wford said. “There’s a new task force of FBI, DEA, and ‘additional elements’ from the Attorney General’s office—meaning Krendler.”
“Who’s boss?”
“Officially, FBI Assistant Director John Golby. Let’s say he and I are in close consultation. John’s a good man. What about you, are you in the glue?”
“Krendler told me to turn in my ID and the roscoe and report back to school.”
“That was all he did before your visit to Lecter. Starling, he sent a rocket this afternoon to the Office of Professional Responsibility. It was a request ‘without prejudice’ that the Academy suspend you pending a reevaluation of your fitness for the service. It’s a chickenshit backshot. The Chief Gunny, John Brigham, saw it in the faculty meeting at Quantico a little while ago. He gave ’em an earful and got on the horn to me.”
“How bad is that?”
“You’re entitled to a hearing. I’ll vouch for your fitness and that’ll be enough. But if you spend any more time away, you’ll definitely be recycled, regardless of any finding at a hearing. Do you know what happens when you’re recycled?”
“Sure, you’re sent back to the regional office that recruited you. You get to file reports and make coffee until you get another spot in a class.”
“I can promise you a place in a later class, but I can’t keep them from recycling you if you miss the time.”
“So I go back to school and stop working on this, or…”
“Yeah.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Your job was Lecter. You did it. I’m not asking you to take a recycle. It could cost you, maybe half a year, maybe more.”
“What about Catherine Martin?”
“He’s had her almost forty-eight hours—be forty-eight hours at midnight. If we don’t catch him he’ll probably do her tomorrow or the next day, if it’s like last time.”
“Lecter’s not all we had.”
“They got six William Rubins so far, all with priors of one kind or another. None of ’em look like much. No Billy Rubins on the bug journal subscription lists. The Knifemakers Guild knows about five cases of ivory anthrax in the last ten years. We’ve got a couple of those left to check. What else? Klaus hasn’t been identified—yet. Interpol reports a fugitive warrant outstanding in Marseilles for a Norwegian merchant seaman, a ‘Klaus Bjetland,’ however you say it. Norway’s looking for his dental records to send. If we get anything from the clinics, and you’ve got the time, you can help with it. Starling?”
“Yes, Mr. Crawford?”
“Go back to school.”
“If you didn’t want me to chase him you shouldn’t have taken me in that funeral home, Mr. Crawford.”
“No,” Crawford said. “I suppose I shouldn’t. But then we wouldn’t have the insect. You don’t turn in your roscoe. Quantico’s safe enough, but you’ll be armed any time you’re off the base at Quantico until Lecter’s caught or dead.”
“What about you? He hates you. I mean he’s given this some thought.”
“Lot of people have, Starling, in a lot of jails. One of these days he might get around to it, but he’s way too busy now. It’s sweet to be out and he’s not ready to waste it that way. And this place is safer than it looks.”
The phone in Crawford’s pocket buzzed. The one on the desk purred and blinked. He listened for a few moments, said “Okay,” and hung up.
“They found the ambulance in the underground garage at the Memphis airport.” He shook his head. “No good. Crew was in the back. Dead, both of them.” Crawford took off his glasses, rummaged for his handkerchief to polish them.
“Starling, the Smithsonian called Burroughs asking for you. The Pilcher fellow. They’re pretty close to finishing up on the bug. I want you to write a 302 on that and sign it for the permanent file. You found the bug and followed up on it and I want the record to say so. You up to it?”
Starling was as tired as she had ever been. “Sure,” she said.
“Leave your car at the garage, and Jeff’ll drive you back to Quantico when you’re through.”
On the steps she turned her face toward the lighted, curtained windows where the nurse kept watch, and then looked back at Crawford.
“I’m thinking about you both, Mr. Crawford.”