“So just how do you plan to handle this?” Fitzsimmons asked, and the rich meal Wolf Amundson had consumed turned leaden. He tried not to show it as he swung to face his boss in the back of the Lincoln town car Fitzsimmons had requisitioned for his visit to Seattle.
The question said it all: Fitzsimmons had passed Wolf the ball and, like Beckham at soccer, he better score.
“Our plan is still in play. It is high time things broke loose. It was one of the matters I asked you out here to talk about.”
“Gleason’s been left on his own long enough. The AGS must be brought into the fold.”
Wolf nodded to hide his impatience at the obvious. “If the killings are finally coming to light it should make all Gleason’s Washington backers head for the hills. No one’s going to want to defend a bunch of dangerous aberrations running loose in the country. If the AGS can’t control their own….” He smiled as he let the last word fade away and glanced out the window.
The limousine had crossed the Ballard Bridge and was hissing along Westlake Boulevard, past Lake Union, the headlights catching in the sleet, and the neon restaurant and yacht club signs melting in the rain tracks on his window. Ahead the gleaming towers of the city looked like the Promised Land.
He wanted a scotch or a glass of well-aged port to finish his meal. It would ease the indigestion he felt coming on with this discussion.
Fitzsimmons bobbed his head like the leathery creature he emulated. “We have to assume control. The weapons potential of these agents is too significant.”
“They are supposed to be guardians. That’s been Gleason’s point. If there are others out there like them—enemies of the country….”
“They can keep watch under careful control just as well as they can do it running loose across the countryside.” A shake of that predatory head. “No. It’s high time this was acted upon. You’ve sat on the situation too long.”
That brought Wolf upright, his attention back from the towers dripping light ahead.
“It takes time to get the players in place.”
“You’ve had years. I put you here to get a job done before I retire, remember?”
As if Fitzsimmons would ever deign to retire.
“And I have done it—or do you not recall the gifts I sent to Washington?” He glanced at Fitzsimmons and then out the window. Not everything had gone well in those years, but he had managed to pull all their asses out of the fire a time or two. He would continue to do so. He turned back to find Fitzsimmons’ cool appraisal on him.
“And fine gifts they were.”
“So matters progress?”
“On that front, yes. We are—shall we say—simpatico on how to gild the lily. But that’s not why we’re here tonight.”
The man looked like he’d just swallowed prey, but his baleful gaze turned back to Wolf.
“I repeat. Just what do you plan to do, or must I assume control and give orders here?”
And that was not what Wolf wanted to hear. Fitzsimmons was positioning him as the scapegoat should anything go wrong. There was no more time for small subterfuges. This had to move forward, and quickly. Waiting until tomorrow was no longer an option.
“Let me phone my Seattle PD contact and get the names involved. Then I suggest we have a conversation with Gleason. Rattle him, and it will make your conversations in Washington that much easier.” He felt Fitzsimmons’ gaze lock on him, but refused to turn his head to meet the other man’s glare. Wolf flipped his phone open and dialed, praying Blacklock was still there.
The phone buzzed and buzzed again. After three rings he was starting to consider another approach, but the fourth ring brought a click and “Blacklock.”
“Clint. Good. I hoped to catch you. I finished my meeting and thought I would call to get a bit more intel before I make my enquiries. Can you give me the names of the Agents involved?”
A pause as if the cop considered, so Wolf pushed on.
“So when do you want to get together for that Mexican food? I’ve got time next Wednesday if that works for you?”
“Hell, man. I can wait that long. Sure. I know this little place down by Elliott Bay Marina. Rosita’s. Say eleven thirty?”
“Sure.” Wolf almost considered having his secretary schedule a meeting during that time, but reconsidered when Clint spoke up again.
“Vic’s name was Simon Lamrey. One of yours. Our only suspect is another AGS Agent, Vallon Drake. A young thing - 26. Good looking. My partner’s looking for some alternative theories, but when you find her beating on the Vic’s body that don’t hold a lot of water.”
“Simon Lamrey and Vallon Drake. Good. Let me check and I’ll get back to you.” He clicked the phone closed and turned back to Fitzsimmons’ waiting presence. “This is better than we thought. Lamrey is one of the group you told me about. And Drake. We will have to check, but given her age, I suspect she is one of the special cadre. We do this right and they’ll be in such a crisis everything will come tumbling down.”
He paused to look out his window at the darkness. “How do you say it? Like putty? Right into our hands.”
“You’re sure?”
He didn’t bother looking back. “Of course I am sure.” Hadn’t Fitzsimmons learned that about him yet?
“And what about your little problem?”
At that Wolf turned back to Fitzsimmons. He loomed in the shadows and Wolf almost loathed the man.
“It is not a problem. It was an opportunity and now it has worked for us. And if not, we know who to blame for it, do we not?”
“I—we we can’t afford a lot of collateral damage.”
Wolf considered his boss. The man was powerful, but like all Washington politicos, also always concerned for his image. Sometimes collateral damage was necessary. Weren’t the lost AGS agents exactly that? The whole point was the end results?
“It will be handled. I’ll see to it personally. Besides, from what we know, no one’s likely to remember anything anyway.” He turned back to the night. And perhaps, if there were collateral damage, he could make it work to his advantage. Fitzsimmons could be part of it, and then Wolf could simply take out Gleason and amalgamate the AGS under his control.
Take out Fitzsimmons and more roads opened for advancement: it just needed to look like an accident.