Free Any Minute Now by Eric Van Lustbader Page B

to normal in the diner. Drivers paid their checks, got up, went out. Others came in, sat down, and ordered. A smattering of locals arrived, yawning and calling for coffee. The waitress moved into a higher gear. Whitman and Charlie were anonymous again.
    â€œI appreciate you being so quick on the draw,” she said.
    Whitman knew that was as close to a thank you as she was going to give him, so he accepted it graciously. “You’re welcome.”
    Could that exchange have been more stilted? he asked himself. They sat like that for a time, watching each other warily, as adversaries will. Neither of them spoke. The homey odors of sizzling bacon and brewing coffee perfumed the air. They both seemed to have settled down into a kind of détente, which, Whitman supposed, was all that he could expect.
    Charlie cocked her head. “I think you said something about a death in the family. Do I remember that right?”
    He nodded. “One of my team bought it on our last trip.”
    She peered into his eyes, saw he was telling the truth. “I’m so sorry, Whit.”
    He nodded. “To the point, there’s a position to fill. Sandy was our armorer.”
    â€œNo,” she said at once.
    â€œI haven’t even asked you.”
    â€œYou didn’t have to.” A bit of her even white teeth showed between her partly open lips. “I know you inside and out.”
    If that were true, he thought, you’d never have gone out with me in the first place.
    He sighed. “I need you, Charlie. Sandy was the best. He wasn’t good enough. That only leaves you.”
    â€œI don’t do your kind of work.”
    â€œYou don’t know—”
    â€œStop right there. Recall I once worked for the NSA.”
    â€œThe NSA is all electronic surveillance. It doesn’t do a goddamned thing on the ground.”
    â€œNevertheless, I can guess well enough.”
    It was like trying to chip away at granite with a spoon, he thought. “You owe me, Charlie.”
    â€œWhat? I don’t owe you a fucking thing.”
    â€œWe’re now bound to each other.”
    â€œLike hell we are,” she flared.
    And then he let her have it, all that was left in his arsenal. “I saved your life.”

 
    7
    â€œGregory, is this a joke?”
    â€œYou know me better than that, boss.”
    King Cutler jammed his hands deeper in his raincoat. His collar was up, his shoulders hunched against the rain. No one had ever seen him deploy an umbrella no matter how filthy the weather. The two men were walking the Mall. The Reflecting Pool, a stippled mass, reflected nothing today, not even the low, gunmetal sky against which slate gray clouds ran as if being chased by the devil himself. Near to six p.m., the light was failing, colors suppressed to muddied tones of gray and black.
    â€œYou know the rules. I will not countenance a female on any of my field teams, let alone Red Rover.”
    â€œRed Rover is my team, boss. You gave me that leeway when you hired me.”
    â€œEverything has its limits,” Cutler said sourly. “Women are bad luck in the field.”
    â€œYou mean like Mata Hari?”
    â€œDon’t cut cute with me, Gregory. I’m like a sailor plying the high seas in the eighteen hundreds. Women are bad juju.”
    â€œBad juju is what we had on Red Rover’s last brief,” Whitman pointed out. “No women there.”
    Cutler stopped under the portico of the Smithsonian Castle. He ignored the water coursing down his face. “Listen, Gregory, I’ve afforded you immense independence—far more than any other team leader. I felt you needed it—and also, frankly, you deserved it. The places you go, the things you do are not for the faint of heart or the unsure of purpose. Let’s call it a bonus, above and beyond the more than generous hazard pay USA deposits in your bank account every month.”
    â€œThen let me make Charlie