A Firing Offense by David Ignatius

Author:David Ignatius [Ignatius, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

23

Josette Towers was one of the dozens of apartment buildings that were clustered along I-95 in northern Virginia, at the southern entrance to Washington. It was a land of cars and concrete and unmarried soldiers, more like San Diego or Norfolk than the nation’s capital. I found a space in the parking lot that surrounded the building and walked toward the front door. A stream of women was leaving as I arrived. They were young, dressed neatly but inexpensively, heading off to work. They examined me curiously, correctly sensing that I didn’t belong there. This was where Washington’s secretaries lived, in modest, low-rent efficiencies and one-bedroom apartments stacked in plain brick blocks. People didn’t arrive at Josette Towers at 8:00 A.M. unless they were plumbers or real estate agents.

At the front door I searched the directory for Apartment 636, punched in the assigned number and waited for the intercom. “Who is it?” asked a voice that was unmistakably Rubino’s.

“This is Bob,” I said, following the instructions he had given me the night before. The door buzzed open, and I walked into the building.

It was a sad place. The elevator was decorated with notices for the unmarried—the Bridge Club, the Ballroom Dancing Club, the Co-ed Softball League. I pressed the button for the sixth floor, and walked down a long hall to 636. When I knocked on the door, I had to say “This is Bob” again. Rubino was dressed in a business suit. He had that fresh-scrubbed, ready-for-work look. “Come on in,” he said cheerily.

It was a small one-bedroom apartment that looked out on the concrete corridor of the interstate, with a glimpse of Washington in the distance. The apartment was antiseptic. You knew instantly, looking at it, that no one lived there. The furniture was bland, unmarked; the glassware in the little kitchen was lined up in neat rows. A film of dust seemed to have settled gently over the place like a light snowfall. The only sign of life was the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen. Rubino had made a fresh pot. He handed me a mug painted with yellow and white daisies.

I didn’t like being there. I had thought I wouldn’t mind, but now it seemed awkward, alien. I didn’t feel like a reporter. Rubino seemed to sense my discomfort. He brought me into the living room, took off his suit jacket and put his feet up on the coffee table. He was trying to be my pal, but I didn’t want that either. I wanted to ask my question, get my answer, and leave.

“So, what’s on your mind, Eric?” he asked. It was the voice of a game-show host. “You said on the phone that you wanted to talk about Arthur Bowman. But he’s your colleague. Why would you want to ask me about him?”

“Let’s not play games,” I said. “I want to know whether the agency has any evidence Bowman has ever taken money from French intelligence. I need to know.”

“Why do you ‘need to know’? That phrase has a certain resonance in my business.

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