Killerfest by Lawrence de Maria Page B

rest of the meal comparing the
women they had been involved with during their college days in Providence. It
was a conversation dominated by Mack, who claimed to have majored in
“intercourse, with a minor in blow jobs.”
    After lunch,
Scarne drove his friend back to Harvey Cedars, listening happily to more
complaints about the MGB’s cramped interior and unyielding suspension, designed,
Mack said, “by somebody with an investment in chiropractic clinics.”
    They found
Bobo having lunch with some of the workers.
    “How’d it go,”
Mack asked.
    “They weren’t
thrilled,” Bobo replied, giving Scarne a bear hug, “but nobody died. And it
won’t happen again.”
    After bidding
his friends goodbye, Scarne headed to Washington. He made good time and was in
his hotel, an Embassy Suites in Crystal City, by 7 P.M. After a couple of
bourbons and a decent steak in the hotel’s grill room, he watched a Nationals
game in his room, falling asleep in the sixth inning during a pitching
change.  

 
    CHAPTER 8 – SAFEGUARD SECURITY
     
    From Crystal
City, it was a 15-minute drive out Arlington Boulevard to the Safeguard
Security headquarters on Lee Highway. The building itself was a nondescript
three-story brick and glass structure that resembled a middle school. Upon
entering, Scarne was greeted by a single receptionist at a small desk in the
lobby. He was expected, and the schoolmarmish woman at the desk efficiently
checked his identification, entered his arrival in a computer log and gave him
a clip-on “Visitor” tag. With minimal directions, he was allowed to find the
department where his meeting was scheduled on his own. There was no palm or
retina scanning, cavity search or blindfolding involved. That bode well for his
visit. In Scarne’s previous visits to Beltway or near-Beltway security firms,
he often found them trying to impress clients and visitors by out-spooking the
C.I.A.
    Scarne’s 10
A.M. meeting was with a man named William Albracht, who occupied a small corner
office on the third floor. They had spoken on the phone. Albracht rose to shake
hands when Scarne entered. He was a big man, broad across the chest, with a
wide, flat face, jutting jaw and white hair being encroached by his forehead.
Nose slightly bent. Probably college football. Scarne, who played rugby at
Providence College and also had his nose get in the way of various forearms and
knees, felt a kinship. This was a tough, capable man.  
    “Pull up a
chair, Mr. Scarne. Coffee?”
    “Sure. Black.”
    “Be right
back.”
    The man got
his own coffee. Another good sign, in Scarne’s book. He looked around the
office. Solid, but not over-the-top, furniture. Family photos of a pretty
dark-haired woman and a couple of high-school-aged kids on the desk. Another
photo on the window ledge of four soldiers with their arms around each other,
Albracht, much taller than the others, on one end. On the wall behind the desk,
flanked by two Holiday Inn-quality paintings, was a team photo of the Holy
Cross football team. Scarne couldn’t make out Albracht.
    “Here you go,”
Albracht said when he came back, putting a steaming mug in front of his guest.
The mug said “United States Secret Service.” He took a sip of his own coffee
from a similar mug and looked surprised.
    “Not bad,” he
said. “Usually our coffee can peel paint.” He smiled. “Now, what can I do for
you?”
    “As I said on
the phone, Randolph Shields hired me to protect Sebastian Quimper during the
Killerfest writers’ conference in New York. Quimper isn’t happy about that, so
it’s shaping up to be a hair ball of an assignment. I’m not interested in it
becoming more complicated than it is so I thought I’d come down and figure out
how we can work together. I’m also not interested in stepping on anyone’s toes,
or usurping anyone’s prerogatives. It’s Safeguard’s show. But I’d like to know
who the players are on your side, so we don’t shoot each