Smooth Operator (Teddy Fay) by Stuart Woods, Parnell Hall

purse. Can you get me my purse, please?”
    Without a word he set the book on the floor, went out, and slammed the door. Again she heard the key in the lock.
    What were the odds this time? The ice had been broken. He’d given her one thing, he could give her another. Conversely, he’d made a goodwill gesture and she’d slapped him down, complained about it, said it wasn’t good enough. He’d never do it again.
    There came the sound of the key in the lock and the big manwas back. He didn’t have her purse. He had her glasses. He set them on the floor and went out.
    Karen snatched them up.
    The glasses were broken. The screw had come loose, and one of the plastic temples had fallen off. She never found the tiny screw. It probably would have been stripped anyway. But she’d managed to repair the glasses.
    The temple was held on by a safety pin.

18
    L ance Cabot, director of the CIA, scowled at the men assembled in his office. “I have to brief the President in half an hour, and I don’t know what I’m going to say. Who wants to fill me in?”
    The agents looked at each other. One of the field directors spoke up. “Sir, we flooded the area with agents, but there is no sign of the shooter. It’s difficult. We’re tripping all over the D.C. police.”
    “I’m not interested in excuses. What
is
being done?”
    “The attack came from the roof of the building across the street. We pinpointed it rather quickly. The windows of the building do not open, but the roof gave the optimal angle. An expended cartridge shell was found there, and it’s consistent with the type of sniper rifle that would have been used in the attack.”
    “And no one saw the sniper?”
    “It’s a busy office building. Before the attack no one would have noticed. After the attack everyone rushed for the street.”
    “I understand. What’s being done?”
    “We’re questioning everyone. So are the police.”
    “And the overlap?”
    “Anyone who saw anything is being shunted from us to the cops to Homeland Security to the FBI to the NSA. All those interviews are being compared and coordinated to see if they add up to anything.
    “At the same time we’re screening hundreds of hours of surveillance video from the cameras in the building, with an emphasis on the elevators and the upper floors.”
    “With what result?”
    “It’s early yet, but we have no reports of anyone carrying anything long enough to have contained a rifle. Several reports of men carrying briefcases which could have housed a disassembled rifle. No metal cases. Ruling out soft leather cases and messenger bags, we get standard-size hard cases, black, brown, and tan. Carried by men of all descriptions—white, black, Asian, and Middle Eastern.”
    “What are we tracking with regard to terrorist activity?”
    Another agent spoke up. “Sir, we have eleven high-ranking suspected terrorists in the D.C. area. None could be the shooter. All are under surveillance, and ironically, our own men give them alibis.”
    “Which proves nothing. They’d have ordered it done anyway.”
    The intercom buzzed.
    Lance scooped up the phone. “I said hold my calls.”
    “You want this one.”
    “Is it the President?”
    “No.”
    “Then I don’t want it.”
    “Yes, you do.”
    “Margaret—”
    “You hired me to screen your calls. Take this one, or fire me and hire someone whose judgment you trust.”
    Margaret hung up.
    Lance scowled at the phone. Line two was blinking. He exhaled, pressed the button on the line, snarled, “Yes?”
    The young man on the phone stammered. “S-sir.”
    “Who’s this?”
    “It’s Jenson, at ballistics, sir. I’m running tests on the shell casing found on the rooftop across the street.”
    “Yesterday’s news, Jenson. I’m being briefed on it now.”
    “I noticed something I thought you’d want to know.”
    “What’s that?”
    “The cartridge was standard CIA issue.”
    Lance blinked. “Run that by me again.”
    “It’s an exact match