Free Gun Metal Heart by Dana Haynes Page A

was not a particular day.
    Calvin, a longtime political insider in Washington, had opposed this impromptu meeting. In fact, he had said no when John first requested it and was more than a little annoyed when John took his request up with the highest authority in the land—Miss Clara Beauchamp, Singer’s long-suffering secretary.
    During her many decades of service to Singer Cavanaugh, Miss Clara had been his Negro secretary, and his colored secretary, and his black secretary, and his African American secretary. She herself had eschewed these labels; she was simply the person you needed to respect if you hoped to see the senator.
    Over the years, a few people in Washington had disrespected Miss Clara. None of them currently worked in Washington. Or ever would again.
    The three men gathered around Singer’s antique oak desk, which was piled so high with documents that a person was at risk of injury in an avalanche. Singer poured each man a finger full of bourbon without asking what they wanted, then eased his aching, scarecrow body into his old slat-back chair.
    Calvin said, “Better be good, John. We’ve got a hearing first thing tomorrow on military base closings. And the California delegation is loaded for bear.”
    John understood the art of playing nice. “Thanks, Cal. I appreciate this.”
    He turned to the older man. He took a breath, leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He had a fine needle to thread here, and he knew it.
    â€œSenator, I have a source who confirms that a violent paramilitary and criminal organization that operates in Central Europe has extended its reach into Italy. Florence, to be exact. And that this group has an interest in stealing military technology.”
    Singer Cavanaugh sipped from his heavy-bottomed glass but otherwise did not react. Calvin Pope rolled his eyes and began to interrupt, but John had anticipated that and cut him off with a smile and a nod.
    â€œI know what you’re about to say, Cal. Eastern Bloc mafia types moving into Western Europe is old news. Happens all the time. And you’re completely correct.”
    That wasn’t what Calvin had been about to say, but the transition, and the smiling compliment, caught him off guard.
    John turned back to the senator. “There are four pertinent facts that take this out of the ordinary, sir. First, this gang, the White Scorpions of Serbia, isn’t just a bunch of bank robbers and drug lords. They’re politically motivated. They were a Serbian military unit during the breakup of Yugoslavia in the nineties, and they remain politically and ethnically motivated today.”
    Calvin inhaled to jump in, but John pretended not to notice.
    â€œSecond: my source tells me the White Scorpions, or Skorpjo , have targeted an Italian weapons manufacturer, a Gabriella Incantada. Her firm is small, but they’ve provided some key avionics technology for fighter aircraft used by Italy, France, Spain, and Germany. My source doesn’t know what Skorpjo has targeted to steal, but I’m certain it isn’t something we want on the black market of Eastern Europe. Third: During the breakup of Yugoslavia the White Scorpions were part and parcel of the ethnic cleansing of places like Sarajevo and the Muslim enclave of Srebrenica. These guys were complicit in genocide, then faded into the woodwork before the war crime tribunals at The Hague could get started. These are not people we want stealing military tech in Western Europe.”
    Calvin leaped in this time. “Fine! Good, John. So a simple call to Interpol to alert them, and it’s out of our hands. Right? We cc State, and probably the CIA, just to stay on the safe side. There we are. Meeting adjourned.”
    Singer Cavanaugh swirled the remaining bourbon in his glass. “And the fourth thing?”
    Calvin looked up. “Sir?”
    â€œJohn said there were four things.”
    John stayed bent forward, elbows on his knees, eyes