26

BERRINGTON WAS AFRAID TO TALK ON THE PHONE ABOUT Jeannie and the FBI fingerprint file. So many telephone calls were monitored by intelligence agencies. Nowadays the surveillance was done by computers programmed to listen for key words and phrases. If someone said "plutonium" or "heroin" or "kill the president," the computer would tape the conversation and alert a human listener. The last thing Berrington needed was some CIA eavesdropper wondering why Senator Proust was so interested in FBI fingerprint files.

So he got in his silver Lincoln Town Car and drove at ninety miles an hour on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. He often broke the speed limit. In fact, he was impatient with all kinds of rules. It was a contradiction in him, he recognized that. He hated peace marchers and drug takers, homosexuals and feminists and rock musicians and all nonconformists who flouted American traditions. Yet at the same time he resented anyone who tried to tell him where to park his car or how much to pay his employees or how many fire extinguishers to put in his laboratory.

As he drove, he wondered about Jim Proust's contacts in the intelligence community. Were they just a bunch of old soldiers who sat around telling stories about how they had blackmailed antiwar protesters and assassinated South American presidents? Or were they still at the cutting edge? Did they still help one another, like the Mafia, and regard the return of a favor as an almost religious obligation? Or were those days over? It was a long time since Jim had left the CIA; even he might not know.

It was late, but Jim was waiting for Berrington at his office in the Capitol building. "What the hell has happened that you couldn't tell me on the phone?" he said.

"She's about to run her computer program on the FBI's fingerprint file."

Jim went pale. "Will it work?"

"It worked on dental records, why wouldn't it work on fingerprints?"

"Jesus H. Christ," Jim said feelingly.

"How many prints do they have on file?"

"More than twenty million sets, as I recall. They can't be all criminals.

Are there that many criminals in America?"

"I don't know, maybe they have prints of dead people too. Focus, Jim, for Christ's sake. Can you stop this happening?"

"Who's her contact at the Bureau?"

Berrington handed him the printout he had made of Jeannie's E-mail. As Jim studied it, Berrington looked around. On the walls of his office, Jim had photographs of himself with every American president after Kennedy. There was a uniformed Captain Proust saluting Lyndon Johnson; Major Proust, still with a full head of straight blond hair, shaking hands with Dick Nixon; Colonel Proust glaring balefully at Jimmy Carter; General Proust sharing a joke with Ronald Reagan, both of them laughing fit to bust; Proust in a business suit, deputy director of the CIA, deep in conversation with a frowning George Bush; and Senator Proust, now bald and wearing glasses, wagging a finger at Bill Clinton. He was also pictured dancing with Margaret Thatcher, playing golf with Bob Dole, and horseback riding with Ross Perot. Berrington had a few such photos, but Jim had a whole damn gallery. Whom was he trying to impress? Himself, probably. Constantly seeing himself with the most powerful people in the world told Jim he was important.

"I never heard of anyone called Ghita Sumra," Jim said. "She can't be high up."

"Who do you know at the FBI?" Berrington said impatiently.

"Have you ever met the Creanes, David and Hilary?"

Berrington shook his head.

"He's an assistant director, she's a recovering alcoholic. They're both about fifty. Ten years ago, when I was running the CIA, David worked for me in the Diplomatic Directorate, keeping tabs on all the foreign embassies and their espionage sections. I liked him. Anyway, one afternoon Hilary got drunk and went out in her Honda Civic and killed a six-year-old kid, a black girl, on Beulah Road out in Springfield. She drove on, stopped at a shopping mall, and called Dave at Langley. He went over there in his Thunderbird, picked her up and took her home, then reported the Honda stolen."

"But something went wrong."

"There was a witness to the accident who was sure the car had been driven by a middle-aged white woman, and a stubborn detective who knew that not many women steal cars. The witness positively identified Hilary, and she broke down and confessed."

"What happened?"

"I went to the district attorney. He wanted to put them both in jail. I swore it was an important matter of national security and persuaded him to drop the prosecution. Hilary started going to AA and she hasn't had a drink since."

"And Dave moved over to the Bureau and did well."

"And boy, does he owe me."

"Can he stop this Ghita woman?"

"He's one of nine assistant directors reporting to the deputy director. He doesn't run the fingerprint division, but he's a powerful guy—"

"But can he do it?"

"I don't know! I'll ask, okay? If it can be done, he'll do it for me."

"Okay, Jim," Berrington said. "Pick up the damn phone and ask him."