Long Road to Mercy (Atlee Pine, #1)(71)

Pine’s jaw eased open a bit. “You have a gun?”

In answer, Blum slid out a small, efficient-looking piece from her purse.

Pine took a closer look and said, “That’s a Colt Mustang.”

“Yes, it is. Chambered in .380 ACP.”

“It’s okay as a backup piece, but its stopping power is nothing to write home about.”

“But it’s compact, lightweight, and damn accurate at close range.”

“Didn’t know you knew about guns.”

“I’m from Arizona. It’s in our DNA. Rumor has it I came out of the womb with a full head of hair and a jewel-encrusted, nickel-plated derringer clutched in my adorably dimpled fist.”

“But the Colt only has a max six-shot mag.”

“If I ever need more than six bullets to do the job, I’m in the wrong line of work.”

Pine could only smile as they walked out the door together.





Chapter

38



THEY TOOK THE KIA. The Mustang had been seen several times now, and Pine was worried that it stood out too much. If she hadn’t had to use her SUV as a decoy she would have brought that instead. Hindsight held a level of perfection that real-time decision-making could not provide.

The building they found was of an ornate, classical Greek design with Ionic pillars topped by elaborately carved capitals bracketing the front entrance. It was incongruously sandwiched in between two eight-story glass-and-metal-box office buildings. They parked in a nearby underground garage and came back out to street level.

Men and women in suits and carrying knapsacks and briefcases scooted to and fro. All were checking their phones and looking important as they strode along ostensibly doing the people’s business in the shadow of the halls of government.

“Quite an energetic town,” remarked Blum.

“One way of describing it,” replied Pine. “Capital of bullshit is another.”

They made their way to the headquarters of SFG. The towering double doors were solid oak and looked strong enough to withstand an RPG round.

There was a buzzer built into the wall with a voice box next to it.

A brass sign said to ring it.

So Pine did.

A voice immediately came on.

“Can I help you?”

“We’re with the FBI. We’re here to speak to someone about Benjamin Priest.”

“Can you hold up your IDs to the camera, please?”

Pine noted the lens staring down at her.

Shit.

She held up her badge, but not her ID.

“Thank you. One moment.”

Soon, they could hear footsteps approaching.

The door opened and there stood a large, goateed man in a gray suit with a blue tie.

“Follow me, please.”

They followed.

Both women looked around at the spacious rooms off the hall they were traversing. Comfortable furnishings, elegant paintings, a sculpture here and there. And enough chair rail, crown moldings, pilasters, columns, medallions, balustrades, friezes, and frescoes to satisfy any architectural junkie’s most outrageous wish list.

They were escorted into a large office, book lined and cluttered. The smell of sweet pipe smoke seemed to rise from every inch of the place.

The goateed man left, closing the door behind him without saying another word.

Pine looked around and said, “Why do I feel like I just stepped into a spy novel from the sixties? Where are you, George Smiley, when I need you?”

Blum noted a stack of books on a side table. “Is that Arabic?”

Pine looked over her shoulder. “Yes. Simon Russell had books in Arabic, too.”

“Did he indeed?”

Pine and Blum started and looked over at a high wingback chair that had been turned away from them.

It was now swiveled around, and perched in it was a small man with thick white hair. He wore a three-piece suit with a dash of color at the neck and a kerchief sprouting from the chest pocket.

When he stood it revealed that he was probably barely over five feet tall.

“Please, sit,” he said, waving them to two chairs in front of the massive desk, which was heaped with opened books. He took the seat behind the desk and studied them both, his fingers steepled in front of him.

“We didn’t know anyone was in the room,” said Pine.

“Evidently,” said the man. “By the way, I am Oscar Fabrikant.”

“Thanks for seeing us, Mr. Fabrikant.”

“Oh, please, make it Oscar. Are you both FBI agents?”

Pine held out her shield. “I’m the agent. She’s my assistant.”

Pine really wanted to get through this without revealing their identities.

Fabrikant nodded. “Now, to business. You mentioned just now Simon Russell?”

“Yes.” Pine was annoyed at herself for not adequately scoping out the room before speaking. Now the man knew there was a connection between her and a dead man.

“And how do you know Simon?”

“I don’t.”

“And yet you know his reading tastes?”

“Ben Priest told me about him,” lied Pine.

“I see. And you’ve come here about something having to do with Ben?”

“Yes.” She looked around the office. “Do you run the Society?”