Dire Straits by Mark Terry Page B

his head.
    Mandalevo sighed. “Well, I’m sorry. A complicated situation, to be sure. But why come to me?”
    “I’m leaving for Moscow just as soon as my travel agent pulls things together. But I need a favor.”
    Mandalevo weighed those words —”I need a favor”— the silence growing heavy. In many ways Mandalevo owed Derek his life. But Derek knew you didn’t ask someone this high in government a favor without the real likelihood of eventual payback.
    Finally Mandalevo said, “What is it?”
    “Contact whoever you can in the FSB and get me as much information about her death as you can. E-mail it to me ASAP. I’ll be in the air, most likely, but once I hit Moscow…”
    “You’ll what?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Why didn’t you ask Tom Ross?”
    “I think you know why.”
    Mandalevo steepled his long, thin fingers in front of him. “I’ve asked you before and I’ll ask you again. Would you come to work here at State for me? Your skills are wasted under Ross.”
    “I’m not a diplomat.”
    “That’s for damned sure. But I don’t have in mind your being a diplomat. Terrorism is a major concern of State. Your skills and experience would—”
    “Mr. Secretary—”
    Mandalevo held up his hand. “Fine. I understand. Yes. I’ll take care of it.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    Derek stood up. They shook hands. He turned to leave, but Mandalevo said, “Derek.”
    “Yes?”
    “The Russians won’t look kindly on an American government agent poking into the death of one of their FSB agents.”
    “I’m not going to do that. I’m just going over…” He trailed off, unsure what to say.
    Mandalevo nodded. “Right. Be careful.”