Suddenly, the paper rolled up and spun off the table. Josie lunged for it but succeeded only in knocking everything else to the floor. Heads turned and a guy in a well-worn khaki jacket and jeans got up to help.
“Hang on. I got it.” He plucked the little roll of paper from under his table. Josie picked up the plastic bag.
“Thanks,” she said as she put the paper in her bag.
“No problem,” he answered.
When he didn’t move she gave him what he wanted: her attention.
“You okay?” His brow furrowed making him only slightly more handsome than any twenty-something kid should be.
“I’m good,” she answered.
“I mean, you really okay? ’Cause if you’re staying there you must have some heavy shit weighing on you. I’ve got a pad. You can come with me. My friend won’t mind. It would be better than going there.”
“How do you know where I’m staying?” Josie asked.
He pointed at the plastic bag. “The Robert Lee, man. Bad news. Looks good on the website, but it’s a dump. I’ve seen hostels in Russia better than that place. You really shouldn’t stay there. I don’t think it’s safe.”
Josie looked at the plastic bag and the picture stamped on it. It was a hotel that didn’t meet the standards of a kid who stayed in hostels.
“I’m not staying there. I’m just looking for someone who is.” Josie folded the bag into a packet and put it in her pocket as she asked, “Is it close?”
“Five blocks maybe. City blocks, though. You’ve got heels.” His smile brightened. “I could go with you just to make sure you’re okay. There’s a party later. It would be cool if you want to go.”
“Thanks for the invitation, but I’m leaving on the red eye.”
She stood up. He stepped back to really get a good look at her. She shrugged into her coat and tried not to laugh. It had been a long time since someone tried to pick her up. She would tell Archer about this kid, Archer would kiss her and say ‘the man obviously has good taste’ and then they would make love.
“Yeah, well. See ya.”
The guy gave up graciously and went back to his table. He kept his eyes on the very tall woman, with the very short hair until the door of the coffee shop closed. He went back to his iPad, and Josie went on to find The Robert Lee Hotel.
***
Across the street and down about thirty yards Morgan sat in his car watching Ian Francis. It had been a long time since he had a call from on high giving him marching orders, but when it came Morgan didn’t ask questions. He knew exactly what was going on. Weller was interested in this schlub for some reason so he had thrown his weight around. That was cool even though this kind of surveillance was a little beneath Morgan’s pay grade. Still, no skin off his nose. It was kind of nice to get out of the office for a change. Besides, following the guy was a piece of cake. Ian Francis wasn’t exactly a sprinter. Even if Morgan ran over his feet the guy probably wouldn’t notice. The only problem was that the cop found it painful to watch him. It would have been so much easier to just pick him up and drive him where he was going because that was all the information his supervisor wanted – that and who the man might meet up with once he got there.
While he watched Ian, Morgan reached for his stash of jerky. Teriyaki turkey. His wife picked up double packs at Costco. Costco was maybe the greatest contribution the United States ever made to civilized society. You couldn’t beat double packs of jerky anymore than you could beat the buck-fifty hot dog with a refillable soda.
Sinatra crooned on the radio while Morgan daydreamed about hitting Costco on the weekend with the old lady for a few of those dogs. That was why he almost missed it when Ian Francis started walking ahead of schedule. It was like someone flipped a damn switch. Ian Francis lurched toward the corner and turned with purpose. Morgan chawed on the jerky as he eased the car back onto the street and turned the same corner slowly. Just then the phone rang.
“Morgan, here.”
“Eugene Weller.”
Morgan raised a brow. Weller’s request had gone through the supervisor but now he was on the horn personally.
“It’s been over two hours. Where is he?” Eugene demanded.
Morgan swallowed a spearhead of jerky and almost choked. He managed to say: “Still walking.”
“Do you think he’s living on the streets?” Eugene pressed.
“I’ll let you know when he stops. So far he hasn’t stopped.” Morgan immediately regretted his tone. Eugene was a pain in the ass but he wasn’t stupid.
“I would suggest you take this a bit more seriously. Call me if he makes contact with anyone.”
“Hansen told me to call him.” Surely mentioning the supervisor would be enough to remind Eugene that he had been the one to set the ground rules. It wasn’t.
“Call me first,” Eugene snapped and the line went dead.
“Yes, sir.” Morgan muttered this to dead air and turned his phone off. “You friggin’ twit.”
Morgan stopped the car, draped his arms over the steering wheel and watched Ian Francis wobble before he become mesmerized by the sight of his reflection once more.
“Why is Genie so interested in you, you poor schmuck?”
A Washington Post exposé on domestic surveillance reveals massive FBI databases keeping tabs on Americans not even suspected of criminal activity; costly fusion centers that threaten privacy but produce little intelligence of value; and insufficient and inaccurate intelligence training for analysts serving in the almost 4,000 different counterterrorism organizations across the United States
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- ACLU
CHAPTER 5
Eugene Weller had made his excuses to Senator Patriota and sent him off to his next appointment in the fairly competent hands of one of the staff; a young man whose name Eugene could never remember but who distinguished himself by writing exceptional letters that captured the senator’s voice beautifully.
For the last two hours Eugene sat in his office, dark save for a small lamp on the far wall and the light of his computer screen. Three windows were open, each with different references to Ian Francis and his work for the government. More information on the man, his work, and ancillary personnel had been printed out. Certain references had been written down and would be checked elsewhere rather than commit additional searches to the computer’s memory.
Ian Francis was neither a major player in the grand scheme of things nor did he participate at a particular critical time in the project he had referenced, but the fact remained that he had been a part of it. Senator Patriota would be impressed that Eugene had recognized this to be more than a common security breach, too. Of course, there was more to be found but it wasn’t necessary to pursue the matter immediately. Eugene hit print, closed the open windows, and relaxed.
Feeling as if he had been smart enough to decline desert after a fine meal, Eugene was left satisfied but clear-headed. He marveled at the efficiency of government on the micro level. There was a plethora of information in the system and yet, more often than not, it was input and forgotten. In a few short hours Eugene had put together a very clear picture of an intricate spiral of dominoes that had stood for decades. Ian Francis was the finger that flicked Josie Bates, a latecomer who had inadvertently placed herself first in the chain. Thankfully, the blow the man dealt her had been glancing. She wobbled, Patriota held her upright, and that gave Eugene time to move her out of the queue. In a few hours the woman would be home and trying to put all this out of her mind. Now here he was, Eugene Weller, domino two; stable and aware, he was not only in the queue, he was master of it.
He paged through the information again slowly, unaware that he was smiling. He checked the clock and saw that he was late for the meeting at the senator’s house. He called and left his apologies with Lydia: business at the office, he explained. She said she would pass along the message but that they were all getting along fine. Eugene hung up having read between the lines.
They were all getting along fine without you, Eugene.
He smirked. If she only knew how much the senator needed him she would treat him with a little more respect. No matter. Eugene needed no accolades, only the satisfaction of knowing he had served well. He looked at the phone and felt a little tug in his groin, a response to the almost giddy excitement that was building as he waited for Morgan’s call.
Eugene Weller couldn’t wait to find out where a dead man went when he visited Washington D.C.
***
The streets Josie walked were eerily silent. She passed alleyways, stepped around cigarette butts outside a smoke shop, and crunched over a trail of broken glass that lead to a liquor store where a glassy-eyed clerk watched television.
To her left, in the shadows of a storefront, a pile of trash moved. Josie glanced toward it expecting a cat to dash away. Instead, she found herself looking at the craggy face of an old woman. A knit hat was pulled low over her brow and her bottom lip was pulled up over toothless gums. The woman didn’t blink and Josie passed, painfully aware of the imbalance of life. She could not right all wrongs anymore than Ambrose Patriota could.
Behind her the woman rolled over again in the dark, disappearing herself. Josie pulled her collar tighter. She turned the corner and saw The Robert Lee Hotel a block ahead. The neon sign atop the building needed repair but other than that it didn’t look too bad at all.
Then she opened the door.
***
Initially, Josie didn’t notice any one thing about the place because she was overwhelmed by the general sense of decay.
The lobby was impressively large and at one time had been majestic. Above her, two meticulously crafted barrel vaults came together at right angles to form a groined ceiling. Once that ceiling had been covered in gold leaf to catch the light of the huge chandelier that had lit both whore and ambassador as they made their way down the grand staircase. Now the gilt was flaked and spotty like a fancy manicure picked down to chips. The chandelier was missing crystal fobs and candle bulbs and what was left hadn’t been cleaned in a decade. Instead of sipping Vodka Gimlets at the bar on her left, two men in pajamas were taking slugs out of a bottle while they sat next to a piano that probably hadn’t been played since the Eisenhower era.
Josie went the other way, treading on wall-to-wall carpet that was threadbare in patches and in others intact enough to see that there had once been a floral pattern of pink mums on a brown background. This path led her to the front desk that had been built to accommodate a crowd of guests. Those crowds had stopped coming long ago. She ran her gloved hand along it as she peered behind. There were no computer consoles which she found interesting since the hotel had a website. There was an open pack of gum, a stack of magazines, the remains of take-out Chinese, and some towels that didn’t look all that fresh. At the far end, there was an office. The window was covered with mini blinds. Three of the slats had been bent at the ends and the middle ones sagged as if someone had worn them down, constantly peering out, hoping to spy a guest. Light flickered behind the blinds in the predictable pattern of a television. Unable to tell if there was anyone in there or not, Josie leaned over the counter and hauled a huge ledger up and over.
Five people had checked in that day and two had already checked out. None of them were Ian Francis. She flipped the page back. Two days earlier business was stellar. Twenty people had signed in over the weekend. She scanned the names. Half of the signatures were illegible and the others were easily dismissed simply by their length and fancifulness. She flipped back another page and her eyes were caught by the name Frances but this was a first name and the signature was sprawling. Nowhere did she see an example of the cramped, bizarre writing she had in her possession.
Josie turned the pages again and ran her finger down all the names once more. Bingo. There was an entry for a guest with a last name of Francis. The initial was A. She had missed it the first time around.
“You want to check in?”
Not quite startled, just surprised to find anyone in the place with enough energy to call her out, Josie looked up. A man of medium height and maximum girth had propped himself up in the doorway between the lobby and the office. He wore a button down shirt and pinstriped pants. The pleats fanned out under the weight of his stomach. There was a nod to propriety in the shape of a black knit necktie improperly knotted so that the bottom tail was longer than the top. He was looking over his shoulder at the television but had spoken to her.
“No. Thanks,” she answered.
“Didn’t think so.” He guffawed at something he saw on the tube before he looked at her. His left eye was lazy and kept swinging toward his own nose. “Restaurant’s been closed for about four years. Bar, too. I gotta bottle if you’re looking for something to warm you up. Or Mulligan’s is open. ’Bout a block down if you want something to eat.”
“I just had some coffee, but I appreciate the offer. I came to visit a friend. Ian Francis. Can you tell me what room he’s in?”
“You already looked in the book. I saw you. You’re not a PI. You’d be better than that if you were. You his wife? Maybe you’re a spy. You look like one of them Bond girls. They weren’t too smart neither but they were lookers.”
“Promise. I’m not a spy.” Josie crossed her heart.
“It’s the way you got your coat, you know.” He made a circle around his neck. “Spies turn up the collars on their coats like that.” He ambled to the end of the counter, stopped and crossed his arms on the edge. “So, did you find him?”
“I found someone with the same last name, but the initial is wrong,” she said.
“Sometimes people do that. Stupid just to change your first initial.” Josie heard the last trill of a Viagra commercial. Whatever he was watching would start soon so she pressed on.
“This man is about five-ten. His hair is close cut and brown. Stubble on the face. Greying. Glasses. Mid-fifties. Maybe older. He was wearing a blue suit when I saw him.”