employees who’d staffed an office in the North Tower, he got together for drinks with another asset high up the food chain at corporate. They were drunk when Lancaster asked him what he thought of running errands for the Agency. The exec shook his head, eyes bleary from too many bourbons. “Not what I expected. Pretty fucking boring, you ask me. I guess I’m kind of taken aback by all the satanists.”
* * *
The Aughts passed.
Following a six month lull of contact with the NSA, Lancaster received a call from his current handler, Tyrone Clack. Clack took over for the Hoytes when they sailed on toward retirement and their golden years back in 2003. All communications occurred via phone—Lancaster had never even seen a photo of the agent. Clack informed him that the Agency was interested in acquiring intelligence on a naturalized citizen named Dr. Lucas Christou. The good doctor, who’d been born in Athens and transplanted to the US during adolescence, was a retired chair of the anthropology department of some tiny school near Kansas City called Ossian University. He’d become reclusive since then, seldom appearing in public, content to withdraw from society to an isolated estate.
Christou had emerged from his hermitage and would be hosting a foreign national named Rawat, a minor industrialist entering the US on business with Roache. All that was required of Lancaster was to take the doctor’s measure, get to know him a bit, soften him up for possible future developments. No further explanation for the agency’s interest was forthcoming and Lancaster didn’t press. None of it titillated him anymore. He’d do as requested and hear nary a peep afterward. A typical, menial task. A mindless task, in fact.
Considering his superstar status as a professional schmoozer, the scheme didn’t prove difficult. He returned to Wichita and manipulated events until a big cheese at corporate asked him pretty please to entertain a small party that had come to town for a tour of a cluster of empty corporate properties outside the city. Strip mall-style office buildings that had been hastily built then left in quasi abandonment.
The guests included the potential client, Mr. Rawat and his American companion Kara, and a bodyguard named Dedrick; the Cooks, a moneyed New York couple who’d previously partnered on land deals with Mr. Rawat; and, of course, Dr. Christou.
All of this was explained by Vicky Diamond, an administrative assistant to the Big Cheese himself. Ms. Diamond was a shark; Lancaster noted this first thing. Youngish, but not really, dark hair, dark eyes, plenty of makeup to confuse the issue, a casual-chic dresser. Lancaster thought she smiled so much because she liked to show her teeth. She handed him dossiers on the principles—Mr. Rawat and the Cooks—and suggested an itinerary. He appreciated how she put her fingerprints on the project without over-committing. Should things progress smoothly, she’d get much of the credit. If the sales pitch tanked, Lancaster would find himself on the hook. He liked her already.
* * *
The group met on Friday morning for breakfast at a French café, followed by a carefully-paced tour of downtown landmarks. Lunch was Italian, then onward to the Museum of Treasures and a foray to quaint Cowtown, which delighted the Cooks and, more importantly, Mr. Rawat, and was at least tolerated by the others.
Lancaster had slipped Cowtown into the schedule simply to tweak Ms. Diamond as he suspected she’d fear the excessive display of Midwest provincialism. Judging from the glare he received, his assessment was on the mark. He’d softened the blow by reserving one of six tables at a tiny, hole in the wall restaurant that served authentic Indian cuisine rivaling anything he’d tasted in Delhi or Mumbai. Mr. Rawat was a cool customer in every sense of the word. Elegant in his advancing years, his black hair shone like a helmet, his aged and hardened flesh gleamed like polished wood. His watch was solid gold. Even the goon Dedrick who lurked in the background, ready to intercept any and all threats, was rather classy via proximity with his long, pale hair and black suit and fancy eyeglasses that slotted him as a burly legal professional rather than a bodyguard.
Mr. Rawat raised a glass of Old Monk to Lancaster and tipped him a slight wink of approval. Dining went into the nine o’clock hour, after which they repaired to the historic and luxurious Copperhill Hotel and made for the lounge, a velvet and mirrored affair with double doors open to the grand