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62
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
ALAN BESSERMAN'S HOUSE
FRIDAY NIGHT
Besserman’s house was in a comfortable, older middle-class neighborhood with lots of mature trees and good-size yards. There was a single black SUV in his driveway, a single light on in what was probably the living room.
Sherlock sat on Justice’s lap in the passenger seat of the Porsche. They were grinning by the time they’d gotten settled. Neither Savich nor Sherlock had thought yet about a rental car to replace Sherlock’s demolished Volvo.
As they walked toward the house, they heard Humphrey Bogart’s distinctive voice.
“Mr. Besserman mentioned once he really likes old action movies,” Justice said. “He likes to quote Bogart—African Queen, sounds like,” Justice added when they reached the front door. “He’s divorced, alone now for about four months, says he likes the peace and quiet, but he hasn’t looked too happy lately.”
Savich pressed the doorbell. He could picture Besserman checking the late hour, perhaps picking up his Glock if he’d been an operative in the field for a while. He saw the living room curtain twitch. Then they heard footsteps coming toward the front door.
A deep voice, no real concern, a bit of impatience. Yes, he was very probably holding his Glock. “Who’s there?”
Savich said, “Mr. Besserman, I’m Agent Dillon Savich, FBI, here with Agent Sherlock and Justice Cummings, your analyst.”
A moment of silence, then, “Justice?”
“Yes, Mr. Besserman. May we speak to you, please?”
Sherlock said, “We’re sorry it’s so late, but Justice has remembered certain details we hope you can explain to us. We could use your help, and perhaps you could use ours.”
The door opened. Besserman held his Glock pressed against his thigh. He was tall, on the thin side, with thick black hair, his temples sprinkled with white. He was a good-looking man, with an aesthete’s face, long, narrow, hollow cheekbones. He was wearing chinos and a white short-sleeved T-shirt, and his feet were bare. His eyes were an unusual pale gray and looked like they’d seen too much and he was tired of it all.
He stepped back, waved them in. “Come in, all of you.” He looked Justice up and down, saw the too-big sweats he was wearing, looked at Savich. “We’ve discovered Justice illegally copied and removed intelligence reports from the Ukraine he wasn’t authorized to see. I’ll have to take him to Langley for questioning.”
“Let’s stipulate for now Justice is already in my custody,” Savich said. “You might want to change your plans once we’ve had a chance to talk.”
They heard a friendly woof. A black lab appeared in the living room doorway, tail wagging, tongue lolling. Besserman said, “He’s a sucky guard dog, but he sure keeps me warm in the winter. Come and lick hands, Buzz, you know you want to.”
