Noonan looked at his watch. “Go ahead.”
“This is a frame. I think Mason Verger is trying to capture Dr. Lecter himself for purposes of personal revenge. I think he just missed him in Florence. I think Mr. Krendler may be in collusion with Verger and wants the FBI’s effort against Dr. Lecter to work for Verger. I think Paul Krendler of the Department of Justice is making money out of this and I think he is willing to destroy me to do it. Mr. Krendler has behaved toward me before in an inappropriate manner and is acting now out of spite as well as financial self-interest. Only this week he called me a ‘cornpone country pussy.’ I would challenge Mr. Krendler before this body to take a lie detector test with me on these matters. I’m at your convenience. We could do it now.”
“Special Agent Starling, it’s a good thing you’re not sworn here today—” Krendler began.
“Swear me. You swear too.”
“I want to assure you, if the evidence is lacking you’re entitled to full reinstatement without prejudice,” Krendler said in his kindliest voice. “In the meantime you’ll receive pay and remain eligible for insurance and medical benefits. The administrative leave is not itself punitive, Agent Starling, use it to your advantage,” Krendler said, adopting a confidential tone. “In fact, if you wanted to take this hiatus to have that dirt taken out of your cheek, I’m sure the medical—”
“It’s not dirt,” Starling said. “It’s gunpowder. No wonder you didn’t recognize it.”
The marshal was waiting, his hand outstretched to her.
“I’m sorry, Starling,” Clint Pearsall said, his hands full of her equipment.
She looked at him and looked away. Paul Krendler drifted toward her as the other men waited to let the diplomat, Montenegro, leave the room first. Krendler started to say something between his teeth, he had it ready: “Starling, you’re old to still be—”
“Excuse me.” It was Montenegro. The tall diplomat had turned away from the door and come to her.
“Excuse me,” Montenegro said again, looking into Krendler’s face until he went away, his face twisted.
“I am sorry this has happen to you,” he said. “I hope you are innocent. I promise I will press the Questura in Florence to find out how the inserzione, the ad, was paid for at La Nazione. If you think of something in … in my sphere of Italy to follow up, please tell me and I will insist on it.” Montenegro handed her a card, small and stiff and bumpy with engraving and seemed not to notice Krendler’s outstretched hand as he left the room.
Reporters, cleared through the main entrance for the coming anniversary ceremony, thronged in the courtyard. A few seemed to know whom to watch for.
“Do you have to hold my elbow?” Starling asked the marshal.
“No ma’am, I don’t,” he said, and made a way for her through the boom microphones and the shouted questions.
This time Razor Cut seemed to know the issue. The questions he shouted were “Is it true that you’ve been suspended from the Hannibal Lecter case? Do you anticipate criminal charges being brought against you? What do you say to the Italian charges?”
In the garage, Starling handed over h
er protective vest, her helmet, her shotgun and her backup revolver. The marshal waited while she unloaded the little pistol and wiped it down with an oily cloth.
“I saw you shoot at Quantico, Agent Starling,” he said. “I got to the quarterfinals myself for the marshal’s service. I’ll wipe down your .45 before we put it up.”
“Thank you, Marshal.”
He lingered after she was in the car. He said something over the boom of the Mustang. She rolled down the window and he said it again.
“I hate this happening to you.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate you saying it.”
A press chase car was waiting outside the garage exit. Starling pushed the Mustang to lose him and got a speeding ticket three blocks from the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Photographers took pictures while the D.C. patrolman wrote it out.
Assistant Director Noonan sat at his desk after the meeting was over, rubbing the spots his glasses left on the sides of his nose.
Getting rid of Starling didn’t bother him so much— he believed there was an emotional element in women that often didn’t fit in with the Bureau. But it hurt him to see Jack Crawford cut down. Jack had been very much one of the boys. Maybe Jack had a blind spot for the Starling girl, but that happens—Jack’s wife was dead and all. Noonan had a week once when he couldn’t keep from looking at an attractive stenographer and he had to get rid of her before she caused some trouble.
Noonan put on his glasses and took the elevator down to the library. He found Jack Crawford in the reading area, in a chair, with his head back against the wall. Noonan thought he was asleep. Crawford’s face was gray and he was sweating. He opened his eyes and gasped.
“Jack?” Noonan patted his shoulder, then touched his clammy face. Noonan’s voice then, loud in the library. “You, Librarian, call the medics!”
Crawford went to the FBI infirmary, and then to the Jefferson Memorial Intensive Care Cardiac Unit.
CHAPTER