He said mildly, “Sorry, Walt. I came down here on a very meager tip. I didn't really expect it to pan out.”
“Well, in the future, clear with either me or the Boss before running off half cocked into something, Woolford. Yesterday, you had this whole assignment on your own. Today, it's no longer a minor matter. Our department has fifty people on it. The F.B.I. must have five times as many and that's not even counting the Secret Service's interest. It's no longer your individual baby.”
“Sorry,” Larry repeated mildly. Then, “I don't imagine you've got hold of Frol Eivazov yet?”
The other was disgusted. “You think we're magicians? We just put out the call for him a few hours ago. He's no amateur. If he doesn't want to be picked up, he'll go to ground and we'll have our work cut out for us finding him. I can't see that it's particularly important anyway.”
“Maybe you're right,” Larry said. “But you never know. He might know things we don't. See you later.”
Walt Foster stared at him for a moment as though about to say something, but then tightened his lips and faded off.
Larry looked at the phone screen for a moment. “Did that phony expect me to call him sir,” he muttered.
The next two days dissolved into routine.
Frustrated, Larry Woolford spent most of his time in his office digesting developments, trying to find a new line of attack.