The Kill Room (Lincoln Rhyme 10)

"He's taking precautions. Everybody is."

A pause. "Well, enough said about that matter. I'll let you take care of it."

"I will."

"Good. Because it turns out some Intelligence Committee budget discussions have come up. Suddenly. Can't understand why. Nothing scheduled but you know those committees. Looking over where the money's going. And I just wanted to tell you that for some reason--it really frosts me, I'll say--NIOS is in their sights."

No Smoke but Metzger was stunned. He couldn't say anything.

The Wizard steamed forward. "Nonsense, isn't it? You know we fought hard to get your outfit up and running. Some people were pretty concerned about it." A laugh that seemed utterly devoid of humor. "Our liberal friends didn't like the idea of what you were up to at all. Some of our friends on the other side of the aisle didn't like the fact you were taking business away from Langley and the Pentagon. Rock and a hard place.

"Anyway. Probably nothing'll come of it. Ah, money. Why does it always come down to money? So. How're Katie and Seth?"

"They're fine. Thanks for asking."

"Glad to hear it. Have to go, Shreve."

They disconnected.

Oh, Jesus.

This was bad.

What the cheerful Wizard with his serge wizard suit and brash socks and his dark razor-sharp eyes had actually been saying was: You took out a U.S. citizen on the basis of bad intel and if the case goes to trial in state court it's going to bleed all the way to Oz. A lot of people down in the capital would be keeping a very close eye on New York and the results of the Moreno matter. They were fully prepared to send a shooter of their own after NIOS itself--figurative, of course, in the form of gutted budget. The Service would be out of business in six months.

And the whole affair would have been quiet as a snake's sleep, if not for the whistleblower.

The traitor.

Blinded by the Smoke, Metzger intercommed his assistant and picked up his coffee again.

All your intel

was buttoned up, double-and triple-checked...

Well, about that...

Metzger now told himself, Think the situation through: You've made some calls, you've sent some texts. Clean-up was well under way.

"You, ah, all right, Shreve?" Ruth's eyes were on his fingers around the cardboard cup. Metzger realized he was about to crush it and send tepid coffee over his sleeve and several files that only a dozen people in the whole of America were authorized to read.

He released the death grip and managed a smile. "Yes, sure. Long night."

His personal assistant was in her early sixties, a long, attractive face, still dusted with faint freckles, making her appear younger. She'd been, he'd learned, a flower child decades ago. Summer of Love in San Francisco. Living in the Haight. Now her gray hair was, as often, pulled back in a severe bun and she wore bands of colored rubber on her wrists, bracelets signifying support for various causes. Breast cancer, hope, reconciliation. Who could tell? He wished she wouldn't; messages like that, even if ambiguous, seemed inappropriate in a government agency with a mission like NIOS's.

"Is Spencer here yet?" he asked her.

"About a half hour, he said."

"Have him come to see me as soon as he's in."

"All right. Anything else I can do?"

"No, thank you."

When Ruth had left the office and closed the door, leaving a trail of patchouli oil scent behind her, Metzger sent a few more texts and received some.

One was encouraging.