Page 126 of Dead Fall

As the men knocked back their shots, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” said the little man.

Yulia stuck her head in, holding a takeout bag of some sort. Smiling her big, bright smile, she asked, “Who’s hungry?”

Reaching his hand under his desk, Nicholas placed his finger against the biometric sensor and activated the surveillance system. The mole had entered the room.

CHAPTER 37

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Greg Wilson knew what was in the FedEx package, but he opened it anyway. He wanted to make sure that the boots were absolutely perfect. After all, his Russian handler, in a manner of speaking, was paying well over half a million dollars for them.

Nobody made boots like his guy. Pulling each of them out, he marveled at the quality, the incredible craftsmanship. That was something he was going to miss living in the Caribbean. The only things they were good at were cocktails and sunsets—neither of which required much effort.

Running his hand along the supple leather, he wondered if he’d ever see a new pair of boots again. Once he was gone from the United States, he had no intention of ever returning. Whether it was a birthday, funeral, wedding, or retirement, he’d just send flowers. He planned to put the “ex” fully in “expatriate.”

“Senator Wilson?” his receptionist said over the intercom. “They’re here.”

“Have them hold,” he replied.

Carefully repackaging the boots, he put the FedEx box in his office closet and poured a stiff bourbon.

Everything’s going to be okay, he told himself.Stay calm. You had dinner and drinks. That’s it. Nothing else can be connected to you.

Gulping down the bourbon, he wiped the empty glass with a towel and set it back down with the others.

On his desk was a tin of Altoids. Opening it, he popped three of the mints into his mouth and, as he chewed them up, paged his receptionist to tell her to send the FBI agents in.

When his office doors opened, he could see a lot of agents in the reception area. All of them were wearing the blue FBI windbreakers. This was not a good sign. In fact, it was a very, very bad sign.

The two agents his receptionist showed into his office were the only two not wearing windbreakers. Though they both wore blazers, their badges and guns were clearly visible. Wilson had seen enough federal drama during his time in politics to recognize a stage-managed law enforcement production when it was happening.

“Special Agent Carolan,” he said, meeting the man halfway across the floor of his large and intentionally opulent office. “Good to meet you.”

The FBI man was all business as he shook hands and then introduced his colleague. “This is my deputy, Special Agent Fields.”

“Nice to meet you,” the former Senator replied, shaking her hand. “Shall we sit?”

He directed them to a plush seating area where coffee, water, and snacks had already been laid out.

Once they were all seated, Carolan, using the man’s honorific to put him at ease, said, “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us, Senator.”

“Of course,” Wilson replied, smiling like the politician he still was. “What can I do for the FBI?”

“Certainly, you’re well aware of the death of Dimitri Burman.”

Wilson reached for a bottle of San Pellegrino. “Terrible,” he said. “We’d had dinner that night. It was a lot of fun. We drank some terrific wines.”

Fields knew he was guilty of something, but she also knew she needed to tread lightly. “Any idea who may have killed him?”

Wilson shook his head. “Nope.” Then, after thinking about it a moment, he collected himself and said, “Wait. Was he murdered? Or did he die by suicide? I heard it was suicide.”

“Interesting. Who told you that?”

“Ah, I—” he began, but Carolan cut him off.

“How’d your trip to Maine go?” the FBI man asked.