Page 87 of Only the Wicked
“You said you live close by?” I know exactly where she resides, but I need a segue to ask the necessary question.
“Commuting distance,” she says. “Do you want a drink? Or did you drink at your meeting?”
I did tell her I was meeting someone for drinks. Is that why she’s down here?
“Location changed. And, no, we didn’t get around to ordering drinks.” The bartender approaches, but I wave him away. “Unless, do you want something?” I ask, catching myself, as I should always ask the lady if she cares for more.
“Rhodes MacMillan.” A firm hand on my shoulder presses down. “I thought that was you.”
“Senator Crawford,” I say, racking my memory for his first name, but coming up blank.
He’s on the Senate Intelligence Committee, and I’ve met with him on several occasions. Nice enough, midwestern, centrist. Served in the military—National Guard. Always willing to listen on tech-related bills, but highly opinionated on all matters of defense. The kind of man who makes it his business to know everyone worth knowing in D.C.’s intelligence circles.
“What brings you to—” His words cut off mid-sentence, and his entire demeanor shifts. The practiced politician’s smile falters as his gaze locks on Sydney. There’s recognition there, immediate and unmistakable, but something else too. Satisfaction? Surprise?
The flush on Sydney that I’d assumed was makeup drains from her face entirely. She’s frozen, staring directly at Crawford with the kind of deer-in-headlights look that no amount of training can completely hide. Her fingers tighten around her laptop case. Then, as if waking from a dream, she blinks, smiles a polite, fake smile, and gathers her laptop.
“Senator Crawford, Sydney Parker,” but the way he’s looking at her, and the way she reacted to him, I’d bet money these two know each other.
“I didn’t recognize you, Sydney,” Crawford says, adjusting the lapel on his suit coat.
“I’ll see you back…,” Sydney’s voice drops to such a low decibel I can’t hear the rest of her words, but I read her lips. She’ll see me back in the room.
And then she’s gone with Senator Crawford and I both following her with our gaze. Crawford’s expression morphs into one of appreciation for her backside and I clear my throat, noting his gold wedding band.
I hate politicians.
“Is she still with the CIA?” he asks.
No is on the tip of my lips, but after her run-in with the FBI today, and her sitting out here at a bar, I’m uncertain of anything.
“Why?”
“Are you with her?”
Once again, I find myself uncertain how to answer. If he’s looking for me to say she’s a friend so he can pursue her, then fuck that.
“Why?”
“Oh. It’s nothing. I have nothing but admiration for her,” he says.
The words themselves are unoffensive, but there’s an unmistakable gleam in his eye that puts me on edge. The expression is akin to gloating, but I could be misreading what’s nothing more than yet another pompous asshole.
What connection would the senator have to a CIA office? Did she leave because she was uncomfortable? It shouldn’t take long to uncover the answer if it’s a documented connection.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” he says.
“Is that right?”
“I heard ARGUS is looking at expanding its footprint. Have you considered Kentucky?”
If I were in a jovial mood, I’d outright laugh.
“Tornado-prone, high heat.” The answer is obvious. Weather risks can’t be ignored.
“Thought you might say that, and I understand the appeal of Iceland. But we’ve got a couple of congressmen that would love the opportunity to make a pitch. We’ve got low taxes and a commerce group willing to make an offer you can’t refuse.”
Oh, but I can. Instead of stating the obvious, I choose the diplomatic path.
