The Innocents Club. Taylor Smith
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what?”
What, indeed? Tucker frowned, wishing he had an easy answer. “He wants to leave a legacy, I think. I don’t know exactly what, but I can tell you this—he’s dying.”
The chair legs finally dropped to the floor. “Say what? He tell you that?”
“Yeah, but even if he hadn’t, I would’ve known. His skin’s the color of that folder there.”
The deputy’s eyes strayed back to the mottled yellow file on the desk. “No kidding.”
“Liver cancer, apparently. He says they’ve given him three months, max.”
Geist’s right hand rotated in an impatient, forward-rolling notion. “And so—?”
“I think he’s looking to settle a score before he kicks off.”
“And he wants us to help him to do it?”
“That’s my guess.”
“So, what’s in it for us?”
Tucker hesitated. This was the tricky part. He was pretty sure part of the Navigator’s plan was to undermine the presidential ambitions of Foreign Minister Zakharov. But who stood to benefit from that? Russia? America? International peace and stability? Some unknown protégé to whom the dying old man was preparing to hand his torch of secret power?
Tucker didn’t know. He only knew who had the most to lose if this wasn’t handled carefully. But how could he tell the deputy director of the CIA that he’d burn these files and the evidence they contained before he’d let any harm from them rain down on the woman whose name the bloody Navigator had known would be the key to forcing his cooperation?
“Just give me a little more time, Jack. I’ll do you up a full report.”
“How much time are we talking?”
“Twenty-four hours.”
“Done,” Geist said abruptly. He got to his feet.
Tucker watched him head for the door. He knew he should leave well enough alone, but he couldn’t. “One more thing,” he said. “Why was Mariah Bolt assigned to cover the Zakharov visit?”
Geist paused at the door, frowning. “That’s pretty much ‘need to know,’ buddy. She doesn’t work for you anymore.”
“I know that.”
“And so? You got some proprietary interest there? That’d be tough, since I hear she’s seeing that hotshot TV anchorman…what’s his name?”
“Paul Chaney.”
“Right, Chaney. So…?”
Tucker shrugged. “I’m just curious why an analyst gets sent out in the field.”
“I had a little job needed doing, and she was the best person for it. Anyway,” the deputy said briskly, pulling open the door, “this is awesome work, Frank, getting your hands on this stuff. Truly awesome. I’ll need that memorandum on my desk soon as possible, though. You’ll get right on it, won’t you, big guy?”
He winked and pointed his finger in a stagy “you-the-man!” gesture, then was gone before Tucker had a chance to respond with the contempt the performance deserved.
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