In any case, after two hours and fifty minutes of abject fear, the plane had landed safely and he was climbing into a taxicab at National, across the Potomac from the capital.
“Watergate Hotel.”
The cabbie looked over his shoulder, checked his suit, shirt, and tie: “You a big shot?”
“No. I’m a flunky.”
“Huh. You don’t have that flunky look,” the cabbie said.
“I do carry a gun,” Lucas said.
“That’s disturbing. I don’t have much cash.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a U.S. Marshal.”
“Okay, then. Say, how about them Nationals?” the cabbie asked, as they pulled into traffic.
“I don’t want to hear about it,” Lucas said. “You make a living by beating up on teams like the Marlins. That’s like beating up on a troop of Girl Scouts.”
“Okay, so you don’t want to talk.”
“I don’t mind talking, but let’s talk about something interesting. How’s the President doing?”
“Ah, man...” Then he went on for a while, at two hundred words a minute, sputtering through the capital traffic.
—
SENATOR HENDERSON’S OFFICEhad called the Watergate and had emphasized that an early check-in was no problem, and the hotel had agreed that it really wasn’t any kind of a problem at all. A desk clerk with a tennis player’s tan and perfect white teeth told Lucas that a car was waiting in the hotel parking garage and should he summon it?
“I’ll call,” Lucas said, and headed up to his room.
He unpacked, hung another suit and two sport coats in the closet, with five shirts, washed his face and hands, and called for the car, which turned out to be a Music Express limo—and he thought, as he climbed into the backseat, there’d be no government record of this pickup. The driver took him through a Starbucks on E Street, where Lucas got a blueberry muffin, a hot chocolate, and aWashington Post. A quick look at thePostsuggested nothing that Henderson might want to talk to him about.
—
LUCAS HAD THE DRIVERdrop him three blocks from the Senate Office Building and tipped him twenty bucks for his wait and the ride. The driver and limo would hover during the meeting and pick him up afterward.
The day was warm with an icy-bright-blue sky overhead, a good September midday in Washington, DC, heading toward a high in the low 80s. As he walked along Constitution Avenue,still sipping on the hot chocolate, thePostrolled and tucked under his arm, a couple of women smiled at him; or perhaps at his suit. Anyway, he smiled back. Joggers were out in force, and young women pushing strollers and boys with dogs.
One of the nannies tracked him with her eyes as they passed, and nodded.
Maybe, he thought, he wasn’t lookingthatbad.
—
THE RUSSELL SENATEOffice Building did look bad, like America’s largest old post office, the aging limestone façade now resembling poorly laid concrete block. Lucas checked through security, where he was met by one of Henderson’s staffers, the security process eased by the fact that Lucas’s .40-caliber Walther PPQ was back in the hotel safe.
The staffer, whose name Lucas thought was Jaydn, or possibly Jared or Jordon or Jeremy—he didn’t quite catch it—and who was wearing jeans, a nubby white-cotton shirt open at the throat, and cordovan loafers (no socks), led him through the building to Henderson’s office and then to the inner office, where Henderson was waiting with the other Minnesota senator, Porter Smalls, and an FBI agent named Jane Chase.
As Lucas was ushered in, Henderson looked at the aide and said, “Hey, Jasper, thanks—I’ll catch you later.”
In other words, “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.” When Jasper was gone, they all shook hands and Lucas asked, “If Jane’s here, why am I?”
“We’ll explain that,” Smalls said. “Jane’s here to outline what the FBI has done so far and why they can’t do much more.”
“Why can’t you do much more?” Lucas asked Chase, as they all settled into chairs.
“Because no crime has been committed,” Chase said. “Not yet.”
