LaMonte shook his head and didn't even look around as Doug came back into the room behind him. Doug held up a small pistol. "This was on the bed," he said.
Jerri sneered at LaMonte. "Can you guess?"
He shook his head again.
With a sigh, Gene began the Miranda litany. "You have the right to remain silent…."
LaMonte's voice shook, but not as much as it should have. "Don't bother. You're in over your head, agent whoever-you-are, and you're not getting a life preserver from me." A nervous giggle punctuated the remark.
Gene's jaw clenched tight as he spat the rest of the words through his teeth. "Does 'don't bother' mean you are waiving your rights?"
Jerri glanced at her boss with serious concern. Just don't kill him, Gene.
LaMonte looked from Gene back to Jerri. "Nah, not waiving. I just think you should talk to my boss instead of me."
Gene waited, but LaMonte just let him wait. "And who might that be, Mr. LaMonte?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
Jerri put her hand on Gene's shoulder and thanked God that Marty was with Carl. Gene held his temper in check, one of several reasons he had "In Charge" after "Special Agent" on his title, while Marty didn't.
Jerri broke in, holding a slip of paper in front of LaMonte's eyes. "What does this phone number mean to you?" She ignored Gene's annoyed look.
The man said, "You'll have to ask my boss."
Time for bad cop, she thought. LaMonte gasped in pain as Jerri grabbed his hair and wrenched his head back.
"I SAID WHAT THE FUCK DOES IT MEAN TO YOU, ASSHOLE?"
LaMonte's grin returned. "Get your hands off me or I'll have you up on charges."
"Well then," Jerri said, "we might as well get our money's worth." Her hand tightened on his hair and bent his head back farther. LaMonte looked desperately past her. Gene left the room. Doug cracked his knuckles and formed a pair of ham-sized fists. It was time for "bad cop, worse cop."
Brian LaMonte broke immediately. "Don't. Please. I work for Central Intelligence."
* * *
October 2nd, 7:53 PM EST; J. Edgar Hoover Building; Washington, D.C.
Marty pulled off 9th Street toward 935 Pennsylvania Avenue, the J. Edgar Hoover Building. He eased the government-owned Ford Taurus four-door through the tourist-choked traffic, cursing the existence of every car in his way. The building ahead of him was awe-inspiring, both in size and in modern hideousness. It was everything that the White House was not.
The squat edifice covered a city block and comprised 2.8 million square feet of cubicles, offices, training grounds, and even a gun range. It housed more than six thousand employees of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Hoover himself was rumored to have called it "the ugliest building I've ever seen." Rumor or no, Marty agreed. The thing was grotesque. He waved his pass at the security guard, parked, and went inside.
Brian LaMonte was in FBI custody at an undisclosed location, and once he realized that, no, he wouldn't be given a phone call, and, no, he had no rights except what they chose to give him, and, no, it didn't matter that he was a CIA spook, he'd finally given them the name of his boss and a promise that he'd "clear everything up."
LaMonte's boss, Ernest MacGowan, was in a conference room in the Hoover building, waiting for Marty and the rest of his brother's team to show up. He'd already told Gene by phone that there was nothing he could do for them. He'd also agreed to meet with them, if only for the sake of professional courtesy, and on the condition that they released Brian LaMonte into his custody. According to Sam, Mr. MacGowan had been stalling, hedging, and hiding behind the "classified nature of the subject." Marty couldn't wait to shatter his illusions.
Marty lumbered down the hall to Conference Room Magnolia. Why the FBI would name their rooms after flowers of all things he'd never know. Fucking flowers. He opened the door without knocking, the sneer on his face unrelenting. The rest of the team sat at the table, and every one of them looked annoyed as hell.
MacGowan was a short, fat dude, obviously of Scottish descent, with a mop of curly red hair and pasty white skin that would rival that of any vampire. If Moby Dick got drunk enough to fuck Carrot Top…, Marty thought. He hated him on sight.
Carl and Doug glared at MacGowan with naked hostility. Carl's bad arm rested on the table. Poor bastard will never heal completely. The thought infuriated Marty. Jerri lounged against the wall while Gene frowned across the table at the pasty, fat little man.
With a momentary glance at Marty, whale-boy continued talking. "Like I said, Agent LaMonte is on special assignment, and his involvement with Mr. Renner is classified." He crossed his arms in a matter-of-fact, "so that's that" sort of way.