thomas might be making some of this stuff up. Doctoring the image online, making up his chat with the landlord.
“You think that’s what he’s doing?” she asked.
I hesitated. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I mean, he believes things we know are not true, but he really believes them. Like the online map meltdown, and talking to Clinton. But some things aren’t made up at all. It was you who found out about what happened in Chicago, and now Florida.”