Free The Hammer of Eden by Ken Follett

senior of the two was David Fielding, a partner in the firm of Brooks Fielding. He was a distinguished-looking man of about sixty. “Congratulations, Ms. Maddox, on a well-deserved win,” he said.
    “Thank you,” she said. “It was closer than I expected. I thought I had it buttoned up until you got started.”
    He acknowledged the compliment with a tilt of his well-groomed head. “Your preparation was immaculate. Were you trained as a lawyer?”
    “I went to Stanford Law School.”
    “I thought you must have a law degree. Well, if you ever get tired of the FBI, please come and see me. With my firm you could be earning three times your present salary in less than a year.”
    She was flattered, but she also felt condescended to, so her reply was sharp. “That’s a nice offer, but I want to put bad guys in jail, not keep them out.”
    “I admire your idealism,” he said smoothly, and turned to speak to Don.
    Judy realized she had been waspish. It was a fault of hers, she knew. But what the hell, she did not want a job with Brooks Fielding.
    She picked up her briefcase. She was eager to share her victory with the SAC. The San Francisco field office of the FBI was in the same building as the court, on two lower floors. As she turned to leave, Don grabbed her arm. “Have dinner with me?” he said. “We ought to celebrate.”
    She did not have a date. “Sure.”
    “I’ll make a reservation and call you.”
    As she left the room, she remembered the feeling she had had earlier, that he wanted to kiss her; and she wished she had invented an excuse.
    As she entered the lobby of the FBI office she wondered again why the SAC and the ASAC had not come to court for the verdict. There was no sign of unusual activity here. The carpeted corridors were quiet. The robot mailman, a motorized cart, hummed from door to door on its predetermined route. For a law enforcement agency, they had fancy premises. The difference between the FBI and a police precinct house was like the difference between corporate headquarters and the factory floor.
    She headed for the SAC’s office. Milton Lestrange had always had a soft spot for her. He had been an early supporter of women agents, who now numbered ten percent of agents. Some SACs barked orders like army generals, but Milt was always calm and courteous.
    As soon as she entered his outer office she knew something was wrong. His secretary had obviously been crying. Judy said: “Linda, are you okay?” The secretary, a middle-aged woman who was normally coldly efficient, burst into tears. Judy went to comfort her, but Linda waved her away and pointed to the door of the inner office.
    Judy went in.
    It was a large room, expensively furnished, with a big desk and a polished conference table. Sitting behind Lestrange’s desk, with his jacket off and his tie loosened, was ASAC Brian Kincaid, a big, barrel-chested man with thick white hair. He looked up and said: “Come in, Judy.”
    “What the hell is going on?” she said. “Where’s Milt?”
    “I have bad news,” he said, though he did not look too sad. “Milt is in the hospital. He’s been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.”
    “Oh, my God.” Judy sat down.
    Lestrange had gone to the hospital yesterday—for a routine checkup, he had said, but he must have known there was something wrong.
    Kincaid went on: “He’ll be having an operation, some kind of intestinal bypass, and he won’t be back here for a while, at best.”
    “Poor Milt!” Judy was shocked. He had seemed like a man at his peak: fit, vigorous, a good boss. Now he had been diagnosed with a deadly illness. She wanted to do something to comfort him, but she felt helpless. “I guess Jessica’s with him,” she said. Jessica was Milt’s second wife.
    “Yes, and his brother’s flying up from Los Angeles today. Here in the office—”
    “What about his first wife?”
    Kincaid looked irritated. “I don’t know about her. I talked to Jessica.”
    “Someone