Free Deadly Straits (A Tom Dugan Novel) by R.E. McDermott Page A

let her voice mail greeting play without responding. In the basement of the Iranian embassy, another cell phone disconnected after Anna’s words were recorded, and a technician phoned his superior. His superior walked to a window of his second-floor office and smoothed his hair with his right hand in full view of another man standing across the street pretending to read a newspaper. The man walked to a public phone and dialed a number from memory.
    “Hello,” Sutton said.
    “I’m sorry. I was ringing George McGregor. I misdialed,” the man said and hung up.
    Sutton disconnected and reached for his toolbox. Surveillance was established for whoever the hell was running it. He left the building to ditch the van.
    Offices of Phoenix Shipping
    Dugan cursed as his monitor went black for the third time. He checked his watch. Might as well pack it in. Ever since he and Anna had begun their “affair,” they’d stayed late every night to establish a pattern of being in the office after hours. They left together every evening, and twice Dugan slept on her sofa, arriving the next morning in the same clothes—a fact noted by office gossips. What Dugan had failed to anticipate was the impact of his relationship with Anna on his other relationships.
    Mrs. Coutts registered disapproval in every icy glance, addressing him with cold formality, while Anna was somehow transformed in Mrs. Coutts’s view into a poor innocent led astray by her lustful boss, a sexual predator. It got worse. Daniel, the driver, shared the gossip with Mrs. Hogan, the cook, who, certain he was wrong, passed it on to Mrs. Farnsworth. After admonishing Mrs. Hogan on the evils of gossip, Mrs. Farnsworth phoned Mrs. Coutts so that she might find the source of the malicious rumor and squash it, only to learn the rumor was true.
    Mrs. Farnsworth, never one of Dugan’s fans, now addressed him, when she spoke at all, as if he was only slightly less unpleasant than something she couldn’t get off her shoe sole. Mrs. Hogan registered disapproval in her own way. His eggs this morning had been rubber, served with black toast and orange juice with a half-inch layer of seeds in the bottom of the glass.
    The only female in the house who still liked him was Cassie, but she was in bed when he got home now, and his first morning absence had not gone unnoticed. Her inquisition the following morning had been curtailed only by a “proper young lady is not nosy” dictum from Mrs. Farnsworth, accompanied by an icy stare at Dugan.
    It had come to a head on the ride in this morning, with Alex’s repeated throat clearing.
    “You better spit it out before you get a sore throat, Alex,” Dugan said.
    “It’s… awkward, Thomas. Your involvement with this Walsh woman is upsetting the household.”
    “Agreed,” Dugan said, “but I’ll be damned if I know why. My private life’s my own.”
    “True, Thomas. But the ladies”—Alex smiled—”except Mrs. Farnsworth, of course, all held you in high regard. I’m sure they didn’t think you a monk, but assumed you would choose a more… appropriate partner. Hiring a woman for her looks just to bed her is just so… unsavory.”
    “Anna’s a damn good secretary.”
    “Indeed,” Alex said, “a fortunate accident according to Mrs. Coutts.”
    “How about you, Alex? Do you share the ladies’ opinion?”
    Silence answered.
    “That’s the pot and the kettle, old friend,” Dugan said. “Kathleen was your secretary.”
    He regretted the words immediately. Alex purpled.
    “Don’t you dare imply my marriage was the product of some cheap office dalliance. Kathleen worked for me for years before we dated. I am your friend, but if you ever, ever repeat that, I will be no longer. Is that clear?”
    “That was a cheap shot, Alex. I’m sorry. I guess I’m just confused by everyone’s reaction. I certainly don’t want to upset your household. Should I move out?”
    “Perhaps that’s best,” Alex said, still angry. “But