Evidently, the President gained control of the conversation and launched into a long-winded sermon of some sort. Voyles wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, sat in his ancient leather swivel, and began controlled breathing to lower the pressure and pulse. He had survived one heart attack and was due for another, and had told K. O. Lewis many times that Fletcher Coal and his idiot boss would eventually kill him. But he'd said that about the last three Presidents. He pinched the fat wrinkles on his forehead and sunk lower into the chair. "We can do that, Mr. President." He was almost pleasant now. He was a man of swift and radical mood swings, and suddenly before their eyes he was courteous. A real charmer.Thank you, Mr. President. I'll be there tomorrow."
He hung up gently, and spoke with his eyes closed. "He wants us to place that Post reporter under surveillance. Says we've done it before, so will we do it again? I told him we would."
"What type of surveillance?" asked K.O.
"Let's just follow him in the city. Around the clock with two men. See where he goes at night, who he sleeps with. He's single, isn't he?"
"Divorced seven years ago," Lewis answered.
"Make damned sure we don't get caught. Do it with plain-clothes, and switch 'em up every three days."
"Does he really believe the leaks are coming from us?"
"No, I don't think so. If we were leaking, why would he want us to trail the reporter? I think he knows it's his own people. And he wants to catch them."
"It's a small favor," Lewis added helpfully.
"Yeah. Just don't get caught, okay?"
* * *
THE OFFICE of L. Matthew Barr was tucked away on the third floor of a tacky and decaying office building on M Street in Georgetown. There were no signs on the doors. An armed guard in a coat and tie turned people away at the elevator. The carpet was worn and the furniture was old. Dust covered it, and it was apparent the Unit spent no money on housekeeping. Barr ran the Unit, which was an unofficial, hidden, little division of the Committee to Reeled the President. CRP had a vast suite of plush offices across the river in Rosslyn. It had windows that opened and secretaries who smiled and maids that cleaned every night. But not this dump.
Fletcher Coal stepped off the elevator and nodded at the security guard, who nodded back without making another move. They were old acquaintances. He made his way through the small maze of dingy offices in the direction of Barr's. Coal took pride in being honest with himself, and he honestly did not fear any man in Washington, maybe with the possible exception of Matthew Barr. Sometimes he feared him, sometimes not, but he always admired him.
Barr was an ex-Marine, ex-CIA, ex-spy with two felony convictions for security scams from which he earned millions and buried the money. He had served a few months in one of the country clubs, but no real time. Coal had personally recruited Barr to head the Unit, which officially did not exist. It had an annual budget of four million, all cash from various slush funds, and Barr supervised a small band of highly trained thugs who quietly did the work of the Unit.
Barr's door was always locked. He opened it and Coal entered. The meeting would be brief, as usual.
"Let me guess," Barr started.You want to find the leak."
"In a way, yes. I want you to follow this reporter, Grantham, around the clock and see who he's talking to. He's getting some awfully good stuff, and I'm afraid it's coming from us."
"You're leaking like cardboard."
"We've got some problems, but the Khamel story was a plant. Did it myself."
Barr smiled at this. "I thought so. It seemed too clean and pat."
"Did you ever run across Khamel?"
"No. Ten years ago we were sure he was dead. He likes it that way. He has no ego, so he'll never get caught. He can live in a paper shack in Sao Paulo for six months, eating roots and rats, then fly off to Rome to murder a diplomat, then off to Singapore for a few months. He doesn't read his press clippings."
"How old is he?"
"Why are you interested?"
"I'm fascinated. I think I know who hired him to kill Rosenberg and Jensen."
"Oh, really. Can you share this bit of gossip?"
"No. Not yet."
"He's between forty and forty-five, which is not that old, but he killed a Lebanese general when he was fifteen. So he's had a long career. This is all legend, you understand. He can kill with either hand, either foot, a car key, a pencil, whatever. He's an expert marksman with all weapons. Speaks twelve languages. You've heard all this, haven't you?"
"Yeah, but it's fun."
"Okay. He's believed to be the most proficient and expensive assassin in the world. In his early years he was just another terrorist, but he was much too talented for simple bomb throwing. So he became an assassin for hire. He's a bit older now, and kills just for money."
"How much money?"
