Read Online The Argentine Triangle: A Craig Page Thriller by Allan Topol - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Allan Topol
Tags: Bisac Code: FIC006000
Ads: Link
He picked it up.
“Did you have a good flight, Barry Gorman?” He recognized Betty’s voice.
“Very good. Thanks.”
“Waiting for you upstairs in front of the terminal, at the curb, last door on the right, is a black Lincoln Town Car, Virginia plates, CCK220. The driver will take you to the Four Seasons in Georgetown. A duffel with everything you wanted is in the trunk.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“The car will leave you at the Four Seasons. You’ll be on your own from there.”
After checking into the Four Seasons, Craig called Tim Fuller to arrange a meeting. He and Tim had met when they were both trainees at the Farm. They had seen each other from time to time over the years. Fuller began in the economic espionage section, working at Langley. Later, he was stationed in Shanghai. Appalled at the Chinese wholesale theft of American technology, he repeatedly railed for Washington to take countermeasures. When his pleas fell on deaf ears, Tim quit the agency and ten years ago started a private security firm based in Washington.
Craig hadn’t seen Tim in eight years, since the time he was in Washington for a conference about Middle Eastern terrorism.
One night over cheeseburgers and beers at Clyde’s in Georgetown, Tim had told him, “My country didn’t appreciate my talents so I decided to make a killing from people who do.”
Tim’s offices were on the top floor of one of the nondescript glass and steel eight-floor boxes that line K Street, known as Gucci gulch, because it houses the offices of many of Washington’s highest paid lobbyists.
Once Craig stepped inside the reception area he knew that Tim was doing well. This was a far cry from the office of J. J. Gittes. Heavily polished dark wood floors were lined with oriental carpets. An antique grandfather clock stood in the corner. Sitting at a Queen Ann desk was a young receptionist smartly dressed in a tailored navy woolen suit. Ansel Adams photographs dotted the walls.
“I’ll take you back to Mr. Fuller’s office,” the receptionist said.
Craig watched the receptionist swaying her shapely rear as if it were a pendulum as he followed her. Walking behind her, he swung his black leather briefcase, purchased on Via Monte Napoleone in Milan, keeping in rhythm with her.
As soon as he saw Craig, Tim, suntanned and dressed in a starched white shirt and Hermes tie, hung up on a call. The surprise was visible on his face. This wasn’t the Craig Page he knew.
“Hello Tim,” Craig said.
Tim told the receptionist to leave and close the door behind her.
“What the hell did you do to yourself, pal?”
“I went for a nip and tuck. My plastic surgeon got carried away.”
“Seriously.”
“Some people want to kill Craig Page, and I figured …”
“Smart move. But I see the scratches on your face. Did they get to you anyhow?”
“I was doing a little car racing.”
“A dangerous sport.”
“Now you tell me.”
Tim laughed. “When I heard you were CIA director a year ago, I was plenty pissed that you didn’t call me. Then I read you’d been sacked. So I relented. You weren’t in the job long enough to call anyone.”
“Ouch. That stung.”
“What the hell happened?”
“Some people at 1600 decided to throw me under a bus.”
Tim laughed again.
As they sat at a table in the corner, Craig glanced at Tim. His old friend’s appearance, Craig thought, was at variance with his clothes and the office. He had the aura of a street fighter and was short and pudgy. His nose had been broken playing football in a coal town in West Virginia where he had won a scholarship to Dartmouth. And his thick brown crew cut was so flat on top that he could walk with a cup of coffee in a saucer on his head without spilling it.
“You’ve got nice digs,” Craig said. “The security business must be good.”
“It is, pal. Every company in America is worried about their records being stolen by terrorists or a desperate competitor in this
“Did you have a good flight, Barry Gorman?” He recognized Betty’s voice.
“Very good. Thanks.”
“Waiting for you upstairs in front of the terminal, at the curb, last door on the right, is a black Lincoln Town Car, Virginia plates, CCK220. The driver will take you to the Four Seasons in Georgetown. A duffel with everything you wanted is in the trunk.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“The car will leave you at the Four Seasons. You’ll be on your own from there.”
After checking into the Four Seasons, Craig called Tim Fuller to arrange a meeting. He and Tim had met when they were both trainees at the Farm. They had seen each other from time to time over the years. Fuller began in the economic espionage section, working at Langley. Later, he was stationed in Shanghai. Appalled at the Chinese wholesale theft of American technology, he repeatedly railed for Washington to take countermeasures. When his pleas fell on deaf ears, Tim quit the agency and ten years ago started a private security firm based in Washington.
Craig hadn’t seen Tim in eight years, since the time he was in Washington for a conference about Middle Eastern terrorism.
One night over cheeseburgers and beers at Clyde’s in Georgetown, Tim had told him, “My country didn’t appreciate my talents so I decided to make a killing from people who do.”
Tim’s offices were on the top floor of one of the nondescript glass and steel eight-floor boxes that line K Street, known as Gucci gulch, because it houses the offices of many of Washington’s highest paid lobbyists.
Once Craig stepped inside the reception area he knew that Tim was doing well. This was a far cry from the office of J. J. Gittes. Heavily polished dark wood floors were lined with oriental carpets. An antique grandfather clock stood in the corner. Sitting at a Queen Ann desk was a young receptionist smartly dressed in a tailored navy woolen suit. Ansel Adams photographs dotted the walls.
“I’ll take you back to Mr. Fuller’s office,” the receptionist said.
Craig watched the receptionist swaying her shapely rear as if it were a pendulum as he followed her. Walking behind her, he swung his black leather briefcase, purchased on Via Monte Napoleone in Milan, keeping in rhythm with her.
As soon as he saw Craig, Tim, suntanned and dressed in a starched white shirt and Hermes tie, hung up on a call. The surprise was visible on his face. This wasn’t the Craig Page he knew.
“Hello Tim,” Craig said.
Tim told the receptionist to leave and close the door behind her.
“What the hell did you do to yourself, pal?”
“I went for a nip and tuck. My plastic surgeon got carried away.”
“Seriously.”
“Some people want to kill Craig Page, and I figured …”
“Smart move. But I see the scratches on your face. Did they get to you anyhow?”
“I was doing a little car racing.”
“A dangerous sport.”
“Now you tell me.”
Tim laughed. “When I heard you were CIA director a year ago, I was plenty pissed that you didn’t call me. Then I read you’d been sacked. So I relented. You weren’t in the job long enough to call anyone.”
“Ouch. That stung.”
“What the hell happened?”
“Some people at 1600 decided to throw me under a bus.”
Tim laughed again.
As they sat at a table in the corner, Craig glanced at Tim. His old friend’s appearance, Craig thought, was at variance with his clothes and the office. He had the aura of a street fighter and was short and pudgy. His nose had been broken playing football in a coal town in West Virginia where he had won a scholarship to Dartmouth. And his thick brown crew cut was so flat on top that he could walk with a cup of coffee in a saucer on his head without spilling it.
“You’ve got nice digs,” Craig said. “The security business must be good.”
“It is, pal. Every company in America is worried about their records being stolen by terrorists or a desperate competitor in this
Similar Books
