The Columbus Code (6 page)

“
Body
guard!”

Elena put her finger to her lips, but Maria was having a hard time going with that. “I do
not
need a bodyguard.”

“It's not like you have a choice. Everyone who comes here in association with Catalonia is assigned one.”

“Well they can give Happy Face Louis to someone else.” She brushed Elena's shoulder with her fingertips. “Don't worry about it. I'll talk to Mr. Snowden.”

“That won't do you any good,” Elena said. “These are
Señor
Tejada's orders.”

And he started giving
her
orders when? Maria switched her briefcase to the other hand, plastered on a smile, and said, “So, where are we going for lunch?”

When the meeting ended, Tejada retreated to his office. Snowden followed and watched as Tejada eased into the throne-like armchair behind the desk, then took a seat across from him. “You're certain you don't want a drink?” Tejada asked.

Snowden shook his head and twitched his lips in a half-smile. “Your people almost drank me under the table at lunch. I'm good.”

“I have never understood that expression.”

“That's because you Spaniards never get drunk enough to fall out of the chair—and I chalk that up to the fact that you start feeding your kids Madeira at birth.”

“Then I'm sure a cigar is out of the question.”

“You're killing me, my friend.”

Tejada smiled. “An excellent meeting today, yes?”

“I agree,” Snowden said with a nod.

“Anything further we need to discuss about the acquisition?”

“I'll know more after I've had a chance to go over the documents, but for now, no.”

“Good. Then I want to turn to the other matter.” Tejada glanced at Snowden to read his reaction before continuing. This was the important part. There could be no mistakes. “You'll have the agreement to me by the deadline.”

“Yes,” Snowden replied. “That's the plan.”

“Of course it's the plan,” Tejada said calmly. “The question is whether you can carry it out.”

“If I have the funds, then yes, absolutely.” Snowden shifted in the chair. “My concern is—”

“If your concern is whether there will be enough money, no worries, my friend. Projected reserves will be in place.”

“So they aren't now?”

Tejada chuckled, a sound he seldom made unless he was truly amused. “Would you keep that kind of money in an accessible account before you needed it?”

“No, of course not,” Snowden admitted.

Tejada folded his hands lazily on his lap. “This kind of concern is what I appreciate about you,” he said. “But on a different note, I see that your Congress is approaching another vote on the debt limit.”

“Yes.” Snowden appreciated the change of subject. “They're at it again,” he said with a short laugh. “They're telling us the federal government will run out of money in a few months, which we've heard before.”

“I have an opinion about that,” Tejada said.

Snowden sat back in the chair. “Love to hear it.”

“I think the International Monetary Fund needs to apply pressure to the economies of several different countries that hold large amounts of US debt. Experts at IMF think a gesture from the US Congress that indicates a firm resolve not to continue borrowing would help exert that pressure.” This was the matter that interested him most about Snowden's visit.

“So why don't they?”

“The director of IMF doesn't want to approach the US Treasury secretary directly on the matter with an overt request.”

“They don't want a paper trail.”

“Correct.”

Snowden smirked again. “And you know all of this through your nephew.”

“He keeps me informed.”

Tejada steepled his fingers under his chin and focused his gaze on Snowden, reading his reaction once more. If Lord Abaddon's plan was to work, this piece of the strategy had to go precisely as planned.

“The problem with not raising the debt limit,” Snowden said, “is that some of the bills will go unpaid—at least in the short term.” He seemed to warm to the subject. “The government can't pay all of its obligations without borrowing, and if the debt isn't raised, something will go without funding.”

“In the short term?”

“Yes,” Snowden replied. “After the first thirty days the cash flow from revenue would even out and the government could meet its basic obligations, including debt service. But even then, large portions of the budget would be unfunded.”

Tejada nodded. “And that would bring chaos to the American economy. Can I bring you into my confidence?”

“Since when do you have to ask?”

Tejada gave it a beat before he continued. “IMF is facing an imbalance in several of its accounts.” That wasn't true, of course, but he knew Snowden wouldn't notice—or care. “They look at this as a supply-and-demand problem.”

Snowden's forehead wrinkled in a frown. “I don't follow you.”

“The price of US debt trades at par because the US keeps producing so much of it.”

“Interesting way to look at it.”

“That the US might do otherwise and limit the availability of its paper would suggest a limit on supply and most certainly drive up the price, helping the IMF get things back in balance.”

“You're looking at a huge risk there,” Snowden said. “Doing that will raise doubt about whether the debt will be repaid and drive the price down rather than up, making things worse.”

“That is a risk I would be willing to take,” Tejada said. “If it were up to me.” Tejada could see the tension working in Snowden's neck. He must remember to challenge him to a friendly game of American poker. “Perhaps you should talk to Michael Stafford about this.”

“The lobbyist?” Snowden said.

“We like to use him in political matters.”

A knock on the door interrupted them. Tejada had sent his administrative assistant home for the day and everyone else had been instructed to stay away. It must be—

“Come in, Molina,” he said.

The door opened. “It's not Molina,” a female voice said.

A head of loosely curled hair appeared in the doorway.

Tejada stood. “And you are?”

“Maria Winters,
Señor
Tejada,” she said. “I'm with Gump, Snowden and Meir.”

“I know—”

“Maria,” Snowden snapped as he rose from his chair to face her. “What are you doing in here?”

“I just wanted to—”

“Whatever it is, we'll talk about it later.”

“I just—”

“It's okay,” Tejada said, cutting them off. “What did you need, Ms. Winters?”

“I just wanted you to know that I do not need a bodyguard, so you can call off your
Señor
Louis before I—” She paused to take a breath. “Before I dismiss him myself. I'm sure you would rather do the honors.”

Tejada fought the urge to smile. He suspected this was not a young woman one laughed at. Still, he couldn't resist the temptation to play with her a little. He turned to Snowden. “How do you feel about this, Bill?” he said. “Should we turn her loose alone in the city of Barcelona?”

“We can't afford an incident,” Snowden replied. “Perhaps it would be better if he—”

Tejada expected her to backpedal but was surprised when she said coldly, “I was told the bodyguard was
Señor
Tejada's idea.”

“And so it was,” Tejada said. “Most women who visit us here are grateful for the protection.” He smiled at her. “But clearly you are not most women.”

“I don't need protection,” Maria repeated, “so if you'll relieve Louis of his duties I would appreciate it.”

“Done,” Tejada said.

“Thank you,” Maria replied as she backed out the door.

When she was gone, Tejada looked over at Snowden. “What was her name again?” Tejada said.

“You don't want to know,” Snowden said as he slumped into his chair.

As a psychiatrist, Julia Archer couldn't have been more of a stereotype, at least how Winters pictured one. Dark-rimmed, rectangular glasses. Hair pulled into a severe bun. Sweater set and Aigner loafers. She was the caricature of all therapists he had seen in movies and television shows, and if she asked, “How do you feel about that?” one more time, he would seriously—

Like
that
was going to get him back to work. He chomped at the inside of his mouth and surveyed her across the short space between his chair and hers. At least she didn't have a couch in here.

Archer tapped her pen on the pad that lay in her lap. “Do you realize that we've been at this for two months—”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, nodding. “I'm well aware of that.”

“—and we haven't made what I would consider any measurable progress?”

“I feel fine.”

“I don't.” She took off the glasses and parked them on top of her head. Winters could never figure out why she did that. “Jim Rebhorn was right to ask me to take you on. The kind of trauma you underwent can change a person—”

“I was captured,” Winters defended, “and our people rescued me—”

“Not before your captors held a knife to your throat and threatened to slash it—”

“But they didn't.”

“And yet the nightmares continue.” Archer put her glasses back on. “The last thing Jim needs is an agent trying to deal with emotional pain on the job and failing at both.”

Winters shifted in the chair. “So you've said.”

“And I'll keep saying it. Your return to active duty is subject to my approval and so far, I'm not seeing much effort from you to get it.”

He hated throwing her even so much as a crumb, but she was right. He would return to work when she said so. His supervisor, Jim Rebhorn, had made that abundantly clear each time Winters had called him, which was every week since the first “episode.” The last time, Rebhorn hadn't answered at all. “I did one thing you suggested,” he said.

“And what was that?”

“I took up a hobby. A ‘calming hobby.'”

“Skydiving?”

“Cut me some slack here, Doc. I'm not that crazy.”

“Then what hobby did you find?”

“I'm researching my genealogy.”

She seemed surprised. “You're kidding.”

“You don't approve.”

“I don't disapprove. I just expected something else. Golf, maybe. Or tennis. Not genealogy. Where did that come from?”

Winters crossed his legs. Now he might be getting somewhere. “My mother believed we're direct descendants of Christopher Columbus.”

Archer had a skeptical expression. “Is this a joke?”

“She didn't think so.”

“But do you?”

Winters shook his head. “Actually, I'm finding out some pretty interesting stuff. Did you know, for instance—”

“John.” Her face was sober.

“What?”

“I told you to find something to soothe your nerves—so you can face the issues you have to confront to get well. Have you had any more episodes?”

“I had another
dream
when I was in Maryland.”

“Understandable. Your mother's death was yet another stressor. Was it about the raid?”

“The dream?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah.” Winters nodded. “It was about the raid.”

“How far into it did you get?”

“Not far.”

Winters stood, walked to the window, and looked down at the Mission District. It was a peculiar location for a psychiatrist's office. Behind him, Archer waited patiently. “Look,” Winters said finally, “I know what happened that day.”

“And it wasn't what you wanted to happen.”

“It wasn't what
should
have happened. But stuff like that does go down. You move on.”

“And that would account for the breakdown you had in your supervisor's office.”