THIRTY-TWO
Wyman sat behind his desk, wearing a plain
shirt and jeans. Griff knew without looking that the VP had
moccasins on his feet—a throwback to his days as a pot-smoking,
Vietnam-protesting hippie. He wore them whenever he came in on the
weekend. It was his trademark now, with several prominent mentions
in profiles in newspapers and magazines. Of course, these days,
he’d discovered the virtues of clean living and a good war,
particularly now that he wasn’t eligible for the draft.
Griff stood, hands behind his back.
“Have a seat, Griff,” Wyman said.
“No thank you, sir.”
“Suit yourself.” He passed Griff a single sheet of
paper. “What is this?”
Griff picked it up off the desk.
It was a copy of an approval for an arms sale—$2
billion worth of planes, guns and missiles—to Kuwait.
“Looks like a done deal to me, sir.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But then I’ve heard
that there’s a former FBI agent—who works for a department that
doesn’t actually exist, by the way—kicking up all kinds of
crap with our Kuwaiti friends. Then I find that agent is asking
questions about a good friend of this administration, a respected
diplomat—”
“Mahmoud al-Attar,” Griff cut him off. “Yeah. I
know. His holding company was the one that sent the shipment with
the pieces of our soldiers in it. His son, Khaled, has links
to—”
“I don’t care. Mahmoud al-Attar is a friend. And
his companies are helping to broker this deal.”
“That’s not really my problem, sir.”
“I know you don’t like me, Agent Griffin. And I
don’t like you.”
“Your opinion means a great deal to me, sir.”
“But try to be reasonable,” Wyman continued. “It’s
the biggest shipping company in Kuwait. Millions of tons move
through it every day. You have any actual proof this is connected
to your little problem?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out—”
“No. You don’t. And what has your friend Cade found
out in L.A.?”
“He’s still investigating.”
“In other words, nothing. We need every friend we
have in the Middle East, especially this one, to get supplies to
our troops. And you’re jeopardizing that. For what? Nothing. Pure
speculation.”
“I’ll be happy to discuss it with the president
when he returns, sir.”
“We’re discussing it right now,” Wyman snapped.
“The last thing this administration needs is to be connected in any
way to a scandal. I’m ordering you to leave it alone.”
Griff had to smile at that. “I’m sorry, sir?”
“Don’t look so amused, Griffin,” Wyman said. “I
mean it. I’m ordering you to leave the al-Attar family
alone.”
“No,” Griff said.
“What?”
“You heard me, sir.”
Wyman’s face went bright red. “I gave you a direct
order, Agent Griffin.”
Griff leaned forward, his fists on Wyman’s desk. He
wasn’t feeling great, and he had no patience for a bureaucratic
ass-chewing. “And I said no. What are you going to do about
it?”
Wyman’s mouth worked a moment before sound came
out. “The president is out of town until tomorrow. That makes me
the head of the Special Security Council in his absence. You are
legally bound to follow my—”
“What do you think this is, Mr. Vice President?”
Griff asked, still looming over the smaller man. “You think this is
the scene in the movie where the detective gets ordered off the
case? You’re wrong. It’s not that part of the movie. You want me to
stop doing my job? Call the president. Otherwise, shut the fuck up
and quit wasting my time.”
Wyman sat back in his chair, eyes mean as a
snake’s.
“Get out,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” Griff said. He turned and walked
to the door.
“You know, someday I might be sitting in the Oval
Office, Griffin. You should remember that.”
Griff paused, his hand on the knob. “And you might
want to remember you’re the seventh vice president I’ve worked
under.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wyman asked.
“Seems likely you’ll be out of here before I am,
sir.”
Griff closed the office door before Wyman could
reply.
AS SOON AS GRIFFIN was out the door, Wyman opened
a desk drawer, pulled out a cheap pay-per-minute mobile and
dialed.
The encryption took a moment, like it always did.
Then, as soon as the person on the other end picked up, Wyman
started talking.
“It’s me,” he said. “I talked to Griffin. He won’t
listen to me. He’s going to continue investigating the Kuwaiti
connection.”
He listened.
“No. That would draw far too much attention. Things
are tense enough here as it is.”
He waited again, looking angrier by the
second.
“No,” he snapped. “That’s not my problem. I’ve met
my end of the bargain. I gave you the information you wanted. I
told you where Cade’s safe house is located. And I’ve given you a
clear shot on . . . on the other thing. What you do with it—that’s
your business. I can’t afford to do any more.”
The tone of the voice on the other end raised
several notches.
“Hey, I did my best,” Wyman said. “How am I
supposed to scare the guy? He spends all day in a basement with a
vampire, for God’s sake. It’s up to you now.”
He pressed a button, ending the call.
Across the country, in her office in L.A., Helen
slammed her phone down. Unbelievable, she thought. Wyman didn’t
even have the balls to handle an over-the-hill FBI agent. Christ, I
have to do everything myself.