Simon “Skip” Bradford sat quietly in his penthouse office suite. He had a problem. The Chief Executive Officer of Oakton Bradford Worldwide had a big problem. As he reached across the polished mahogany surface of his desk toward his Rolodex, one perfectly white cuff, with a gold Cartier cufflink attached, peeked out of the sleeve of his Hugo Boss suit. He needed help with his problem.
The guy from Information Systems, whatever his name was, had just left, but not before dumping the problem squarely on the immaculately restored eighteenth-century surface of Skip’s desk. Usually, he wouldn’t bother with something as insignificant as computer problems, but this was different. This was big. He would have to fix it himself, but he needed assistance from outside the company. That would require calling in a favor; an old favor left over from his college days. Skip flipped through his Rolodex with one hand while idly running the other through his hair, barely reorganizing the three hundred dollar haircut from earlier that afternoon.
Skip found the number he needed and removed the card from the Rolodex. He reached for the phone on his desk to have his secretary place his call but stopped. That wouldn’t work this time. This call needed to be private. He reached into the inside pocket of his hand-tailored wool suit and pulled out his BlackBerry. This conversation needed to be kept off the books, so to speak. Rolodex card in his left hand, phone in his right, Skip placed his own call.
As he waited for an answer, Skip sat back and swiveled his executive chair around, away from his desk, so he could look out the window over the cookie-cutter tech buildings and constant flow of traffic that marked the landscape of Northern Virginia. He hated the suburbs, but the operating costs in Washington proper had necessitated the move, and the sprawling office parks of the suburbs offered that touch of anonymity that Skip needed to carry out his work. His incredibly lucrative work that was now becoming problematic.
The phone rang twice before a male voice on the other end answered. Skip returned the tentative hello with a boisterous greeting of his own.
“Bulldog! It’s Skip. How’s life, my friend?”
Skip could have sworn he heard his old friend grin on the other end. “Skip...Skip Bradford. It’s been a couple of years. How are you?”
“Ah, Bulldog, you know. Wildly successful, handsome as hell. The same. What about you?”
This time Skip heard the laughter. “Yeah, sounds the same to me. I’m good. Helen and the kids are good. Adam made the all-district team this year. Starting quarterback.”
Skip rocked quietly in his chair, eager to get down to business, but fully cognizant of the need to play it right. “Good for him, Bulldog. You must be puffed up enough to pop.”
“Well, Skip, you do know me. I’m forced to relive the glory days vicariously now. Time’s an evil bitch that way.”
Skip knew the feeling well. “Yes, my friend, that she is.”
“But that’s not why you called.”
Bulldog always did have a way of cutting to the chase. “No, that’s not why I called. I need your help, Bulldog. Have dinner with me tonight. We need to talk, and I don’t want to do it here. And I definitely don’t want to do it anywhere near your place.”
There was that laughter again. “No, my place is definitely not a good choice. How about Artie’s out in Fairfax? Nice place, great martinis—”
Skip interrupted, “Best steaks in the metro area according to the Post. Love it. Great idea. How about seven? I’ll have my secretary call and get us a table. I’ll even send a car for you.”
“Seven sounds good. I’ll call Helen and let her know. I think it’s her bridge night anyway. And, thanks, but I don’t think the car is a good idea. I’ll drive myself and meet you there.”
Skip remembered how pragmatic his old friend had always been. “You’re right as always, Bulldog. We can finish this at seven. I’ll see you there.”
Artie’s at seven. Always a good plan. He hit the button, ending the call, and slipped his BlackBerry back into the interior confines of his suit. He reached across the expanse of mahogany and pressed the button for the intercom.
“Elizabeth?”
He began to idly play with his hair again while the secretary answered. “Yes, Mr. Bradford?”
“I need you to call Artie’s over in Fairfax and reserve a table for two at seven. Then please call my driver and have him pick me up at four thirty. I have racquetball at five.”
“Artie’s at seven, racquetball at five. Anything else, Mr. Bradford?”
Elizabeth was always so efficient. He appreciated that. Maybe she needed a raise. Well, maybe something simple like an early afternoon off would make her happy. “No, Elizabeth. That’s all I need for now. Why don’t you make those calls and take the rest of the afternoon off? I can take care of myself for a couple of hours.”
“Yes, Mr. Bradford. Thank you.”
Skip sat forward and pressed the button to end the call on the intercom. After a quick debate with himself regarding the appropriateness of single malt scotch mixed with racquetball, he opted to forego the drink. He still had a problem to think about.
Time passed quickly as it often did for Skip. There was never enough time. He made some phone calls, checked his stocks, put out a corporate fire or two. The usual stuff. He worked diligently, finally stopping to check the time. “How did it get to be four twenty already?” he asked softly into the air to no one. Time to get moving. He got up, shuffling papers in the process and reached for his briefcase. A small stack of paperwork found its way into the depths of his ridiculously expensive Italian leather bag. Skip snapped it closed and headed for the elevator, down to his waiting car, making a quick mental note to speak to the building manager about the lousy choice of elevator music. Maybe some soft jazz would be better. Definitely better than the Montovani arrangement of “Girl from Ipanema.” Just how clichéd was that? Skip deserved better.
He approached the black Lincoln Continental, gave the driver a curt greeting, and climbed into the back seat. He had confidence in his driver, enough to know that his gear for the gym was stowed securely in the trunk. The ride was short, barely allowing enough time to reconsider his problem. The car stopped gently at the front door of the Crystal City Gateway Sport and Health Club in Arlington. Skip thanked the driver, exchanged his briefcase for his gym bag, and strode into the club.
Racquetball, like everything else in Skip’s life, was played with people who knew exactly who was in charge. Laughing as the club pro intentionally missed an easy return, Skip never let on as the, “Great shot, Mr. Bradford,” reached his ears. The game went on like this for close to an hour before Skip tired of the continuous stream of ass-kissing from the pro and excused himself to prepare for dinner with Bulldog. One quick shower followed by a change into his freshly-laundered shirt (thanks to the club), back into his expensive wool suit, and Skip was on his way out, off to meet Bulldog. Off to fix his problem.
The Lincoln pulled up just outside the front door of the restaurant. “Please wait for me. I’ll call you when we’re done.” Skip opened his own door and stepped out into the early evening. He was early, but only by about ten minutes. He chose to go inside and order a drink. Artie’s did, after all, have the best martinis in the metro area. Skip fought the urge to channel Sean Connery as he ordered a Stoli martini with three olives. He really didn’t give a good goddamn if it was shaken, not stirred, so long as it was vodka and not some kind of cologne-flavored gin, and was served painfully chilled.
The bartender slid the drink across the bar, and Skip was not disappointed after his test sip. It was indeed the best martini in town. He gave his approval to the bartender, turned his attention back to the front door, checked his Rolex, and began to wait for Bulldog.
Right on time, the front door opened and his old college buddy stepped into the restaurant. Skip smiled, as he looked Bulldog over. Nothing had changed; from the dark gray suit and college striped tie, to the steel gray brush cut and the demeanor of a pit bull with a migraine.
Bulldog, known to the rest of the world as FBI Supervisor George McNally, met Skip’s glance, acknowledging his presence with a quick nod. Skip hailed the bartender and pointed to his drink, silently requesting a second one for McNally, and then turned back, offering a combination handshake/hug to his old pal. McNally spoke first.
“Looking pretty good there, Skip.”
Skip pulled himself up to his full six feet, two inches, patting himself on his still flat belly in the process. “Ah, you know, Bulldog. Takes a lot more work than it used to.”
McNally patted his own not-so-flat belly in response. “Don’t I know it? Living vicariously through my kids hardly keeps me in shape, but I just don’t have the time.”
Skip clapped McNally on the shoulder. “Who’d have ever thought? Bulldog McNally, starting fullback for the Penn State Nittany Lions, big man at the FBI, reliving the glory days through his kids. I just never saw you going down that road.”
McNally offered a wistful smile and a shake of his head. “Neither did I, Skip. Neither did I. But you—”
“Me?” Skip interrupted with raised eyebrows, indicating his interest in McNally’s next comment.
“Yes, you. Starting tight end, corporate mogul, and permanent fixture on Metro Magazine’s list of Most Eligible Bachelors. Settling down just isn’t in the cards for you, is it, Skip?”
Skip waved the question aside. “Nah, not for me. Too much work to do. C’mon, Bulldog. This eligible bachelor needs a big fat steak.”
“Sure,” said McNally.
Skip grabbed both drinks off the bar, handed one to McNally, and led the way to the hostess station. After being escorted to a private table in the back corner, Skip sat facing the entrance and offered McNally the less desirable position of back to the door. When the waiter arrived, Skip ordered two T-bone steaks, medium rare and a bottle of Bordeaux.
McNally tested his own martini, and jumped right in. “You said you had a problem. How can I help you?”
Skip took another swig of vodka laced with vermouth. “Ever the pragmatist, eh, Bulldog?” “I do have a problem. I think our Kazakhstani friend is back and nosing around in my business. Can’t have that, Bulldog.”
McNally answered with a look on his face that Skip couldn’t quite decipher. “Yeah, I thought so. I’ve heard a thing or two. Actually sent two agents out last week to check up on that trained bitch that works for him. You remember, the one with the motorcycle?”
“Oh yes, I most definitely remember her. Faith whatever-her-last-name-is-this-week, right?”
McNally nodded and took another sip of his martini. “That’s her. I wasn’t sure why she was back in town, but I have a much better idea now. You want me to pick her up?”
“No. I need to know who she’s working with. I’ve got a hacker problem with some new research we’ve been doing, and I need to plug the leak. Can you put your people back on it to follow her? Find out who she’s wrangled into working for her this time?”
“That won’t be a problem. I’ll get a couple of feelers out to see if we can establish any patterns. Might take a day or two. Once I have that, I can put two teams of agents on it full-time.” McNally took another drink and sat back as the waiter arrived with salads. “I’ve got a head case agent that I need to keep busy. She hates this kind of thing, but she’s chomping at the bit to get out of the office, so I know she’ll do it without a fuss.”
Skip furrowed his brow. “Head case? Is that a good idea? And what about her partner? Won’t that be a problem?”
“Nah, she’s a good agent. Very organized and totally by-the-book. She’s only a head case ’cause she killed a perp six months ago and got the willies about it. I have some reason to suspect that she was, and still is for that matter, screwing the perp’s target. That would go a long way toward explaining her problem. I can use the fact that said target happens to be female also. Agent McKinnon won’t give us any problems.”
“And her partner?”
“Same thing...no problem. He’ll do anything for her, and that includes chasing all over hell’s half acre, following a crazy bitch on a motorcycle. Plus, I have just as much reason to suspect that he has a weak spot for the college-aged boys in Dupont Circle, and I can use that if I need to. We’re all good here, Skip.”
Skip smiled and pushed his empty salad plate to the side. “I hope so, Bulldog. Are you sure you’re still working for the FBI, or have you taken a job with the Village People?”
McNally made a similar move, pushing his salad plate to the side, making room for the steak now being presented by the waiter. “Easy there, Skip. There may be some confusion between the two of them about who’s supposed to be screwing whom, but they’re top-notch agents. I don’t really care who they fuck as long as the job gets done.”
“That’s very open-minded, Bulldog. Good for you. I suppose next you’re going to tell me that you vote Democratic and drive a hybrid vehicle.”
McNally glared. “I wouldn’t go that far.” Both men laughed companionably as they dug into their steaks. “Definitely not that far.”
Skip ate in silence, savoring the perfectly prepared T-bone. Pulling Bulldog out of a rock quarry thirty-five years ago, unconscious and half-drowned was still the smartest thing he’d ever done in his life. Having an FBI supervisor with a debt to pay in your back pocket was a good thing. Skip raised his glass of wine to McNally, who returned the gesture warmly.
It was a very good thing indeed.