The building was not for tourists. It wasn't like the Pentagon or the White House or any of the other historical or glamour symbols in Washington, D.C. It was on a side street, and while no one associated it with governmental activity, it was of a size and importance that justified a uniformed attendant in the lobby.
He was a hard-bitten old Irishman named Callahan, and nobody got past him without justification. Also, he was a man of robust hates and great loyalties; a man whom Brent Taber was honored to call friend.
He was also a man Brent Taber was waiting to hear from.
The call came late in the afternoon of the day following Charles Blackwell's search for his would-be brother. Taber picked up the phone.
"It's me—Callahan. He's here, Mr. Taber."
"Thanks. I'll be right over."
"And be hurrying right along if you want to get here in time. He's not one to be restrained indefinitely."
"Tell him the elevator's busted."
Brent Taber slammed the phone down and left. He used an elevator this time and went across town in a cab. Even then, he was almost too late. As he arrived at his destination, Senator Crane was protesting loudly.
"It's just plain stupidity. Elevators don't quit running for no reason. Find a burnt-out fuse. Do something! And do it quick or I'll phone somebody who will!"