Anna put in a call to David Denneen.
“Is that you, Anna?” he said tersely, his customary warmth crimped by uncustomary wariness. “The shit’s flying.”
“Talk to me, David. Tell me what the hell’s going on.”
“Crazy stuff. They’re saying you’re …” His voice trailed off.
“What?”
“Crazy stuff. You on a sterile line?”
“Of course.”
There was a pause. “Listen, Anna. The department’s been ordered to place a P-47 on you, Anna—full-out mail, wire, phone intercepts.”
“Jesus Christ!” Anna said. “I don’t believe it.”
“It gets worse. Since this morning, you’ve been a 12-44: apprehend on sight. Bring in by any means necessary. Jesus, I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but you’re being called a national security risk. They’re saying you’ve been accepting money from hostiles for years. I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”
“What?”
“Word is the FBI’s discovered all sorts of cash and jewelry in your apartment. Expensive clothes. Offshore bank accounts.”
“Lies!” Anna exploded. “All goddamn lies.”
There was a long pause. “I knew they had to be, Anna. But I’m glad to hear you say it, all the same. Someone’s messing with you in a very serious way. Why?”
“Why?” Anna closed her eyes briefly. “So I don’t get in a position to discover why. That’s my guess.” She rang off hurriedly.
What the hell was going on? Had “Yossi” or Phil Ostrow put poison in Bartlett’s ear? She’d never called them; maybe Bartlett was angry that they’d found out about her investigation in the first place, even though she wasn’t the responsible party. Or maybe Bartlett was angry that she hadn’t gone along with their request to bring Hartman in.
She suddenly realized that neither agency official had mentioned Hans Vogler, the ex-Stasi assassin. Did that mean “Yossi” knew nothing about it? If so, did that mean that the Mossad freelancers had nothing to do with hiring Vogler? She retrieved Phil Ostrow’s card and dialed the number. It went to automated voice mail; and she decided against leaving a message.
Maybe Jack Hampton would know something about it. She phoned him at home, in Chevy Chase. “Jack,” she began. “It’s—”
“Jesus Christ, tell me you’re not calling me,” Hampton said in a rush. “Tell me you’re not jeopardizing the security clearance of your friends by a misjudged phone call.”
“Is there an intercept on your end?”
“My end?” Hampton paused. “No. Never. I make sure of it myself.”
“Then you’re not in danger. I’m on a secure line on this end. I don’t see any way by which a connection could be traced.”
“Let’s say you’re right, Anna,” he said dubiously. “You’re still presenting me with a moral conundrum. Word has it you’re some primo villainness—the way I’ve heard you described, it’s like you’re a combination of Ma Barker and Mata Hari. With the wardrobe of Imelda Marcos.”
“It’s bullshit. You know that.”
“Maybe I do, Anna, and maybe I don’t. The kind of sums I’ve heard bandied about would be awfully tempting. Buy yourself a nice spit of land in Virgin Gorda. All that pink sand, blue sky. Go snorkeling every day …”
“Goddamn it, Jack!”
“A word of advice. Don’t take any woolen kopeks and don’t whack any more Swiss bankers.”
“Is that what they’re saying about me.”
“One of the things. One of the many things. Let’s just say it’s the biggest pile-on I’ve heard of since Wen Ho Lee. It’s a bit overdone, to tell you the truth. I keep asking myself, Who’s got that kind of money to throw around? Russia’s so strapped for cash that most of its nuclear scientists have left to drive taxicabs in New York. And what kind of hard currency does China have—the place is Zambia with nukes. I mean, let’s get real.” Hampton’s voice seemed to soften. “So what are you calling me for? Want our current missile codes to sell to the Red Chinese? Just let me jot down your fax number.”
“Give me a break.”
“That’s my hot tamale,” Hampton teased, relaxing further.
“Screw you. Listen, before all this shit fell from the sky, I had a meeting with your friend Phil Ostrow …”
“Ostrow?” Hampton said, guardedly. “Where?”
“In Vienna.”
There was a flare of anger: “What are you trying to pull, Navarro?”
“Wait a minute. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Something in her voice gave him pause. “Are you shitting me, or was somebody shitting you?”
“Ostrow’s not attached to Vienna station?” she asked hesitantly.
“He’s on O-15.”
“Help me out here.”
“That means he’s kept officially on the lists, but he’s really on leave. Sow confusion among the bad guys that way. Diabolical, what?”
“On leave how?”
“He’s been stateside for a few months now. Depression, if you want to know. He had episodes in the past, but it got real bad. He’s actually been hospitalized at Walter Reed.”
“And that’s where he is now.” Anna’s scalp became tight; she tried to quell a rising sense of anxiety.
“That’s where he is now. Sad but true. One of those wards where all the nurses have security clearances.”
“If I said Ostrow was a short guy, grayish-brownish hair, pale complexion, wire-rim glasses … ?”
“I’d tell you to get your prescription checked. Ostrow looks like an aging surfer bum—tall, slim, blond hair, the works.”
Several seconds of silence ensued.
“Anna, what the hell is going on with you?”