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“I’m here to see Silverton,” DiVarco said. He was tense inside; he’d never before dared intrude on Silverton’s turf. He didn’t stop walking.

  “Sorry,” the nearest Pink said. “Mr. Silverton’s not seeing anybody this morning.” He stretched out a hand to make contact with DiVarco’s chest. His other hand held a short-barreled automatic.

  DiVarco waited until the man’s hand pushed against him. Shifting his weight, he swung the rolled-up newspaper in a vicious arc. The heavy end smashed into the Pink’s wrist and sent the pistol flying. Before the Pink could react, DiVarco swung the Globe again, whipping it into the Pink’s unprotected groin and doubling him over. He raised a knee into the Pink’s face, bringing the man’s head back up, then shoved the end of the newspaper into the Pink’s face.

  The Pink’s nose broke with an audible snap and he tumbled over backward, moaning with the blinding pain.

  Stunned, the other Pink started to move, then found himself staring down the barrels of two handguns. The Pink let his weapon dangle by one finger, then slowly lowered it to the floor and raised his hands.

  DiVarco tossed the bloodied newspaper on top of the disabled Pink, straightened his suit jacket and tie, then let himself into the office. He wasn’t even breathing hard, and that pleased him.

  Alexander Silverton was seated behind an ornate mahogany desk covered with brasswork. Almost sixty years old, the restaurateur was still tall and lean, with a patrician’s features. Silverton wore an indigo suit that was pin-striped with turquoise lines. A turquoise ascot was knotted around his neck. His hair was snow white, carefully coiffed, and made his powder blue eyes seem even more brilliant.

  In one of the matched pair of high-backed, overstuffed chairs fronting the immense desk, Tonsung Min sat watching through a cloud of pipe smoke. His black eyes glinted like chips of obsidian in his wrinkled face. The Korean man was bald and moon faced, the symmetry of his features marred by a jagged knife scar that formed a V along the right side of his face from his temple to the corner of his mouth and back to his earlobe.

  “Hello, guys,” DiVarco said, heading for the wet bar in the corner. “Hey, Alex, you don’t mind if I fix myself a drink, do you? Looks like you guys are doing all right.”

  Silverton stood up behind the desk. “What are you doing here? I told you never to come here.”

  “Why?” DiVarco demanded. “Because I might dirty the place up?” He finished pouring a brandy and worked at reining in his anger.

  “You’re risking everything by showing up here,” Silverton said.

  “I’m risking everything by raising the pressure out there on those streets,” DiVarco replied. “While you sit in your little ivory tower and publicly deplore the violent side of this city in your media ads.”

  “Mr. DiVarco,” Tommy called from the doorway, “we got more Pinks coming.”

  “Call off your dogs,” DiVarco warned Silverton, “before somebody gets killed.”

  “Get out,” Silverton said, “or I’ll have you thrown out.”

  “Your choice, Alex.” DiVarco freed the Scoremaster from the shoulder rig and started to bring it out.

  “Sebastian,” Min said in his accented voice. His words crackled with authority. “Don’t pull that weapon. For your own protection.”

  A creeping unease slid down DiVarco’s spine. He glanced around and saw the three Korean bodyguards wearing dark suits and sunglasses step into the room from two hidden doors.

  A cruel smile twisted Silverton’s lips. “Get out, DiVarco, while you still can.”

  “I didn’t come here to back down. You’ll be the first person I shoot.”

  A mottled red flushed Silverton’s face.

  Min interrupted. “Sit down, Alex, before you let this thing get out of control. At this point I think it’s a good idea that Mr. DiVarco showed up. There are some topics we need to address with him after last night.”

  After only a brief hesitation, Silverton pressed a button mounted on the side of his desk and said, “Harrelson, pull your men back.”

  The hidden speaker sounded tinny. “Yes, sir.”

  DiVarco glanced at Tommy and the big man gave a short nod. He releathered the Scoremaster, then picked up his drink.

  “Please,” Min said, indicating the empty chair.

  As Silverton resumed his seat, it was clear that the restaurateur wasn’t happy.

  DiVarco sat. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said to Min.

  The Korean man took out a lighter and relit his pipe, puffing on it till a blue-gray haze haloed his head. “There were some things Alex wanted to discuss with me in light of the events last night.”

  Street paranoia kicking in, DiVarco wondered how many other such meetings had been arranged between the two of them without his knowledge. He made a note to ream out the surveillance team assigned to keep tabs on Silverton’s comings and goings for him. “What events?”

  “The jackal network that was discovered in Atlanta, Georgia, by the FBI last night.” Min had never minced words. “They’ve traced it back to you.”

  “How?”

  “Someone mentioned Mr. Prio’s name.”

  “Who?”

  “At this point, that doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  “This has happened because you got greedy,” Silverton said. “All you had to do was follow orders and concentrate your efforts in the areas we asked you to. But no, you had to start nickel and diming on your own.”

  “That jackal network was worth millions.”

  “And now it’s worth nothing. Worse, it’s become a liability.”

  “Gentlemen,” Min said, “this is getting us nowhere. I knew about Sebastian’s involvement with the jackal network. Steps were taken to secure it last night, but the team I sent down was unable to completely eradicate the trail.”

  “You knew?” Silverton demanded. “And you didn’t tell me?”

  DiVarco looked at the old man in a new light. If Min knew that he’d transgressed the boundaries of their agreement, why hadn’t the old Korean taken steps before? The only answer he could come up with was Min’s own greed. Perhaps at a later date, the Korean would have tried to cut himself in for a share. He filed the theory away for later consideration.

  “Not everything,” Min said to Silverton, “warrants your attention. You have your hands full doing the things you’re supposed to be tending to.”

  “I should have been consulted.”

  “And you would have said no. Sebastian is merely looking out for his own interests.”

  “And jeopardizing everything we’ve done together.”

  “Not necessarily. I think that this unfortunate incident can be contained. Jackal networking—the whole red market—is not an issue eagerly brought into the view of the American public. The Justice Department will be under orders from Congress to shut down further exposure as soon as possible. It isn’t conducive to anyone in a political place of power to admit that they can’t protect the average person on the street.”

  “The Omega Blue unit broke the case,” DiVarco pointed out. “Slade Wilson doesn’t have a reputation for being a guy who can be controlled.”

  “If he can’t be controlled,” Min said in his deadly calm voice, “then Slade Wilson must be broken.”

  DiVarco smiled. “Those were my thoughts exactly. And that’s why I’m here.” He looked at Silverton. “You still own the number-two guy on the funding committee in the House, right?”

  The restaurateur tried to hide his surprise.

  Easing into the chair beside Min, DiVarco said, “C’mon, Alex, it’s okay to brag a little in front of your associates. We won’t hold it against you. You’ve had Cashion by the short hairs for three, four years now.”

  “Is that what you’re here for?” Silverton demanded. “To have us protect you from the FBI?”

  “Actually, I’m only here to do some damage control. I’m not afraid of Wilson or his goon squad. They’re human despite all the stories floating around about them. On
e of them was killed last night. But if Wilson makes it into this town and starts stirring things up, this little triumvirate we’ve been managing may make the headlines. I didn’t figure you wanted something like that.”

  Silverton looked apoplectic.

  “No,” Min replied. “That’s not what we want. Do you have something you want to suggest?”

  “Silverton has political clout on the Hill,” DiVarco suggested. “He owns Lamar Cashion, the Massachusetts representative warming the second chair on the House funding committee underwriting Omega Blue’s operations.”

  “Is this true?” Min asked.

  “Yes, but Cashion’s in no position to do anything about pulling Wilson or his team back off an operation,” Silverton said. “Keith Jarvis is still running the show, and he’s hesitant about taking steps against Omega Blue that are too strong. A number of media outlets have tried to make folk heroes out of those people.”

  DiVarco sipped his drink. “Most of that committee key themselves off Jarvis’s lead.”

  “Yes,” Silverton said.

  “So if Jarvis was out of the way and Cashion could take the lead, maybe they’d vote with him to suspend Omega Blue’s caseload pending an investigation of abuse of power.”

  “You’re gambling.”

  “The alternative is to bushwhack Wilson and his playmates when they hit the streets of this city,” DiVarco pointed out. “How does that grab you?”

  Silverton glanced at Min. “I told you we were making a mistake by involving him. He’s street trash, and he’ll never know better than to bite the hand that feeds him.”

  DiVarco stood up suddenly and started to round the desk.

  “Sebastian!” Min’s voice sounded uncompromising.

  The three Korean hard men shifted, bringing their weapons into view.

  DiVarco reined in his anger but didn’t back down. He stood the ground he’d already gained.

  Silverton’s finger was poised above the button on his desk.

  “Don’t give me that holier-than-thou spiel,” DiVarco said. “At least I’m honest about what I am and don’t try to hide. And don’t you ever once think you could have pulled this thing off without me.”

  “There were a hundred other guys out there like you who would have jumped at the chance,” Silverton said.

  “Who knows? Maybe they still will. Get out there on the street and talk it up with them. But don’t be surprised if they hand you your head. You haven’t got what it takes to hack it out there on the street. That’s why you got me in the first place.”

  “Sit down,” Min suggested, “and let’s talk.”

  Slowly, DiVarco turned and resumed his seat in the chair as Silverton took his finger away from the button.

  “Sebastian’s plan has merit,” Min said.

  “I don’t like the idea of risking Cashion,” Silverton said. “The man has proven valuable over the years, and his best years are yet to come.”

  “It’s no risk,” DiVarco said. “All I’m talking about here is a promotion. He’s already been known for leaning on the Omega Blue unit anyway. No big deal. Business as usual for him.”

  “You can remove this man Jarvis?” Min asked.

  “As of nine o’clock tonight, sure. Piece of cake. It’s already set up.”

  “And the Omega Blue unit is up for review tomorrow afternoon?”

  Silverton nodded.

  “In light of the apprehension of the jackal network against unwritten federal policy, it wouldn’t be surprising for Wilson and his team to be temporarily taken out of circulation pending an investigation,” Min said.

  “Chances are we won’t be able to shut the unit down,” Silverton said. “If that could have been done so easily before, it would have.”

  “But it will buy us some time to maneuver,” Min replied. He directed his attention to Silverton. “Call your man in Washington. Let him know he’s going to move into the first chair overnight, and let him know what is expected of him.” He pushed himself out of his chair. “Sebastian, do me the courtesy of walking with me to my car.”

  DiVarco downed the last of his drink and set the empty glass on Silverton’s desk. He smiled as the man made a frantic grab to lift it from the polished wood. He followed Min out into the hallway, walking at the older man’s side.

  Min put on a pair of dark sunglasses. “I understand the fires that drive you,” he said, “far better than I understand the ones that drive Alex. You’re brash, bold, and you’re just coming into your own. By setting up the jackal network and the other sideline businesses you’ve established, you’re building your own fortunes.”

  “It could be I got a glance at how big the deal is,” DiVarco said. “Maybe I didn’t like the size of my share.”

  “There’s always room for negotiation.” Min fixed him with a black-lensed stare. “To a point. Remember that, Sebastian. Too often a man’s eyes get too big for his stomach. Do you understand?”

  DiVarco curbed his resentment, conscious of the Korean guards surrounding them as they made their way out the side door of the restaurant. He nodded.

  “With us, you’ll have much more than you would ever have had on your own. Remember that when your ambition kicks in.”

  Not saying anything, DiVarco waited with Min as the Mercedes limo pulled into place before them.

  “Take care to close in your street operations,” Min said as he slid into the rear seat of the car. “In case Alex’s man isn’t able to accomplish everything we want. There are a lot of people in this city who would look forward to seeing you fall from the lofty perch you’ve scaled to these last few months.”

  “I will.” DiVarco chafed at being treated like a child. He watched Min’s vehicle pull away. Part of him was satisfied. He’d made himself the equal of Alexander Silverton in Min’s eyes by forcing the issue, and he’d made the other men admit how much they needed him.

  9

  Slade Wilson pulled his two-tone gray Jeep Cherokee into one of the rear slots in the parking area at the Schaeffer Center for Handicapped Children in downtown Washington, D.C.Across Potomac Street, he could see the Victorian facade of St. John’s Episcopal Church rising from a cultivated lawn amid manicured trees. To the west, the gothic spires of Georgetown University stabbed into the blue sky where a helicopter bearing radio-station markings flitted like a fickle dragonfly.

  Schaeffer Center was a five-story building constructed of straight lines that seemed to hold an unforgiving intensity. Steel bars covered the windows. A playground had been built on the side facing Wilson, but the colorful toys and swings looked incongruous, an afterthought to soften the effects of the chain-link fence and security gates. A trio of khaki-coveralled men and one woman worked the landscape with lawnmowers and trimmers, reducing the play area to something that looked as though it had been covered with Astroturf. The cacophony of alcohol engines sounded harsh and alien.

  To Wilson, it didn’t look like a place where a child would want to play.

  The dashboard clock showed that it was 2:57 P.M. The 8 ghosted into view as he switched off the key, extinguishing the welcome blast of cool air from the air-conditioning vents.

  He shrugged out of his shoulder holster and shoved it under the seat, then added the Crain combat knife with its trick holster and the H&K VP7 OZ from his boot. He kept the Walther TPH . 22LR in its paddle holster at the small of his back. Slipping out of the polo shirt he’d put on after his nap and shower back at Quantico, he reached into the rear seat into the overnight bag he kept there and pulled out the kelly green short sleeved, brushed denim shirt that he always wore when he visited his daughter. He pulled it on, leaving the tails out to cover the Walther . 22. The wrapped gift fit easily in one of his hands. He fluffed the big yellow bow so it stood up taller than before.

  He signed in at the gate, spoke briefly with the regular security officer who recognized him from all his visits. As he neared the center’s entrance, it seemed as though the weight of the building was settling onto his sh
oulders.

  He hated the center, hated the thought of Kasey spending her days and nights there. But most of all, he hated wherever it was that Kasey spent her time, held in thrall by whatever it was she found there . He tried to shelve the depressing thoughts, but it was no use.

  After signing in again at the second-floor nurses’ station, he walked down the cold corridor to Kasey’s room. Only a few people were in the hallway. During prime business hours in the nation’s capital, not many parents came to see their children. It was expensive to keep a child there. Wilson knew. If it hadn’t been for the insurance package that had come with his promotion to SAC of Omega Blue, he wouldn’t have been able to afford it.

  For a moment, Blair crossed his mind. Her memory brought a mixture of resentment and uncertainty, as it always did.

  “Agent Wilson. Slade. Wait up.”

  Wilson turned around and saw Neil Holland, Kasey’s usual caregiver, trotting up the hallway toward him.

  Holland was a young, beefy guy with an easy smile. His center blues made him seem professional, but that was stripped away by the clown puppet with green hair and a red, bulbous nose on his right hand. “I wanted to talk to you a minute before you go in to see Kasey.”

  Wilson’s stomach churned. “What’s wrong?”

  Holland slapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. “Nothing’s wrong. She’s doing fine, but there has been a change. Not good or bad, just a change. The doc’ll be along shortly to talk to you once I tell her you’re here.” The caregiver moved over to the dark window set into the wall of Kasey’s room, and flicked the switch at the bottom.

  Instantly the window cleared, allowing a view into the room. It was ten feet square, with an eight-foot ceiling. The walls were hung with padding in colorful patterns from old Walt Disney movies. Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck cavorted with the Little Mermaid and characters from Beauty and the Beast. In the middle of the room was a small table and chairs made of plastic and foam. A neatly made twin bed lined one wall. At the bed’s foot was a padded toy box overflowing with stuffed animals.

  Kasey sat facing the north wall, to Wilson’s right. She was slight and slender for a five-year-old, all bones and thin muscle. She wore a blue dress with small yellow flowers that didn’t hide the fact that she was also wearing a diaper. On her head was a helmet that looked like something a boxer might wear in a sparring ring. She was leaning forward, bouncing her head off the padded wall in a deliberate rhythm.