Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [90]
“Based upon the claim of a Russian thug?” Rock said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Pauling said.
“Over the word of an FBI special agent?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you have anything to substantiate this Russian’s claim, Mr. Pauling?”
“First of all, it’s information given to this Russian thug by the arms dealer who sold the missiles.” He found himself becoming protective of Misha Glinskaya, whom he’d left just hours ago in a pool of blood on the sidewalk in front of the Gold Coin bar. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way about a hoodlum he’d encountered while working the Moscow underworld. “I’ve no reason to doubt that the FBI undercover agent did come up with something at the Jasper Project, but that doesn’t mean the agent was right. At the very least, the information I’ve now brought to the table is worth further investigation, and reason for the Bureau to reevaluate its planned action against Jasper. Second—”
They were interrupted by the captain’s voice over the PA system. “We’re beginning our taxi to the runway, ladies and gentlemen. Please prepare for takeoff.” The engines whined louder, and the aircraft began to move.
McQuaid spoke: “Frankly, Madam Secretary, I’m unconvinced by what Mr. Pauling has said.”
“Will the president share that view, Mr. McQuaid?” Rock asked.
“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure he will. It doesn’t make any sense to take the word of a Russian lowlife over a dedicated, veteran FBI undercover agent.”
“Anyone else?” Rock asked.
“Not for me to say,” Dr. Shulman said.
“Mr. Hoctor?”
“It’s reason enough to hold off any action against the Jasper Project until the stories are sorted out.”
“Mr. Pauling?”
“I just told you what I learned, Madam Secretary,” he said. “What’s done with it isn’t my call.”
The Secretary stared at Pauling like a trial lawyer deciding whether to ask another question of a witness. Pauling’s eyes remained fixed on hers, not challenging but silently testifying to the truth of what he’d said.
“I don’t know what credence to give the source of your information, Mr. Pauling, and I’m having trouble weighing it against what the FBI says. But I do know that if what you say has any validity, a monumental mistake might be in the making.”
She pushed a button on the wall behind her. Eva Young opened the door. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Get me the president.”
Chapter 33
Early Morning
Washington, DC
Joe Potamos got off the plane at Reagan National Airport and climbed into the first available taxi outside the terminal. The flight from Vermont had been delayed an hour, something to do with a malfunctioning warning light in the cockpit. It seemed like ten hours to Potamos.
The driver took him to his condo in Rosslyn, where he checked messages on his machine, emptied his overnight bag on the bed, rammed a change of clothes back into it, and went downstairs to hail another taxi, this time going to Roseann Blackburn’s Capitol Hill apartment. He went up the stairs two at a time and burst through the door. Roseann was at the piano, her attention divided between finger exercises she was doing and the television. The all-news cable channels had been covering the siege at Blaine almost continually, interrupting the growing crisis only for commercials.
Roseann got up and greeted him with a tender kiss and a hug while Jumper climbed up the back of his leg. “How was the trip?” she asked.
“How was the trip? How was the trip? The trip was… the trip was incredible. Your buddy, Connie Vail, was right, baby, on-the-nose right. Craig Thomas was in Burlington, just like she said he was.” Potamos made two fists, pumped them into the air, did a turn in the middle of the living room, and collapsed on the couch. “I have got the story of the year, Roseann. Of the decade.” He stood, straightened, and addressed her as he might from a podium: “Ladies and gentlemen of the Pulitzer committee, I am both honored and humbled by your having bestowed this coveted award on me. I want to thank my father, Frank, and my mother and—”
“Joe,” Roseann said, laughing, “calm down and tell me what