Until You

"I'm surprised. I never realized you were so fond of the establishment."

"It's their job," Conor said, refusing to be baited, "not ours."

"I agree."

"Good. End of story. When you've got something for me to start on, give me a ring."

"The President doesn't want anybody's dirty laundry showing when he makes this appointment."

"Right." Conor strolled to the door. "And I'm sure the FBI will do a bang-up job of seeing it doesn't."

"And Hoyt would be devastated if something went wrong."

"Uh-huh. My heart goes out to him."

"Remember the last time the Oval Office put its stamp of approval on an appointee?"

"Of course I remember. They almost got ridden out of town on a rail."

"So did the poor bastard who was up for the appointment, and all because there was a screw-up in the investigation."

"So, let the White House tell whoever handles this to make sure they don't screw up this time."

"Conor, come on." Thurston offered his most engaging smile as he walked towards Conor, the note held out in his hand. "How often can you do a favor for the President's men and for a friend, all at the same time?"

Conor looked at the note, then stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets.

"To tell you the truth," he said, "I've never much wanted to do a favor for the President's men. As for doing one for a friend... Winthrop's your buddy, not mine."

"I meant, do it for me," Thurston said, with a wounded look. "What will it take? A day of your time? Two, maybe? Check things out, write me a one page report—"

"I'm not writing anything. I've been around long enough to know that the minute you put pen to paper in this funhouse, you sign on for trouble, especially when what you're doing is supposed to be somebody else's job."

"All right, don't do this on an official basis. We'll keep the Committee out of it."

"Must I spell it out, Harry? I don't want any part of this."

"Any part of what? What's the matter with you this morning? You're making a hundred times more out of this than it's worth."

A muscle twitched in Conor's jaw. He wanted to tell Thurston that he was wrong, that he wasn't making more of this than it was worth—but how could he, when it was the truth? Whatever the note meant, whoever had sent it, checking it out wouldn't be difficult. A couple of days work at the most and he'd have everything he needed to know. The FBI had already done a job on the Winthrops; he'd have all that info at his disposal, which would surely make things simpler.

As for this not being the Committee's business... hell, as far as this town knew, nothing but sweet, simple commerce was the Committee's business. No more than a dozen people with the right kind of top-level clearance knew the truth.

Thurston, sensing Conor's mood change, moved in for the kill.

"Conor, my boy, be reasonable. I've done you favors, haven't I? Remember that time you wanted to put in another year in Vienna and the brass had already figured you for a stint in Moscow?"

"You calling in old favors?"

"I'm simply pointing out that we're compatriots who go back a long way. Besides, this is a simple deal. There's no problem, is there?"

The portrait. That was the problem. The portrait in the Winthrop mansion. Conor didn't want to see it again, that hint of darkness in those wide green eyes, the isolation of that figure that hovered on the brink of womanhood.

"Is there?" Thurston repeated, with polite interest.

Conor cursed under his breath, snatched the note from Thurston's outstretched hand and shoved it into his pocket.

"You owe me one," he growled, and he strode from the office.