ts whose behavior might not meet in every detail the professional standards expected of everyone in the FBI. Hence, the ‘Professional Standards Unit,’ to root these miscreants out, and do so very quietly.”
“You don’t like the FBI much, do you, Joel?”
“Like every other right-thinking, patriotic American, I hold the FBI in the highest possible regard. I am simply unable to accept any suggestion that any FBI agent would ever do anything wrong.”
Tom McGuire chuckled.
“Okay, so what are you thinking, Joel?”
“Read the file, Charley. The FBI put your pal Kennedy on the fast track from the time he left Quantico. He was always assigned some place important—he was never in someplace like the Cornhole, Kansas, field office; he was in New York, LA, Dallas, with frequent tours in Washington. He was good. I could tell that on the phone.”
“Excuse me?”
“In your apartment, when he called. I answered the telephone, ‘Hello?’ he asked, ‘Charley?’ I said, ‘Who’s calling, please?,’ and he hung up. He smelled a cop—maybe an FBI agent—answering your phone. He called back five minutes later—time enough to leave wherever he was calling from and to get on a cellular that would be hard to trace.”
“Okay,” Charley said.
“So, again, I don’t know what I’m talking about, but here’s a possibility. Your pal Kennedy was assigned—as a very bright, absolutely trustworthy member of the FBI Palace Guard—to Professional Standards, where he got to know where all the bodies are buried. Not all of the miscreants Professional Standards catches with their hands in the petty cash drawer—or in the drawers of somebody else’s wife—get prosecuted, or even canned.”
“Why not?”
“The higher they are on the FBI pyramid, the more embarrassing it is for the FBI to haul them before the bar of justice. May I go on?”
“Certainly. I’m not sure how much of this I believe, but it’s interesting.”
“Well, then, fuck you, Charley. My lips are now sealed.”
“You can’t leave me hanging like this, Joel.”
Isaacson made him wait long enough for Charley to think, I’ll be damned, he is going to stop, before he went on.
“With whatever they did hanging over their heads, the powers that be can trust them to behave. That works fine as long as the guy—guys—who know what they did are in the FBI. But your pal is no longer with the bureau, is he? He now works for a Russian bad guy. But he can still use the same lever to . . . how do I put this? . . . gain the cooperation of a lot of people in the bureau for his ends, which are not necessarily in the best interests of the FBI.”
“Okay, so what?” Charley asked. “Why is Kennedy so worried that they’ll be able to locate him?”
McGuire made a pistol with his hand and said, “Bang!”
“Oh, come on, Tom!” Charley said.
“Accidents happen,” Isaacson said. “People get run over by hit-and-run drivers, fall off balconies, etcetera.”
Jesus Christ, they mean it!
“Watch your ears back there,” the pilot’s voice came over the cabin speaker. “I finally got cleared to make an approach to Pope. It’s going to be steep.”
The nose of the airplane immediately dipped.
In his mind, Charley saw the altimeter unwinding and the digital airspeed indicator on the glass panel beginning to flash red as they approached maximum safe speed.
[EIGHT]
Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina 2155 9 June 2005
The copilot of the Citation came out of the cockpit as soon as the aircraft was safely on the ground and stood by the door prepared to open it the moment the aircraft stopped. The pilot obviously wanted to get airborne again as quickly as possible. So long as the Citation was transporting Charley, it wasn’t available to Secretary Hall.
When the Citation stopped on the tarmac in front of base operations, the copilot immediately opened the door.
Charley went down the steps carrying his laptop computer briefcase and the suitcase he’d brought from Philadelphia, and Joel Isaacson followed him off the airplane with the go-right-now bag, handed it to Charley, affectionately punched him on the shoulder, and got back on the airplane.