Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [67]
“Just one concern,” Harris said. “State has an operative in Moscow trying to run down the source of the missiles. Barton at State briefed me on him. Should we coordinate with them?”
“I don’t see why,” Templeton said. “If we’ve got the ones who used the missiles, how they got them is of secondary importance. I want an immediate mobilization order issued, all regional resources moved into place within striking distance of Jasper’s ranch. Quiet but fast. Get an authorization for aircraft, as many as we need, to move manpower and armaments out there, tactical units, the mobile communications center, firepower necessary to make damn sure it goes without a hitch.”
Harris ran his hand over his shaved head. “A little premature, sir, without Justice’s okay?”
“With what you’ve told me, getting the go-ahead from Justice won’t be a problem. Everybody wants action, including the White House—especially the White House. I want every scrap of intelligence we have on Jasper and his ranch, who’s there, what weapons they have, number of women and children—they have women and children, don’t they?”
“Yes, sir,” Harris said. “Everything you’re asking for is in Scope’s report. I’ll have it here by noon.”
“Good. No mistakes. This won’t be another Waco!”
Chapter 23
That Same Day
“You’ve reached the public information office of the Canadian embassy. No one is available to take your call at the moment. Please leave your name, number at which you can be reached, and a brief message, and your call will be returned as soon as possible.”
“This is Joe Potamos from The Washington Post. I’m calling Mr. Thomas, Craig Thomas. Please have him return my call at his earliest convenience.” Potamos gave the numbers for both his Rosslyn apartment, and Roseann’s.
Potamos hung up, sat at the piano, and picked out “Chopsticks,” slowly, with his index finger. Roseann had left the apartment to meet with her agent; Potamos was due in a half hour for a story conference with Gil Gardello. He continued to doodle at the keys until he realized there wasn’t any way he could make the conference on time. He tried Craig Thomas’s number again before leaving but received the same recorded message.
“You be good,” he told Jumper, gently holding her snout and peering into her soulful brown eyes. He was out the door when he heard the phone ring, rushed back to the apartment, and snatched up the receiver.
“Joe, it’s Roseann. I wanted to remind you we’re having dinner tonight with Bill and Jane Mead.”
“Yeah, right. Thanks.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at a meeting?”
“I would be if I wasn’t on the phone with you.” He knew it was an edged comment the moment he said it, and apologized—into a dead phone.
Gardello’s story conference was in full swing when Potamos arrived at the Post’s Fifteenth Street headquarters, and he received a disgusted look as he joined the six other beat reporters in the cramped office. Potamos looked around. He was easily the oldest in the room, with the exception of Gardello, who was approximately his own age. Gardello outlined stories that were to be pursued over the coming days and assigned them to each individual reporter. The last assignment went to Potamos: Investigate reports of a growing rift between the District’s school board and the superintendent of schools.
Potamos said nothing while Gardello wrapped up the meeting with a moment’s pep talk on the importance of local news. Potamos was the first on his feet and was headed for the door when Gardello stopped him: “Stay a minute, Joe.”
“What’s up?” Potamos asked when the two were alone.
“You heard my assignment about the school board and super, right?”
“Right.”
“You have any problem with it?”
“Problem? No, I don’t have a problem.”
“You didn’t look especially interested.”
Potamos shrugged. “What do you want me to do, Gil, break out the champagne?”
“Sit down, Joe.”
“I have to get out of here,” Potamos said, “get cracking on the story, maybe do street interviews with kids, ask them