Tom Brand Escapes

17-Escapes the City of Magnificent Intentions

Brand knocked twice, paused, then twice again, paused, then once more.

"Come in."

Russom was at his desk. He had not much changed since Brand first met him except that his shirt stretched a little tighter over his belly and he was a bit grayer at the temples. He was intently examining whatever was before him on the computer screen, yet his eyes betrayed nothing. He could be reading classified documents or shopping on Amazon for all one could tell. In public, Russom worked the crowd with an open friendliness, grinning like an insurance salesman. In private, his most prevalent expressions were those of deep engagement or deep annoyance which would alternate and meld throughout a conversation and if he smiled at all, it was mockingly meant.

"It's about time you got here. I've been waiting five minutes."

Russom waved his hand, motioning Brand into the room without looking up, "I'm finishing up. Close the door, would you?"

Russom then glanced up and while Brand noted just the slightest shift of his demeanor, it was clear the man was taken aback to see him.

"You know the knock," Russom said. "I won't ask how that's possible since it changes throughout the day. Maybe my assistant is right."

"Right about what?" Brand closed the door and walked across the room, stopping directly across from him.

"Never mind," Russom pushed himself back from the desk. "I'll admit I wasn't quite expecting to see you. I don't usually have the pleasure of your company so soon after the completion of a mission."

"Who said it's completed?"

Russom rocked back on his chair, "What is this? Twenty questions?"

"No. Just those two."

Russom tilted his head, narrowed his eyes, "You're not usually so unfathomable, Brand. It's interesting – very spy versus spy. Why don't you just tell me why you're here."

"I want to know what happened to Leah."

"Who?"

"The subject you asked me to obtain. The woman I was bringing here - the one who was murdered along with her brother on a Maryland highway early this morning."

Russom seemed genuinely surprised, "Murdered?" he shrugged, "I thought assassinated. That wasn't you? I was a bit disappointed because she would have been very valuable to us. I figured she ran and you had to do what you had to do. And here I was thinking you had atoned yourself for that, indiscretion, in the Bahamas."

"She didn't run. I let her go. And I don't see what I have to atone for."

"Really? We can stick a pin in that for now. Was it Petras?"

"He says no," Brand replied.

"But you don't believe him."

Russom waited for Brand to reply then removed his reading glasses and tossed them on his desk. He pinched the flesh at the bridge of his nose and then reached into his bottom desk drawer. He took from it two glasses and a small bottle of Jack Daniels. Russom gestured to the empty glass as he filled his. Brand shook his head.

"Sounds like trouble in paradise to me. Maybe it was Smetterelli, then. I understand the two of you met."

"I left that asshole buried under a pile of rocks in Cape May."

"So you were there at the time of the explosion. I should have known that was you. I didn't buy the whole "gas line" thing." Russom did the air quotes. "Thank god investigative reporting in this country is a thing of the past," he added.