Karen knelt in the back of the van, her hands twiddling plastic dials on a black-box receiver, her ears covered by padded headphones. There were two large plastic suitcases, too, containing, Lester said, “kickass equipment”. He was driving back towards the Potomac, with Tom sitting beside him.
“Those bugs gonna work, Karen?” Tom asked, turning around.
“I’m on it,” she said.
“Why don’t we just get the feds to lift him? We got the evidence,” Lester said.
“We do that, the secretary could be dead in an hour. We know Swiss is in direct contact with her kidnappers. They might think he’ll cut a deal. I can’t risk that. And, more importantly, we don’t know where she is. Swiss is the only man who can lead us to her. Thanks to Karen.”
He had an idea now, too.
They stopped at a gas station to fill up. There was a convenience store to the right. The sun was still out, the highway on either side slithering into the distance like glistening eels. Karen said she fancied a candy bar. Tom put on shades, got out first and walked over to a payphone, leaving Lester to pump the gas. He didn’t want the man he was about to ring to have the number of his disposable cell. As he reached the payphone he was feeling a little apprehensive. He was about to ring his father.
They hadn’t spoken in a while and even when they had it’d tended to be a short conversation, almost businesslike. After Tom turned eighteen, his father paid for his college education and seemed genuinely pleased that he was going to be studying French literature at Florida State University. But he didn’t attend Tom’s graduation and disappeared for weeks at a time. When he tried to find out where, he always drew a blank. Even his phone number had been unobtainable.
Tom punched in the number of his father’s office at the Pentagon, which was less than a twenty-minute drive away in Arlington County. The Pentagon housed the rapidly growing Defense Intelligence Agency, the military’s primary intel-gathering and special-missions organization, which worked in tandem with the CIA. Its core collectors, or frontline operatives, were drawn from both the military and civilians. Tom had a feeling his father was something to do with the DIA, or at least was affiliated to it.
“Major General Dupont’s office,” a woman’s voice said.
“I’d like to speak with the general, please.”
“He’s in a meeting. Whom may I say called?”
“Tom Dupree. It’s a private matter.”
“He’s due out in forty minutes.”
“He’ll take my call. Please tell him it’s urgent.”
Tom watched Lester at the pump. His friend smiled and waved. Tom forced himself to wave back. Karen had ambled into the store. He could see her through the windows, scanning the shelves. Ten seconds later, he heard his father’s voice.
“My God, Tom, where are you?”
“Here in Virginia.”
“Are you okay? I’ve been trying to contact you. Nobody knew where you were.”
“I’m fine,” Tom said.
“I was worried after I saw what happened over there.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you know a guy called Peter Swiss, the CEO of ADC?” Tom asked.
“I’ve heard of him, but we’ve never met. Why?”
Tom thought that was a little strange, his father being a big shot at the Pentagon. But he left it. “Can I see you?”
“I guess. I’ll be free around six.”
“I need to see you now.”
After a long pause, his father said, “All right, Tom. I’ll organize a pass.”
“Not at the Building,” Tom said, the name its occupants used for the Pentagon.