“Sure we have,” the A-in-C said. “Boyd said—”
“Yes, I know what he said,” Malone cut in. “Give me a check on those men. I want to find out where she is right now. Right this minute.”
The agent-in-charge shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “It’s none of my business. Hang on a second.”
The screen went blank, but it didn’t go silent. Each of the agents, on a stakeout job like the Garbitsch one, would be carrying personal communicators, and Malone could hear the voice of the agent-in-charge as he spoke to them.
He couldn’t make out all the words, and it wasn’t important anyhow. He’d know soon enough, he kept telling himself; just as soon as the A-in-C came back and reported.
It seemed like about twelve years before he did.
“She’s all right,” he said. “Nothing to worry about; she’s probably working late at her office, that’s all. She hasn’t gone home yet.”
“Want to bet?” Malone snapped.
“Don’t tempt me,” the A-in-C said. “I wouldn’t take your money—it’s probably counterfeit, printed in Washington.”
“I’ll give you ten to one,” Malone said.