Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(44)

And so it was that on the fifth day after the MacQuerrie shitstorm clogged cyberspace and even, for a time, overloaded the current LeakAGE site, which, for security’s sake, changed ISP daily, Fulmer accepted the invitation to have dinner with Harry Hornden. Hornden himself called Fulmer instead of having one of his flunkies do it, which, to Fulmer’s way of thinking, showed at least a working knowledge of political protocol.

And yet he wasn’t above tweaking the journo’s nose when he arrived at the corner table Hornden had booked at The Riggsby, a newish restaurant that had the feel of old Hollywood.

“Harry, how many times did you get called whore’s son in college?” he said, sliding into his chair opposite the journo.

If Hornden was offended, he gave so sign of it. “That started in high school, actually.” He grinned as the drinks arrived. “I took the liberty of ordering us a brace of Sazeracs. Good for you?”

“Always,” Fulmer said, clinking the rim of his glass with Hornden’s. He was intrigued; the journo hadn’t picked one of the top ten power restaurants in D.C., so he must have something unusual on his mind; he didn’t seem to care whether he was seen with the new hero or not.

Hornden was a largish, square-shaped individual, long hair still sandy, eyes still bright blue, but turned down at the outer corners, as if he were eternally mournful. He looked like a college athlete gone slightly to seed. He was on the wrong side of forty and as yet unmarried, Fulmer knew, having leafed through the jacket on Hornden his staff had assembled. There wasn’t much to it, really, beyond schools attended. The text would have you believe that he was a genuine boy scout. No arrests, no girlfriends, or boyfriends, though he networked like a fiend. But his contacts were just that: contacts and nothing more. In fact, when you came right down to it, there was startlingly little background on him. This, also, Fulmer found intriguing.

“What shall I call you?” the journo said, ignoring the menus the waiter had left on the table.

“Just think of me as the pope,” Fulmer replied.

“I hope you’re not expecting me to kiss your ring.”

“I’ll let that pass.” Fulmer held up both hands, free of rings of any sort. “Divorced. Twice.”

“Condolences.”

“My exes would lap that sentiment up with a spoon. As for me…” He shrugged.

The prelims over, they took up their menus as if in response to a call to arms. “I eat here all the time,” Hornden said. “Michael Schlow’s my favorite chef.”

They ordered Caesar salads and the c?te de boeuf for two, along with a fine bottle of Faust cabernet, an ironic choice if ever there was one, Fulmer thought with a wry smile. Small talk followed, continuing through the meal. Not one word of business, not a single probing question from Hornden. The conversation most closely followed the lines of two old colleagues at a reunion meal.

“I’d prefer to leave the desserts to the pigs and the kids,” Hornden said when the main course plates and platters were cleared. “But I’m not averse to an espresso and an after-dinner drink. Averna, perhaps?”

The usual wolf pack of reporters was milling around the restaurant’s exterior. A minor frenzy ensued as the two men exited, but Fulmer’s driver, with his lineman’s body and sharp senses, was expert at keeping the flies away from the meat. Not a word was uttered by either of the principals as they climbed into Fulmer’s black SUV, which drove off down New Hampshire Ave, NW, as soon as Max swung into the front passenger seat.

“So,” Fulmer said, shooting his cuffs, “what’s on your little mind?”

The journo indicated with his chin. “What about the driver and the bodyguard?”

Fulmer pressed a button and sheet of bulletproof glass rose up to seal them off.

“Happy now?”

“Hardly.” Hornden seemed to have grown a haunted look. “But then was I ever?”

Fulmer shot him a sideways glance, then looked away out the window. The last thing he was interested in debating was the existence of happiness—a state of mind so ephemeral it did not exist in the physical world. In his opinion, it was something concocted by the wolves of Madison Avenue in order to sell great quantities of useless and expensive crap to people who thought they needed it. Fulmer fervently wished he had come up with that scam. Well, there were always others; that particular magician’s hat was bottomless.

“I want in,” Hornden said without even a pretense of a preamble. It was go time.

Fulmer was still staring out the window, looking at nothing. His inner gaze was concentrated fully on what was happening as each moment ticked by. “In on what?”

“Whatever it is you have up your sleeve.”

Fulmer evinced zero interest. “This is why you asked me to dinner?”

It wasn’t a question; no reply was forthcoming.

“I’ll say one thing, Hornden. The dinner was excellent. Thank you for that.” He waited a beat. “Otherwise, you’ve wasted my time.”

“If you let me in,” Hornden said slowly and distinctly, “you get everything.”

“I already have everything I want or need.”

The journo’s tone changed abruptly. “Listen, Mr. Fulmer, I know your fingerprints are all over that last LeakAGE release.”

Fulmer grunted. “I don’t even know Farreng. Never had any communication with him whatsoever.”