Gone Tomorrow - Lee Child [57]
Springfield scowled but Elspeth smiled like I had just promised her a hundred thousand votes and took my arm and led me inside. The hotel staff didn’t know or care who Sansom was, except that he was the speaker for the group that was paying a hefty fee for the ballroom, so they summoned up a whole lot of artificial enthusiasm and showed us to a private lounge and bustled about with bottles of lukewarm sparkling water and pots of weak coffee. Elspeth played host. Springfield didn’t speak. Sansom took a call on his cell from his chief of staff back in D.C. They talked for four minutes about economic policy, and then for a further two about their afternoon agenda. It was clear from the context that Sansom was heading back to the office directly after lunch, for a long afternoon’s work. The New York event was a fast hit-and-run, nothing more. Like a drive-by robbery.
The hotel people finished up and left and Sansom clicked off and the room went quiet. Canned air hissed in through vents and kept the temperature lower than I would have liked. For a moment we sipped water and coffee in silence. Then Elspeth Sansom opened the bidding. She asked, “Is there any news on the missing boy?”
I said, “A little. He skipped football practice, which apparently is rare.”
“At USC?” Sansom said. He had a good memory. I had mentioned USC only once, and in passing. “Yes, that’s rare.”
“But then he called his coach and left a message.”
“When?”
“Last night. Dinnertime on the Coast.”
“And?”
“Apparently he’s with a woman.”
Elspeth said, “That’s OK, then.”
“I would have preferred a live real-time conversation. Or a face-to-face meeting.”
“A message isn’t good enough for you?”
“I’m a suspicious person.”
“So what do you need to talk about?”
I turned to Sansom and asked him, “Where were you in 1983?”
He paused, just a fraction of a beat, and something flickered behind his eyes. Not shock, I thought. Not surprise. Resignation, possibly. He said, “I was a captain in 1983.”
“That’s not what I asked you. I asked where you were.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Were you in Berlin?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“You told me you were spotless. You still stand by that?”
“Completely.”
“Is there anything your wife doesn’t know about you?”
“Plenty of things. But nothing personal.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“You ever heard the name Lila Hoth?”
“I already told you I haven’t.”
“You ever heard the name Svetlana Hoth?”
“Never,” Sansom said. I was watching his face. It was very composed. He looked a little uncomfortable, but apart from that he was communicating nothing.
I asked him, “Did you know about Susan Mark before this week?”
“I already told you I didn’t.”
“Did you win a medal in 1983?”
He didn’t answer. The room went quiet again. Then Leonid’s cell rang in my pocket. I felt a vibration and heard a loud electronic tune. I fumbled the phone out and looked at the small window on the front. A 212 number. The same number that was already in the call register. The Four Seasons Hotel. Lila Hoth, presumably. I wondered whether Leonid was still missing, or whether he had gotten back and told his story and now Lila was calling me specifically.
I pressed random buttons until the ringing stopped and I put the phone back in my pocket. I looked at Sansom and said, “I’m sorry about that.”
He shrugged, as if apologies were unnecessary.
I asked, “Did you win a medal in 1983?”
He said, “Why is that important?”
“You know what 600-8-22 is?”
“An army regulation, probably. I don’t know all of them verbatim.”
I said, “We figured all along that only a dumb person would expect HRC to have meaningful information about Delta operations. And I think we were largely right. But a little bit wrong, too. I think a really smart person might legitimately expect it, with a little lateral thinking.”
“In what way?”
“Suppose someone knew for sure that a Delta operation had taken place. Suppose they knew for sure it had succeeded.”
“Then they wouldn’t need information, because they’ve already got it.”
“Suppose they wanted to confirm the identity of the officer who