Gone Tomorrow

It seemed to carry in it an unstated answer that spiraled and ballooned crazily upward and outward, like: It’s not just Sansom we’re worried about, it’s the army, it’s the military, it’s the past, it’s the future, it’s the government, it’s the country, it’s the whole wide world, it’s the entire damn universe.
    I asked, “Who are you guys?”
    No answer.
    I said, “What the hell did Sansom do back then?”
    “Back when?”
    “During his seventeen years.”
    “What do you think he did?”
    “Four secret missions.”
    The room went quiet.
    The lead agent asked, “How do you know about Sansom’s missions?”
    I said, “I read his book.”
    “They’re not in his book.”
    “But his promotions and his medals are. With no clear explanation of where else they came from.”
    Nobody spoke.
    I said, “Susan Mark didn’t know anything. She can’t have. It’s just not possible. She could have turned HRC upside down for a year without finding the slightest mention.”
    “But someone asked her.”
    “So what? No harm, no foul.”
    “We want to know who it was, that’s all. We like to keep track of things like that.”
    “I don’t know who it was.”
    “But clearly you want to know. Otherwise why would you be here?”
    “I saw her shoot herself. It wasn’t pretty.”
    “It never is. But that’s no reason to get sentimental. Or in trouble.”
    “You worried about me?”
    No one answered.
    “Or are you worried I’ll find out something?”
    The third guy said, “What makes you think the two worries are different? Maybe they’re the same thing. You find out something, you’ll be locked up for life. Or caught in the crossfire.”
    I said nothing. The room went quiet again.
    The lead agent said, “Last chance. Stick to being a witness. Did the woman mention Sansom’s name or not?”
    “No,” I said. “She didn’t.”
    “But his name is out there anyway.”
    “Yes,” I said. “It is.”
    “And you don’t know who’s asking.”
    “No,” I said. “I don’t.”
    “OK,” the guy said. “Now forget all about us and move on. We have no desire to complicate your life.”
    “But?”
    “We will if we have to. Remember the trouble you could make for people, back in the 110th? It’s much worse now. A hundred times worse. So do the smart thing. If you want to play, stick to the senior circuit. Stay away from this. The game has changed.”
    They let me go . I went down in the elevator and walked past the guy at the door and stood on a broad paved area and looked at the river flowing slowly by. Reflected lights moved with the current. I thought about Elspeth Sansom. She impressed me. Don’t come dressed like that, or you won’t get in . Perfect misdirection. She had suckered me completely. I had bought a shirt I didn’t need or want.
    Not soft .
    That was for damn sure.
    The night was warm. The air was heavy and full of waterborne smells. I headed back toward Dupont Circle. A mile and a quarter, I figured. Twenty minutes on foot, maybe less.

Chapter 24
    Restaurant meals in D.C. rarely run shorter than an hour or longer than two. That had been my experience. So I expected to find Sansom finishing up his entrée or ordering his dessert. Maybe already drinking coffee and thinking about a cigar.
    Back at the restaurant about half the courtyard tables had turned over their clientele. There were new boys in suits, and new girls in skirts. More pairs now than threesomes or quartets, and more romance than work. More bright chatter designed to impress, and less scanning of electronic devices. I walked past the hostess station and the woman there called after me and I said, “I’m with the Congressman.” I pushed through the wooden door and scanned the inside room. It was a low rectangular space full of dim light and spicy smells and loud conversation and occasional laughter.
    Sansom wasn’t in it.
    No sign of him, no sign of his wife, no sign of the guy who had called himself Browning, no pack of eager staffers or campaign volunteers.
    I backed out again and the woman at the hostess station looked at me quizzically and asked, “Who were you joining?”
    I said, “John Sansom.”
    “He isn’t here.”
    “Evidently.”
    A kid at a table next to my elbow said, “North Carolina Fourteenth? He left town. He’s got a fundraiser breakfast tomorrow in Greensboro. Banking and insurance, no tobacco. I heard him tell my guy all about it.” His last sentence was directed at the girl