No Perfect Secret (5 page)

Caburn’s heart sank. “But
—but, I told Anna Nesmith we’d have him back in a few days—a week at the most.”

“Well, I’m sorry
—I forgot. You’re just going to have to finesse it. Hang with her, keep her occupied and everything low key. Feed her bits and pieces—”

“Bits and pieces? Albert, that woman is blisteringly smart. I mean if you give her the first letter of the alphabet, she could write the whole
dang dictionary.”

“I feel bad for the woman, Frank. I do. But I can’t jack up the French. They don’t like us anyway. They loaned us some money during the War of Independence, and sold us Lo
uisiana. Two nice things in two, three hundred years. They ain’t working over their holiday, and that’s that. But look at it this way—if we got him back before Christmas it’d ruin our holiday. Not just ours—
everybody’s
,” he emphasized, meaning the Nesmith women.

“Well, then, I think I’ll go home for Christmas.”

“Don’t make jokes.”

“Can’t the FBI handle this?”

Phipps actually shuddered. “Absolutely not. This is an in-house personnel issue. Use your head. We’re already down to a three-person staff—four, if you count the loaner we got from upstairs: you, me, Helen. The only reason we’re still here is we’re out of sight and not even a blip on the budget. If another agency started handling this stuff, we’d be out of a job. Keep in mind before 9/11 all but the most sensitive dispatches were sent commercial air or on military flights. A staffer got assigned to pick up the bag, inventory the crates—whatever—and that was it. Bin Laden is fish food, and still the goombahs believe
everything
is sensitive. That’s good for us. Or, at least it is for me, otherwise,
I
would be out of job. As for Helen... Well, Helen’s going to sit at a desk somewhere until the Rapture or the sun burns out—whichever comes last. You could switch places with the loaner, though. He’s overseeing—”

Caburn shook his head. “No. I don’t want to fight the traffic up to Ellicott City.” That was a gigantic excuse. He was in thrall with Anna Nesmith. He didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news. It would be a miracle if she could get past that. He was Kansas born and bred and the only event that came even close to being a miracle
in his life was Dorothy and Toto. Everything else in his existence was grounded and solid. He wished he had more experience with these sorts of situations. "I like straightforward criminals, Albert, thieves and traitors. I hate jerks like Nesmith who cause so much misery to innocent women and children—even if they don’t know it, yet.”

“That’s a nice sentiment, Frank, but it doesn’t get the job done. So
—what’d you get. Give me a rundown. How does she strike you?”

She strikes me just fine
. “It’s pretty much like the file says. She goes to work every day at the Library of Congress—does research for the Senate, the Chamber of Commerce, trade delegations. Clips articles, I guess. She takes care of Nesmith’s mother, a clinging vine type. The old woman was in the Pentagon on 9/11 and severely traumatized.”

“Oh, boy.” Phipps made a note in the file on his desk. “This is going to be nasty. What else? See any signs of big money?”

“Not really—not big money in today’s terms. The kitchen’s been renovated—everything is state of the art. The house looks like every other house on the block, a bit better maintained, maybe. The furniture was nice, not over the top. No flat screen in the living room. A stone-faced fireplace. There was a laptop on a desk in a nook off the kitchen—”

“Did you seize it?”

“No. The situation is...delicate.”

Phipps emptied his pipe, and began to stuff it with tobacco again. “Delicate. That’s a good word. Did you pick up
anything
. Like a clue as to why Nesmith pulled this stunt?”

“I’m clueless, Albert. Maybe he wanted to get away from his mother. I got the sense that she’s a real irritant in the marriage. Anna Nesmith is not your stereotypical librarian. She’s classy
—has all kinds of esoteric data at her fingertips.”

“All librarians are smart, Frank.”

“Perhaps so. But, Anna Nesmith looks like a...” He tried to recall a painter from Art History classes. “…Titian could’ve painted her.”

Phipps jaw hung open. After a second he snapped it shut. “Watch your step, Frank. You can’t get personally involved. Don’t even consider it.”

“Why not? I’m not married.”

Albert considered that for a moment. “Well, I guess she could do worse. She
has
done worse. The thing is—you know things she doesn’t. I wouldn’t like to think you were taking advantage of that.”

Caburn stiffened. “I wouldn’t. I won’t. She’s got ‘good’ written all over her, Albert. Plus she’s loyal to her husband. I won’t step on that. When I mentioned children, her face went all sad. I thought she was going to break
down right then.”

Phipps bit down hard on the pipe stem. “Remind me
—how long have they been married?”

“Right at eight or nine years, maybe ten.”

“Mercy, mercy,” said Phipps. “You might think about getting a puppy. That’s what I did when I had the feeling I was falling for Louise and needed some time to come to terms with it. Same emotions. I was crazy for that dog. I cried for a week when he died.”

They were both silent for a moment. Phipps’ looks were unfortunate. His ears stuck out, his face was lopsided, his Adam’s apple was big enough to make two pies and a batch of applesauce on the side, and he was thin to emaciation
—yet he owned some kind of pervading karma that drew women to him like a magnet. Caburn had noticed this the very few times somebody upstairs remembered they existed and they had been invited to a Christmas party or a black tie reception for an incoming or outgoing Secretary of State. Phipps’ wife, Louise, had also noticed, and once home, in a fit of domestic jealousy, shot him in the leg.

Phipps had made two acidic comments about the incident: “Who’d a thought it,” he’d said with a sense of wonder the day Caburn had picked him up from the hospital; and later, when he’d set his crutches aside and lowered himself into the chair behind his desk, he’d spoken with an inverted sense of pride. “You’ll notice that Louise took great care where she aimed.”

Now Phipps was studying Caburn with a critical eye. “Listen Frank, this ain’t an Ann Landers situation.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Just stay with it. I’ve got to look at another goofball—an embassy staffer unlocked this guy’s security bracelet and noticed he was wearing a Rolex.”

Caburn put his right hand over his left wrist.

“Oh, it isn’t like the dinky Rolex you wear, Frank. His is a Submariner; costs a bit over 230,000.”

“Dollars?” Caburn asked, awed.

“Yep. And he hasn’t won the lottery, been in line for an inheritance, or won big at a casino, plus his wife doesn’t work. And here’s the Big Stupid. During his initial interview he admitted he smoked marijuana and dabbled in cocaine in college. He told the interviewer he was a big boy now and didn’t do those sorts of childish things anymore—so the powers that be counted him honest.” Phipps snorted. “He carries to Mexico City, Panama, and Bogotá. On the way home he flashes his State Department ID and passes through customs like a will-o-wisp. Who eats stupid for breakfast? Them or me?”

Caburn decided to try one more time. “Let’s trade, Albert. You take Nesmith; I’ll take the goofball.”

“No way. I’ll have my guy’s arse in a crack by tomorrow afternoon. I’m taking Friday off to do my Christmas shopping so I can relax with a good book this weekend. I’ve got the new Clive Cussler/Dirk Pitt adventure. Let me tell you—that man knows his cars. Now, go make yourself useful. And, close the door on your way out—I can’t stand the sound of Helen filing her nails.”

But Helen wasn’t filing her nails. She had her nose in a steamy romance novel. Caburn cleared his throat to get her attention. She didn’t look up.

“I know you’re there, Frank. I can hear you breathing.”

“Helen, could we be friends, for say
—twenty minutes?”

“No.”

“Could I bribe you with lunch—anywhere on this side of the Potomac you want to go.”

“That little French restaurant that’s gotten all the rave reviews?”

Caburn never read restaurant reviews. He read the front page, sports page and comics. “Sure. But, you’ll have to drive. I forgot my wallet this morning.”

“Ha, ha. Frank
—how’re you gonna pay for lunch if you forgot your wallet?” She glanced at the computer screen—it was still booting—and went back to her book.

Caburn spun around and re
-entered Phipps’ office without knocking. “I need a favor, Albert. Can you loan me a hundred bucks? I’m treating Helen to lunch.”

“It doesn’t cost a hundred to eat in the cafeteria.”

“I’m taking her out.”

“You mean in public
—where other people can see you?” He mouthed: “With her?”

Caburn nodded. “I left my wallet at home.”

Phipps had the urge to say: They only let Dobermans in restaurants if they’re seeing eye dogs, but his door was open and Helen had ears that could hear a sneeze around a corner and a mile away. That Helen was good friends with his wife didn’t mean a thing. It meant
everything.
He took out his wallet and dug some folded twenties from behind a cracked plastic insert. The money smelled of old dust and green mold. It looked older even than Helen.

Caburn unfolded the bills. “Good
God, Albert—these are Silver Certificates. They haven’t been issued since...since...”

“
…1923,” called Helen.

Caburn rolled his eyes heavenward.

Confused, Albert said: “They spend like real money, don’t they?”

“They
are
real money. The money we use today
isn’t
real money. I can’t take these. Just write me a check. On our way we’ll stop at the bank and cash it.”

Phipps managed an embarrassed smile. “I don’t have the check book. Louise keeps it.”

“Oh. Uh, well, thanks, Albert. I’ll make up to you.”

“Sure, sure. Just remember; constant surveillance on this Nesmith thing. And use your best judgment.”

~
~~~

“This is more than delightful,” said Helen once the maître’d had helped her off with her coat and seated them.

Caburn glanced at the menu and began to have palpitations. “Uh, Helen...”

“I know—the prices are steep. I’ll cover what you don’t have. You can pay me tomorrow. I’m just so happy to have this experience. It’s hard to remember there’s life outside our basement.”

Helen had chosen the iCi Urban Bistro on 15th Street. It was well lit with a trendy, energetic atmosphere. Caburn found he liked it. Even sitting across from Helen did not distract from the ambiance. In the far regions of his mind he was thinking:
This would be a great place to bring Anna Nesmith
.

When the waiter
returned they both ordered the jumbo lump crab and avocado salad appetizer. Caburn had never eaten crab in his life. He was thinking of the stove in Anna’s kitchen, certain it was not used to can tomatoes. This was a good time to broaden his palate. Helen added escargots in garlic sauce. Snails sounded so much like kuru, Caburn couldn’t look at them.

“Do you think we could share a bottle of wine, Frank?”

He glared at her. “For god’s sake, Helen, we are not on a
date
.”

Helen glared back.

“Okay, maybe a half-bottle. You’re driving, remember.”

There were no half bottles on offer. Helen chose a full bottle of Argentinean Tempranillo, which to Caburn’s amazement actually went wonderfully well with the Angus Beef Burger and hand cut f
ries he ordered as an entree. Helen kept with the snails—ordering them with basil in pasta. Caburn had a buzz on by the time Helen finished dessert and he ordered coffee.

“Okay, Frank.” Helen issued a sigh that was almost sensual. “What do you need?”

“I need to know how to bank online.”

“You are kidding me.”

“I’m not.”

“And how to pay my bills online and how to transfer funds. And, ummm
—I sort of need you to go with me to choose a laptop with all the bells and whistles. And I need a Wi-Fi service.”

“Frank, I know for a fact that you graduated at the top of your class in political science at Kansas State
—”

“Uh, uh. Don’t go there. That was an accident. I took all those government courses so I wouldn’t have to take biology, calculus, physics and all those earth sciences
—which had nothing at all to do with earth, but plotting the speed of light and all those parallel universes and trying to figure out the Theory of Everything. I’m from a farming family, Helen. The only earth science we care about is the weather and crop rotation. We can get that from the Farmer’s Almanac—God Bless Benjamin Franklin. I mean—stars are stars. You look up at night and there they are. Who cares if they get sucked into a black hole?”