“Who do we have on duty outside of Dara’s hospital room for the keep-alive?” Maggie asked Ed, drinking a Coca-Cola of all things. She was probably the first person to order a nonalcoholic drink in the One-Two Club since 1971 but she needed to keep a clear head. The rest of the bar’s clientele were more than making up for her, however, focused on serious discount drinking in one of the last of the Tenderloin’s hard-core alky hangouts. Layers of dust on untouched bottles of top-shelf liquor attested to the ambience. Dean Martin crooned on the jukebox. The One-Two was Ed’s preferred haunt to discuss business; no other agency types around, and no one else was paying attention.
Elizabeth was being driven back to Monterey in the back of a black SUV with tinted windows.
“A French contractor,” Ed said, scooping up peanuts from a bowl on the bar. “I specifically requested it.”
“Can we grab Kafka if he tries to pay a visit?” Maggie asked.
“Not after your shootout at Café de la Nouvelle,” Ed said, chewing, excavating more nuts. “SDAT would have to buy off, and make any arrest. I’ve been trying to sweet talk Bellard back into the op but, frankly, it’s going to require more lubricant.’”
“Surely the progress we just made will help change Bellard’s mind. He’s going to get a terrorist handed over to him without lifting a finger.”
“There’s still Senator Brahms to consider. She has yet to give Walder the official go-ahead. So we have to hold our proverbial horses.” He tipped more nuts into his mouth.
“Ed, if Kafka runs, we can kiss Abraqa goodbye. And maybe Forensic Accounting as well.”
“I’m hip.” Ed wiped his hands on a bar napkin, drank some beer.
“We only need a skeleton team. Once you get Bellard on board, John Rae and myself will cover our end. He can push Walder too.”
Ed squinted at her. “You sure John Rae’s good with this?”
Truth was, she wasn’t. Things were still cool between them. She hadn’t spoken to John Rae since the flight back, before her so-called celebration in Langley. After she’d left him in a Paris cab.
“John Rae won’t want to be left out of an op like this,” she said.
“He just flew back to Berlin.”
He did? That knocked her off kilter. “That’s right. He was there on some Class Four when he was tasked to come and—uh—escort me back home.”
“Reporting directly to Walder on something hush-hush.”
She hoped that didn’t mean JR would be tied up when she needed him.
“Well,” she said, “he’s only a hop, skip and jump away from Paris then, isn’t he?”
Ed slurped his beer, removed his glasses, rubbed his face with a fresh napkin, put his glasses back on. “If Abraqa is resurrected, Maggie, SDAT will lead it. A peace offering. It’ll also be easier to get it approved if we aren’t on the hook.”
Maggie hated to give up control but the operation needed to get going any way possible. Otherwise they would lose Kafka and the Yazidi people would suffer. “All I ask is that we get first crack at interviewing Kafka. Once I know how Abraqa’s Darknet works, then SDAT can have him.” Poor Kafka. She didn’t want to throw him to the wolves. But Dara and her people came first. Kafka was a big boy. He had walked into this world with his eyes open. He would have to deal with the consequences.
“Roger that.”
Maggie sipped her Coke, realizing how much she didn’t care for the sickly sweet taste and non-alcoholic aspect. “I need to get back over to Paris . . . get this op set up.”
“Walder will nail my testicles to the floor if I approve anything smelling remotely of Abraqa without his OK. And I can’t ask until Brahms calls him. I just got back from DC a few hours ago and Walder’s little tantrum this morning is still ringing in my ears.”
Maggie gave a deep sigh. “Jesus H. Christ,” she said, pushing her Coke to one side.
Ed flagged down the barman. “But, Maggs, you do have a lot of comp time coming. If you were to, say, take a few days off to go to Paris to see your friend’s auntie, well, I’ve got nothing pressing for you right now.” He raised his eyebrows at Maggie. “Do I?”
Maggie narrowed her eyes at Ed. “You willing to take that risk, Bud?”
“Looks like I’m going to be on the phone all night kissing Bellard’s ass—but I’ve got nothing better to do. And Forensic Accounting does need the win.”
Maggie smiled.
The barman appeared, an old geezer with the face of a bloodhound.
“Give me a shot of something that burns,” Ed said.
“Something that burns,” the barman said, looking below the counter, clanking bottles.
Maggie said, “Oh, by the way, Ed, I was thinking of taking some comp time, starting tomorrow. I wanted to visit my friend’s aunt. She . . .”
“Send me an email, Maggs,” Ed interrupted. He dropped his voice. “I can’t reimburse you for any expenses, not yet anyway. You’ll have to put any impromptu trip on your own credit card.”
Maggie grabbed Ed’s face, kissed him on the lips. “Now was that so damn hard?”
The barman set a shot glass down on the bar, filled it to the brim from a bottle of Fighting Cock bourbon. Maggie grabbed the shot glass before Ed could, downed it. The lingering after-burn reminded her of moped fuel.
“Good Lord, Ed. What’re you trying to do? Go blind?”