The Last Family (10 page)

“If you need anything else, you call me.” Jack was dismissing him.

Paul finished his drink and put the glass in the sink. “Tell Terry I said hello.”

“I will.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Paul said.

Jack hugged him again at the door.

“Stay upright,” Jack said as he opened the door.

Paul turned and walked down the street, and Jack watched him to the end of the block. Then he shook his head. The thought that Paul was probably going to get killed this time out made him sad. He closed the door and went back to his kitchen.

Paul took Lee Highway to the restaurant. The owner of La Côte d’Or was expecting him and showed him to a table in the rear. It was early afternoon, and there were only three people dining in the front by the bar. Paul had the entire dining room to himself.

He sipped a glass of wine, which the owner had personally delivered to him, and lit a cigarette. As he turned his head, he recognized the short, round man who was entering the dining room as the aide of a well-known senator. He strolled to Paul’s table and sat down.

“Mr. Masterson, it’s been a long time. How delightful to have run into you here.”

“Mr. Palmer. Would you care for a drink?” Paul asked.

“That would be great. I understand you called the senator’s office. I’m sorry he was out of pocket.”

“No problem,” Paul said. “No problem at all. I know how busy the senator is with elections looming.”

The aide stared at Paul as though he were the most important man on earth.

Paul looked around at his bedroom in the Willard Hotel, drinking in the decor. As he gazed out of the closest window, he could see the sharpened top of the Washington Monument glowing golden in the early-morning sunlight. After six years in the cabin the suite’s elegance was sobering.
I could get used to this again
, he decided after inspecting the well-stocked honor bar and refrigerator. Paul had called T.C. Robertson, acting director of the DEA, and asked for a face-to-face, and Robertson had agreed. T.C. owed him, and Paul meant to collect.

Paul looked at the Rolex Submariner that he was wearing for the first time in six years. He was pleased that all it had needed was a winding. In Montana the only clock he’d paid attention to had been his own body’s. The suite he was in was leased by the government and used for visiting VIPs. It was a multiroomed affair with lush carpeting, silk walls, expensive furniture, and views of the capital’s more impressive buildings. There was a living room, a kitchenette and dining area, two bedrooms with large bathrooms, and an office complete with computer, fax, and a secure line. He was impressed by the hospitality of the DEA under T.C. Robertson.

Thorne Greer and Joe McLean were putting the preliminary plans he had given them into operation, approaching the men that he wanted for his team. Most of the names on the list were old-line pros, and Paul had been out of touch with them for years. The talent search was not going that well. They had talked with some old friends, but six years changes people’s priorities. A volunteer mission without funds, which could involve days, weeks, and maybe months of work around the clock, wasn’t a great lead-in. Then add the constant risk to life and limb and the fact that to join might cost a career and pension if anything went wrong, and it didn’t exactly make for a great close on the offer, either.

His idea of a team had changed out of necessity. The team would be young and would have to make up in enthusiasm what they lacked in experience. Paul would rather have seasoned pros, but he had no choice. Now he had to get T.C. Robertson’s approval and support.

As Paul checked his new haircut in the mirror and adjusted the eye patch, his thoughts moved to Laura, Reb, and Erin sitting like clay targets in New Orleans. They were under close surveillance by a fairly good team, but “fairly good” was just a low wall for Martin to step over on his way inside.

Paul had just slipped his left hand into the pocket of his navy blazer when there was a light tapping at the door. He opened it to find T.C. Robertson standing there
with two aides who looked like young, successful attorneys.
These guys wouldn’t know a kilo of coke from a sack of flour
. They averted their eyes when Paul stared at them. T.C. looked right into Paul’s eye, pumped his hand like a long-lost brother, and swept into the room with the two men in his wake.

Paul had learned from Joe McLean that T.C. was having problems with ATF and FBI. The FBI’s director, George Sharpe, wanted to absorb the other two agencies into the Bureau, and he had the ear of the President. T.C. was fighting him but for the wrong reasons. He wanted to do the same thing Sharpe wanted to do but with T.C. Robertson ruling the roost. A flight of fantasy as far as Joe could tell. But in D.C. nothing was impossible.… It was all information, timing, and alliance.

Thackery Carlisle Robertson had more gray in his hair, and his eyebrows had whitened. He looked vastly more distinguished than the last time Paul had seen him. He had been assistant to the director when Paul was shot and had moved up only when it was clear that Paul wasn’t after the post. He stood taller than the five seven he had been before, thanks to lifts, no doubt. He looked like a senator or a judge, which was surely his aim.

He slapped Paul on the shoulder and smiled his best “God, it’s great to see you” smile. “Paul, it’s been
too
long.” He seemed earnest, which was his real talent. Paul knew the man had all but danced naked around his desk when Paul had chosen to leave DEA.

Paul motioned T.C. to a chair. “Please,” he said.

T.C. tucked the tail of his coat under his buttocks as he sat. He crossed his leg, right over left, tugged at his cuffs as though he were sitting for a formal portrait. The other two men sat on the couch, as Paul had seized the only remaining chair for himself. He and T.C. were eye to eye, and the other two seated slightly lower.
Perfect
.

“Well, well. Boys,” T.C. said grandly, “this man here is an honest-to-God national hero.” His teeth looked as if they had never been used. “Highest-ranking DEA officer ever wounded in the field.”

The men, who hadn’t been introduced, nodded their heads in thoughtful unison.

“Drinks, sodas, coffee?” Paul asked.

“No, Paul, I for one have a full day ahead of me. Please, help yourself. Scotch drinker of some ability, if memory serves.”

The two yes-men showed Paul the palms of their hands and grand smiles.

“I was hoping we could talk in private,” Paul said. “No offense, fellows.”

“These men are my most trusted confidants,” Robertson replied. “Surely we don’t have anything that secret to discuss, do we?” T.C. said, smiling broadly.

“This meeting has to be completely off the record,” Paul said. “Some of what I want to discuss concerns our mutual past and might prove … delicate. Things we have yet to discuss in front of anyone. But if you want them in, it’s no discomfort to me. I’m retired.”

T.C. searched Paul’s face and turned toward the men seated on the couch. “Go have a cup of coffee and I’ll see you in the café downstairs after the meeting. We wouldn’t want to bore you men with old war stories.” Paul saw that one of them tensed, and though the man tried to look unconcerned, it was clear he was.
There’s the tape recorder
. Paul might have smiled but didn’t. He had known T.C. would tape the meeting in case there was something he could put in the safe for leverage later. T.C. wouldn’t want any witnesses to this meeting, though.

Paul watched them leave. T.C. looked slightly uncomfortable. He loved an audience to play to and looked smaller after the other men left the room. He couldn’t pretend with Paul now.

Paul sat and lit a cigarette and took two large draws on it before he spoke. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Actually, I believe this is a nonsmoking suite,” T.C. said. “But you’re our guest. We can air out the room after you’re gone.”

“It’s strange being back in D.C.,” Paul said. “Couldn’t imagine being back in all of this again.” He watched T.C.’s eyes following the cigarette. “You used to
smoke, didn’t you? Let’s see … those Dorals in the green package, wasn’t it? Low tar. Safe.”

T.C. waved at the air. “I believe you’re right. Foul habit, Paul. Times have changed. You could probably get ten years at hard labor for lighting that outside this room. Nobody who is anybody smokes anymore. The days of cigar-sucking senators sitting about plotting mass destruction and filling their pork barrels is about at an end. And good riddance.”

Paul took another pull. “I should quit.”

“So how have you been? Living a quiet life? We have a medal that belongs to you somewhere. You should take it back home when you go. When will that be?”

“How have I been? Not bad, considering I’ve been practicing to become a monk. I have the silence and celibacy down, and I’m working on getting used to the sackcloth.”

T.C. looked at him and then laughed out loud. “Well said,” he roared. “Very good. Still have that sense of humor.” T.C. picked at an imaginary lint speck on his knee. “Have you seen Jack?”

“Jack?” Paul knew exactly whom T.C. was referring to. “Which Jack, T.C?”

“Ah, same Paul, I see.” T.C.’s smile flat-lined. “If you’re thinking about coming back into the world you left, I should caution you that things have changed. Six or seven years is an eternity, career-wise.”

Paul crushed out the Camel, taking his time. “T.C, let’s cut to the chase and save the small talk for cocktail parties. I want to come back into DEA like I want a hubcap shoved up my ass pipe. I don’t want to live in this town again with the brand of creatures who inhabit it. Present company aside, naturally. I don’t ever want to command anyone again. I lost whatever it was I had that made me want to be responsible for other people’s actions, and I am truly sorry I was ever where I was. Things would have been so different had I gone to State instead of Justice.”

“Save that for the hicks. You love commanding. We all know you’ll be back unless someone buries you.”

“It takes self-confidence and a certain inner moral outrage that I can’t muster. Plus I don’t believe it, any of it, anymore. The old Paul is dead and buried. My days of believing the company line are over. That’s the first point.”

“Well, Paul—”

“Hear me out,” Paul said. “By now you know that Martin Fletcher has killed eight of your people’s family members.”

“Two were ex-agents,” T.C. corrected, holding up his hand. “I am aware. Just the other day … the Rainey incident. God, anyone who would kill children like that.… If it was Martin, he will be caught and punished. Rainey said Martin, of course, but Rainey isn’t exactly reliable right now—suffered a complete breakdown. He’ll be out for months. Maybe for good. I’ve been looking at replacements just in case.”

“T.C., Rainey heard Martin’s voice. He left that note for me.”

“Martin probably had someone else do it. He would never return to the States. Too much to lose. Besides, the killer was an old man. Martin Fletcher’s my age.”

“Hear me out.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Let me assemble a team under the DEA umbrella to go after him. Give me carte blanche for a period of time and reasonable funds. Reactivate me as a special-team leader. If anyone fails, it can be me.”

T.C.’s eyes went cold as old steel. He crossed his arms. Paul was losing him. “You don’t want to return? Doesn’t sound that way from here.”

“One shot, T.C. You’ll get one hundred percent of the credit when we find him. He won’t be alive to remember the past. Anyone’s past.”

T.C. seemed to be weighing the proposition. “We’re not talking about a sanction here? Breaking and entering, shooting things up, rampant muscle? Keeping the man healthy was your calling in life.”

“We both know the DEA doesn’t plan deaths. Even
planning the deaths of monsters like Martin Fletcher would have been illegal.”

T.C. looked uncomfortable. “Of course. I’d like to help you. But I really can’t see any advantage. And our budget is limited. Bastard senators on the Appropriations Committee have clipped my wings. They’re destroying this country, Paul. Drugs pouring in from everywhere. They don’t want them stopped because it would be bad for the law-enforcement business.”

“You don’t see a political advantage to letting me get Martin?”

“I’ll be frank. If Martin Fletcher is fool enough to be back in the country, we can find him without you. The FBI can deal with him, it’s their job. If you are back in the administrative saddle, you pose a political threat because people liked you—hell, they probably still do. There are a few people in high places who would do anything to help you.”

“Physically, T.C.”—Paul pulled the wounded hand from the pocket, and it trembled visibly until he returned it to the pocket—“I can’t do what I could.”

“Your apparent handicaps aren’t enough to keep you inactive. I’ve read your meds. The hand’ll get better. Besides, look at Bob Dole. Never one hundred percent, but who the hell is? A little plastic surgery and you’ll be good as new. And with Jack McMillan behind you—”

“I told you, Jack isn’t.”

“There are people who’d help you on the off chance it might please Jack McMillan. Frankly, Paul, I can see nothing but a downside for me, politically speaking, and I’m a political animal. Maybe if you could get Jack to help me be appointed director once and for all? That isn’t much for the man to do. One phone call to the right cigar-chomping dinosaur, and I’m a shoo-in.”

Paul sat up on the edge of his chair. “Jack McMillan is a friend of mine, and I don’t use my friends. If I did, he wouldn’t be a friend.”

“Jack McMillan is probably the most powerful man in this town.” He smiled. “If you’ll talk to him about me and swear you won’t come back into the DEA, I’ll give
you my American Express card and my wife, and you can cut Martin Fletcher’s throat at high noon on the White House lawn with Robert E. Lee’s sword.”

Paul shrugged,

“You can do that, Masterson. McMillan owes you a life. Surely you haven’t used up that favor. Favorite son. I’m sure a word from you and—”

“I wouldn’t ask him for that.”

“Because he wouldn’t do it?”