Free Gun Metal Heart by Dana Haynes Page B

locked on those of the wily Southern gentleman. “Fourth: My source is pristine. Absolutely the best. But we cannot inform Interpol. We cannot inform State. And we definitely cannot inform the CIA. Not unless we want this thing to go way south, way quick.”
    Calvin groaned and ran both hands through his thinning, ginger hair. “Oh, come on! Either the source is good or he’s not, John! Either way, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
    Singer set down his glass on the few square inches of bare space on his burdened desk. “Calvin, are we ready for the base closure folks tomorrow?”
    Calvin thumped his fist on the side of the desk for emphasis. Several piles of reports wobbled. “Yes! We have initial reports from all parties. Clara will have talking points in your take-home folder. We’re ready to go. I want to liaise with the Congressional Black Caucus in the morning, see where they’re leaning vis-à-vis jobs. But otherwise we’re good to go.”
    Singer nodded and made a vaguely pianolike flourish with his long fingers. “Fine, fine. Thank you. Gentlemen? Let’s call it a night. See you at six. John: talk to you a second?”
    Calvin hustled around the office, gathering documents, pleased to have fulfilled his role as guardian of Singer Cavanaugh’s time. He made a gun of his forefinger and thumb and shot John in the gut. “Hey. Let’s find some time tomorrow morning to talk about team meetings. Again.” He gave him a chck noise with his cheek, plus a wink. He hustled out of the office.
    Singer Cavanaugh lumbered up, retrieved his much-abused Blackstone bag, and began stuffing it with folders.
    John stood, too.
    The senator said, “So. Daria Gibron. I’m figuring?”
    *   *   *
    Clara Beauchamp, early eighties and as plump as a beignet, had filled Singer’s take-home folder with a fat stack of documents. John offered to carry it down. Singer had prided himself in taking the Metro home every night up until his stroke. Now he begrudgingly admitted the need for a driver. Singer being Singer, he’d turned down the various Cadillac options and opted to lease a Smart car. Then a Volt. Just to see how they worked.
    John and the senator took the elevator to the ground floor of the Dirksen Senate Office Building. Singer said, “Talk to me, son.”
    â€œDaria Gibron is my friend, and she may be the bravest person I ever met. But she’s mad, bad, and dangerous to know. Your office wants nothing whatsoever to do with her.”
    Singer grunted. “You don’t chair the Joint Committee on Intelligence without hearing about things like that nonsense with your Ms. Gibron in Milan, son. Tell me your version.”
    â€œI trust her. But I did so well before Milan. She was involved in that Vermeer 111 crash in Oregon a couple of years ago. She saved lives, including federal agents. She was involved in an imbroglio in Montana last year. Again: She saved lives, including federal lives. Then the thing in Milan.”
    The elevator thumped to a halt. Singer Cavanaugh said, “Before Milan was Manhattan, son.”
    John blushed. He hated that the senator was that much smarter than himself. Hated it and loved it. “Yes, sir. It was amazing. Daria pretty much devastated a wide swath of the CIA’s best thinkers. It was like watching the absolute best high school basketball team in the entire nation go up against Michael Jordan in his prime. She didn’t beat us; she took us to school. At some point it went from excruciating to boring.”
    They walked through the almost deserted main hall of the Dirksen Building. A uniformed guard at the front desk nodded. Singer nodded to the guard. “How close is Wendy?”
    The guard blinked in surprise. “Sir? My wife?”
    â€œShe’s due?”
    John watched—thunderstruck—as the guard reeled. “Ah … yes, sir. My wife’s due