Whiplash

"We will, of course, cooperate to the fullest, without jeopardizing our company's position." Dieffendorf added with a nice understated shrug, "There are always unhappy people, Agent, all over the world, who must blame a drug for their misfortunes."

Bowie said, "This list, sir, we would like it to include only those people who were unhappy about the unavailability of Culovort, no other drug."

Erin spoke for the first time. "Can you tell me when Culovort will be back up to full production, sir?"

"It is now a priority," Dieffendorf said, his head cocked to one side as he looked at Erin. He looked down at his watch. "I fear it is time we returned to Schiffer Hartwin. We have much more information to assemble before we can return to Germany." He rose, followed quickly by Gerlach. "Thank you, Agents. I am sorry we could not be of much assistance to you. If you will fill in Agent Kesselring, so perhaps he may contribute something positive to your investigation?

"Oh, yes, Agent Savich, if you have the Culovort papers, may we please have them back? They are the property of the company."

Savich smiled. "Those papers are evidence now, Mr. Dieffendorf. It is my understanding we don't have the only copy. I fear you must prepare yourself for their release to the media and the Department of Justice."

The two directors left, leaving Kesselring standing against the wall, looking like he'd get great pleasure from shooting them. "If I do not aid significantly in solving these murders, I will have failed for the first time in my career. It is possible that my career will be ended." He turned to Bowie. "You have my cell phone number."

He turned and left the conference room.

47

FIFTH FLOOR, HOOVER BUILDING

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Friday afternoon

Agent Ruth Warnecki steered Aiden and Benson Hoffman into the CAU. The large room was crowded with agents and staff, all talking on cell phones and landlines, while computer keyboards clicked away above the hum of hard drives. One agent was whistling. The noise was a din, hard to hear over.

Ruth smiled at the two men. "It's a bit hectic. What with the vice president's accident, we're all very busy."

Aiden Hoffman, Senator Hoffman's eldest son, stared around him. "Can you tell us why Agent Savich wanted to see us, Agent Warnecki?"

Ruth smiled. "As to that, I'll leave it to Agent Savich. Now, come with me, gentlemen." She led them down the hall to an interior conference room, opened the door, bowed them in, and closed the door behind her. Savich was standing beside the table, speaking on his cell phone. He studied Aiden and Benson as he rang off.

He motioned them to be seated at the table, then sat across from them. It was stone silent in this narrow, windowless interview room, locked down tight with the door closed, like a prison cell after the loud, busy unit Ruth had brought them through.

"Do we need a lawyer?" Aiden asked, his voice tense.

"A lawyer?" Unlike Aiden's, Savich's voice was calm and smooth. "I certainly hope not. I wished to meet with you both privately, and this seemed the best place. Thank you for coming on such short notice." Both men were buff and tanned, and reeked of good breeding, like their father. Unfortunately, neither son's eyes had their father's humorous twinkle or sharp intelligence. Despite their laid-back designer clothes, they looked scared. Good, Savich thought.

Aiden, the older at thirty-eight, was sitting forward, his hands clasped. He looked both sincere and apprehensive. "We wondered why you asked us here, Agent Savich. I mean of course we're concerned about Vice President Valenti, Ben and I have known him all our lives. But asking us here-what do we have to do with what happened? I mean, sure he was driving our father's car, but-"

Benson cut in on a nervous laugh. "It wasn't just a freaking car, it was a Brabus." Benson, thirty-six, wasn't as impressive a figure as his brother, either in height or looks. Clearly, he didn't have his brother's control either. Savich knew Benson was more in-your-face, less concerned with what others thought of him. Savich felt a barely banked temper roiling behind his eyes, ready to bubble over with the right provocation. At least he hoped so.

"Maybe you don't know what that is, Agent Savich." Benson tried and failed to keep his voice light. A note of contempt bled through.

"Why don't you tell me?" Savich said easily, amused by the barely veiled smirk on Benson's face.

"Ben," Aiden said quickly, "Agent Savich drives a Porsche Carrera. Our dad really enjoys driving Porsches, always had a new Porsche in the garage when we were growing up. He told us your last one got blown up."