ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
Frank Leopole entered the Rock Fish Bistro on Wilson Boulevard, scanned the crowd. He was late, which was unusual.
Martha Whitney had been early, which also was unusual.
Sandy Carmichael and Colonel David Main were into their first round of margaritas while Whitney worked on her second green tea. “No more alcohol for me, sugar,” she declared. “I had enough in Chad to last me for years.” She did not bother to elaborate upon her conspicuous consumption with Gabrielle Tixier. Carmichael and Main looked at each other across their salt-rimmed glasses—the West Point classmates knew Whitney as a conventional Baptist who tolerated demon rum but seldom indulged in it.
“There’s Frank,” Carmichael exclaimed. She waved, caught his attention, and made room for him at the table.
“Anybody else coming?” Leopole asked.
“I don’t think so,” Whitney replied. “We done been here for ever so long.” She winked at him.
“Yeah, sorry I’m late. I had to wait for the latest from Dave Dare.”
Main, who provided DoD liaison for the firm, showed his interest. “You know, I keep hearing about this Dare guy. But apparently nobody ever sees him.”
“He da Phantom. Ain’t nobody never see’d him ’less it be da admiral.”
Carmichael almost spilled her margarita. “Honestly, Martha, sometimes I wonder what your normal speaking voice is like.”
Another broad wink. “Keeps ’em guessing, honey.”
Main pressed the subject. “Well, is it true? Only Admiral Derringer knows Dare?”
This time Carmichael locked eyes with Leopole. Dare’s face and true identity were a corporate secret. “Oh, I’m sure somebody besides the admiral has seen him face-to-face. He has some researchers who follow his leads, but really there’s no need for the rest of us to deal with him directly.” She wrinkled her nose at Leopole, who ignored the hint. They had both spoken with David Dare in person, twice each. Carmichael even knew his actual given name.
“Well then, how do you know how much credibility to give his information?”
“Results,” Leopole said. “I’ve never known him to be wrong on a major point. If he’s uncertain about something important, usually he’ll just tell you he doesn’t know.”
Carmichael leaned across the table toward Leopole. “Did he come up with anything yet?”
The former Marine shook his head. “Nothing definite. He’s working on the shipping angle but said it’ll be a little while. Actually, I think he probably has a lead or two but doesn’t want to tell us anything until he’s sure.”
Sandy leaned back, brushing her shoulder against Main’s. Since he was not in uniform, he could drop the military decorum. Though touching Main’s hand, she regarded Leopole for a moment. She felt no special attraction to him, nor would she permit an office romance, but she wished he would let her introduce him to one or two of her girlfriends. Not a bad-looking guy, even with the scar on his neck. As far as she knew, he had never married.
Whitney broke the silence. “So, Frank. How’re things doing in … Africa?” She raised an eyebrow.
Leopole looked around. The dining area was crowded and suitably noisy. He felt free to speak in a conversational tone. “Since you left Chad, Steve’s team is wrapping up the training contract. Terry Keegan traveled to Germany with Eddie Marsh. The admiral got Marsh admitted to Ramstein, by the way. Since he’s ex-Army, there wasn’t much problem. Terry said he’s still bedridden but he should recover his health. Whether he ever flies again…”
“Is Terry coming home, then?”
Leopold shook his head. “No, he went back to Cairo. He’s putting together a jet freighter and crew in case we have to fly one of our teams someplace on short notice.”
“That makes sense,” Whitney replied. “So what about the yellow cake operation?”
“It’s now under government and U.N. supervision, for whatever that’s worth. The French PMC was ordered out of the country, but I don’t know if there’s going to be any prosecution. Steve says three or four embassies are involved, and basically everybody wants it to go away, so it probably will.”
Whitney was building a head of steam. She set down her tea harder than intended, spilling some on the tablecloth. “But damn it, Frank! They shot down a helo.” Her voice hiked two octaves. “They killed a couple of Chadian soldiers and nearly killed that Marsh boy.”
Leopole made a quick motion of his fingers to his lips. “Martha, it’s pretty clear that only one or two of the French security people were directly involved, and the one who fired the missile was killed. The main thing is, the leader and a couple of his aides got away. That’s our priority. That and the cake.”
Martha Whitney brushed the liquid off the cloth. “Well, honey, all I can say is, if it was up to me, that Marcel bastard would be my priority.”