“Thank you. Will he have to be
admitted?”
“Well, we’d like him to stay for
observation…We don’t have a bed for him just yet, but we’ll keep
him in the ER until we do.”
“Thank you very much. I appreciate you
taking the time.”
“Anything for you, Mrs. Mann.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Thank you
again. Good-bye.” I disconnected the call, but didn’t put my phone
away just yet. “Gregor, I imagine Quinton is going to need a pair
of trousers. There’s a Jos. A. Bank on the way to the hospital.
Stop there.”
“The luncheon?”
“It will have to wait.” I dialed another
number. “Allison, it’s—”
“Portia? I promise you I’ll be there today.
The last time, Chance wanted to—”
“No, I may not be able to make it to the
luncheon. Please handle it for me?”
“What’s going on? You don’t have a hot man
in your bed after all this time, do you?”
“Hardly.” I choked out a laugh. “Quinton’s
been shot—”
“Oh my God, Portia, I’m so sorry! How is
he?”
“He’s in the hospital. I was assured nothing
vital was hit.”
“I shouldn’t have been so flip…”
“It’s all right. Allison, I know this
charity is my responsibility, but I won’t put it above my son. Can
you take care of it for me?”
“Of course!”
“That’s fine, then.” I squeezed the bridge
of my nose. “That’s all I can think of right now. We’re going to
the hospital.”
“Just remember to call me if you need
anything!”
“I will. Thank you. I have to go.”
“Yes, go. And make sure you give my godson a
hug and a kiss from me.”
“I will. And don’t let Elizabeth Wexler try
to take over.”
Allison laughed. “She’s as officious as that
miserable husband of hers. I’ll sit on her if I have to! I hope to
see you in a bit.”
I hung up, and this time I put my phone
away. In a matter of minutes we arrived at the men’s clothier. We
purchased the trousers for Quinton, and then Gregor drove to the
hospital.
“I want to see the head of the ER.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Gregor tucked the box with the
trousers under his arm and we went into the emergency room.
“Mrs. Mann! It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you also, Andrew, although
I could have done without this particular visit. My son?”
“He’s doing well. However I won’t hesitate
to tell you that if that bullet had been just an inch to the left,
we might not be having this conversation.”
I gripped Gregor’s arm so tightly I was
afraid I’d leave marks on it. “Sorry,” I whispered.
“But Dr. Forrester sees no need to be
concerned.”
“Can he come home?”
“Well, as to that—”
I took his hesitation as a yes. “Gregor, go
get him, please?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He walked off, a man on a
mission.
“Perhaps you’d like to meet Dr. Forrester,
Mrs. Mann? She’s one of our best residents, and she’s taken
excellent care of him.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
He gestured to an aide who was pushing a
blood pressure machine. “Find Dr. Forrester, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
We chatted for a few minutes, waiting for
the doctor to show up.
A petite brunette in green scrubs came
stalking up to us. I was startled to realize she was even shorter
than I.
“You wanted to see me, Dr. Herrmann?” she
snarled. Something had obviously annoyed her.
“This is Mrs. Mann. You saw her son. He had
the gunshot wound to the thigh.”
“Right.” She glared at me. “Are you going to
tell me I look like I should be skipping rope too?”
“Excuse me?”
“That…that man who came in to see Mr. Mann
thought I looked too young to be suturing a wound like that.”
“Actually, no. I just wanted to thank you
for your care of my son.”
“Oh…uh…sorry.” She blushed. “It’s a pretty
bad wound.”
“I thought you told me it could have been
worse.” I gave Herrmann a cool stare, and he gulped.
“It could have, Mrs. Mann.” Dr. Forrester
scrubbed a hand over her face. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long shift.
Your son will be fine. Now if you’ll excuse me, we’re prepping a
little girl who fell off her bike for a head CT scan.”
“Mrs. Mann, why don’t I show you to the
doctors’ lounge? I’ll pour you a cup of coffee.”
“There’s no need. I’ll wait in the car.
Thank you, Dr. Forrester. Dr. Herrmann…we’ll talk soon.”
* * * *
About twenty minutes later, Gregor came out,
with Quinton hobbling along beside him, using a cane to bear his
weight.
He was pale, and lines around his eyes and
mouth indicated the pain he was in.
I got out of the car. “I’ll ride in the
front with you, Gregor. Sweetheart, I think you need the room to
stretch out your leg.”
“All right, Mother.”
Gregor held up a bottle, gave it a little
shake, and tossed it to me. I caught it in my left hand and studied
the label.
Vicodin, 750mg. I met his gaze.
“Yeah, I know.” Gregor shrugged. “A little
girl wrote out the prescription. We’ve been at the pharmacy all
this time.” He opened the rear door and helped Quinton get into the
car.
The doctor prescribing this had no idea the
amount of pain my son could endure, but I was still pleased he had
an option not to tough it out.
He eased his left leg up onto the back seat
and looked across at me. I settled myself beside Gregor and
fastened my seatbelt. I didn’t say a word, simply waited.
He sighed. “It was a simple transfer. I was
supposed to turn over money and a new ID to this scientist who’d
developed something the WBIS wanted. The problem was, he thought he
was working for Huntingdon, and when he learned otherwise, he was
horrified.”
According to the Alphabet Directory, the
covert listing of all the intelligence agencies in Washington,
D.C., there was no such entity as the Washington Bureau of
Intelligence and Security. That meant that Huntingdon, the company
that fronted for it, was simply an ordinary business.
Of course, some of us in the intelligence
community knew differently on both counts.
The WBIS was the organization that took on
the jobs that none of the other organizations would handle.
Nigel had spoken of the little-known
organization once. “I hate to admit it, Portia, but we need
agencies like that. Its operatives aren’t afraid to get their hands
dirty if need be. The problem is the Company and the NSA no longer
have control over it. The former director did whatever Hazelton
told him. This new director, though—Trevor Wallace—is determined to
go his own way, and in fact seems to take delight in thumbing his
nose at us. We’re watching him, but God alone knows what’s going to
come of the way he runs it.”
“
I met him once, back when I first
started working on the Venona Project.” I peeked at Nigel through
my lashes. “Would it sound conceited it I confessed he was
interested in me?”
“
Why didn’t you go out with him?”
“
What makes you think I didn’t?”
“
Portia.” He frowned at my answering his
question with a question, and I couldn’t help laughing.
“
He never asked.”
“
Would you have said yes?”
“
Of course not.” I caressed my husband’s
cheek. It was flattering that after all these years he was jealous.
“He wasn’t you.”
Meanwhile, Quinton was saying, “…so he
contacted the Company and offered to give us the specs and the
working model—”
“Only Vincent turned up!” Gregor
snarled.
“Who’s telling this?”
Gregor subsided.
“Thank you. At any rate, shots were fired as I
was completing the transfer, and one of them hit my leg. And then
there was Vincent, big as life and twice as intimidating—”
“Ugly, you mean,” Gregor growled.
“No, actually, he wasn’t that hard on the eyes.
At any rate, when I snapped that I supposed I should thank him for
aiming low, he gave me the most insane grin and said, ‘If I shoot,
Mann, I shoot to kill.’”
“So he didn’t shoot you.” I hadn’t heard of
Vincent before Buonfiglio mentioned his name; I’d look into
him.
“If he’s to be trusted, no.”
“Quinn, you can’t trust the man! He’s WBIS to
the core!”
“Still, he could have killed me, but he didn’t.
He attempted to take the briefcase with the information, but Drum
put in an appearance.”
“Jesus,” Gregor muttered. “Was there anyone who
wasn’t
there?”
Major Jonathan Drum II worked for the Office of
the Inspector General, and Quinton had mentioned him a number of
times, never in a good light, since the major always seemed to want
something from him.
“The worst of this is Drum took the briefcase,
and now the military has it. Rayner isn’t going to be happy about
it.”
Neither was I, and I planned to have a chat with
Quinton’s immediate supervisor myself. “Did they get the
bullet?”
“No. The doctor thought it was most likely a
ricochet. They’ll need to sweep the warehouse.”
“Once they find it, we’ll learn soon enough
whether Vincent shot you or not.” The CIA’s sweep teams were
excellent.
“You’re right, Mother.”
“We can’t sit here in the hospital parking
lot all afternoon,” Gregor reminded us. “Where to?”
“As long as you’re in one piece,
sweetheart…Gregor, you may drive me to my luncheon and then take
Quinton home to Great Falls. Quinton, you’ll stay with us until you
no longer look like death warmed over.”
“I’m not about to argue with you.”
“Thank you.” I glanced at my wristwatch. “If
you don’t dawdle, Gregor, I should be there before Elizabeth Wexler
attempts to take over my committee.”
“Yes, ma’am!”
* * * *
Gregor let me off outside the Lord Baltimore
Hotel. “I’ll be back to pick you up at four.”
“Thank you. Quinton, I expect to hear you’ve
spent the afternoon in bed. Gregor will bring one of the
televisions to your room.” Naps left him feeling miserable. “You’ve
missed
All My Children
, but you might be able to catch the
end of
As the World Turns
.” His guilty pleasures, which he’d
shared with his grandmother.
He gave a snort of laughter. “Yes, Mother.
I’ll see you later.”
I entered the hotel, but before I went to
the restaurant where the luncheon was being held, I had one more
call I had to make. I dialed a number very few outside the Company
had access to.
“Mr. Sebring’s office.”
“This is Portia Mann. I want to speak with
my brother, please.”
“Yes, ma’am! We heard about Mr. Mann being
in the hospital. I hope he’s all right?”
“Yes, he was discharged earlier.”
“I’m so glad to hear that! Now, please hold.
I’ll transfer you.”
Once again I got the message of how
important my call was, and I was tempted to roll my eyes. I’d need
to talk to my brother about this.
That damned message finally stopped.
“Portia? My personal assistant told me Quinn’s out of the
hospital?”
“Yes. He was discharged earlier.”
“Dammit, why wasn’t I notified? Edward
Holmes oversteps his bounds.”
“Who’s he?”
“The new DCI of Threat Analysis.” Bryan
growled some choice epithets under his breath.
“The doctor said something about it being a
ricochet. I want that bullet found if it’s at all possible. I want
to know who shot my son.”
“I’ll look into it, Portia, I promise
you.”
“Bryan, my son has been with the Company for
nine years, not counting all the time he did various covert jobs
before he was officially hired. You’ll make sure I don’t regret not
objecting to his choice of employment?”
“I promise,” he said again.
“Thank you. And now I have a luncheon to
attend.”
“All right, little sister. I’ll be in
touch.”
* * * *
On the day Quinton’s stitches were removed,
Bryan called. “Mind if I invite myself to dinner?”
“Not at all. We’ll see you the usual time.”
I hung up the phone and went in search of my son. “Bryan will be
joining us, Quinton.”
He brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Has he
learned anything?”
“He didn’t say, but I’m assuming he has. Do
you know what I find interesting?”
“What, Mother?”
“How little I was able to learn about this
Mark Vincent.” The dossier I’d accessed listed his birthdate as
July 4, 1966, and his place of birth as Cambridge, Massachusetts.
He’d done a stint in the army, and from there was recruited into
the WBIS. And that was all. There was nothing about family,
friends, or hobbies. For all that was known of him, when he
returned home from a day’s work at the WBIS, he could sit at his
dining room table cleaning his Glock.
The photo included in it had been taken with
a telephoto lens and was very grainy. He had prominent ears, a hint
of a widow’s peak, and a long jaw. A decidedly masculine look…and
it seemed Quinton found him attractive.
Bryan arrived in time for a drink and hors
d’oeuvres before dinner.
“This is really good, Gregor,” he said as he
took a bite of his chilled crab appetizer.
“Thanks, Bry, but give us the skinny. What
did the CIA learn?”
“A number of things. Ballistics matched this
to the pistol that was issued to Louis Buonfiglio.” He took a
plastic bag from his pocket and gave it to Quinton. “It’s got your
DNA on it.”
“So you’re saying I was shot by
Buonfiglio?”
“Yes.”
“Goddammit, I’m gonna kill that son of a
bitch!” Gregor spat.
“Too late. He was found dead in his car.
Apparently he had an intrinsic cardiomyopathy.”
“Huh?”
“Weakness of the heart muscle for no
discernible reason. The pathologist who did the autopsy listed
cause of death as heart failure.”
“Well, good riddance to bad rubbish.”