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Then Slava spoke. “You’ll wish it was less. You ever heard of a Russian word—zamochit? No. I’ll show you zamochit. Four hours’ worth. I learned it from the Wolf. Now you learn from me. Zamochit. It means to break all the bones in your body.”
Zoya winked at the boy. “Four hours. Zamochit. You’ll take the next f
ew hours with you through eternity. Never forget it, darling.”
Chapter 11
WHEN I WOKE IN THE MORNING, Little Alex was sleeping peacefully beside me, his head on my chest. I couldn’t resist sneaking another kiss. And another. Then, as I lay there next to my boy, I found myself thinking about Detective Dennis Coulter and his family. I had been moved emotionally when they came out of that house together. The family had saved Coulter’s life, and I was a sucker for family stuff.
I had been asked to stop at the Hoover Building, always referred to as “the Bureau,” before I drove down to Quantico. The director wanted to see me about what had happened in Baltimore. I had no idea what to expect, but I was anxious about the visit. Maybe I should have skipped Nana’s coffee that morning.
Almost anybody who has seen it would agree that the Hoover Building is a strange and supernaturally ugly structure. It takes up an entire block between Pennsylvania Avenue, Ninth, Tenth, and E Streets. The nicest thing I could say about it is that it’s “fortresslike.” Inside, it’s even worse. The Bureau is library quiet and warehouse grim. The long halls glow in medicinal white.
As soon as I stepped onto the director’s floor, I was met by his executive assistant, a very efficient man named Tony Woods, whom I liked quite a bit already.
“How is he this morning, Tony?” I asked.
“He likes what happened down in Baltimore,” Tony answered. “His Highness is in a pretty good mood. For a change.”
“Was Baltimore a test?” I asked, not sure how far I could go with the assistant.
“Oh, it was your final exam. But remember, everything’s a test.”
I was led into the director’s relatively small conference room. Burns was already sitting there waiting for me. He raised a glass of orange juice in mock salute. “Here he is!” He smiled. “I’m making sure that everybody knows you did a bang-up job in Bal’more. Just the way I wanted to see you start out.”
“Nobody got shot,” I said.
“You got the job done, Alex. HRT was very impressed. So was I.”
I sat down and poured myself coffee. I knew it was “help yourself” and no formalities with Burns. “You’re spreading the word . . . because you have such big plans for me?” I asked.
Burns laughed in his usual conspiratorial way. “Absolutely, Alex. I want you to take my job.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. “No, thank you.” I sipped the coffee, which was dark brown, a little bitter, but delicious—almost as good as Nana Mama’s. Well, maybe half as good as the best in Washington. “You care to share any of your more immediate plans with me?” I asked.
Burns laughed again. He was in a good mood this morning. “I just want the Bureau to operate simply and effectively, that’s all. It’s the way it was when I ran the New York office. I’ll tell you what I don’t believe in: bureaucrats, and cowboys. There are too many of both in the Bureau. Especially the former. I want street smarts on the street, Alex. Or maybe I just want smarts. You took a chance yesterday, only you probably didn’t see it that way. There were no politics for you—just the right way to get the job done.”
“What if it hadn’t worked?” I asked as I set my coffee down on a coaster emblazoned with the Bureau’s emblem.
“Well, hell, then you wouldn’t be here now and we wouldn’t be talking like this. Seriously, though, there’s one thing I want to caution you about. It may seem obvious to you, but it’s a lot worse than you imagine. You can’t always tell the good guys from the bad ones in the Bureau. No one can. I’ve tried, and it’s almost impossible.”
I thought about what he was implying—part of which was that Burns already knew that one of my weaknesses was to look for the good in people. I understood it was a weakness sometimes, but I wouldn’t change, or maybe I couldn’t change.
“Are you a good guy?” I asked him.
“Of course I am,” Burns said with a wholesome grin that could have landed him a starring role on The West Wing. “You can trust me, Alex. Always. Absolutely. Just like you trusted Kyle Craig a few years back.”
Jesus, he was giving me the shivers. Or maybe the director was just trying to get me to see the world his way: Trust no one. Go to the head of the class.
Chapter 12
AT A LITTLE PAST ELEVEN, I was on my way down to Quantico. Even after my “final” in Baltimore, I still had a class on “Stress Management and Law Enforcement.” I already knew the operative statistic: FBI agents were five times more likely to kill themselves than to be killed in the line of duty.
A Billy Collins poem was floating through my brain as I drove: “Another Reason Why I Don’t Keep a Gun in the House.” Nice concept, good poem, bad omen.
The cell rang and I heard the voice of Tony Woods from the director’s office. There had been a change of plans. Woods gave me orders from the director to go straight to Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. A plane was waiting for me.
Jesus! I was on another case already; I’d been ordered to skip school again. Things were happening faster than even I had expected, and I wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.
