Cory Rinehart frowned. “I’m surprised. The BKA is usually less . . . resourceful.”“Wally Aronson turned his old friend in,” Scottie replied dryly; he planned on kicking Wally the length of Europe for having done so. “Apparently Eric showed up on his doorstep begging for help.”Rinehart glanced up from the cable he was reading. He’d had the good taste to remain in his own office down the hall from the DCI’s, which he’d rather ostentatiously locked before such witnesses as Dare Atwood’s weeping secretary and the Deputy Director for Operations, pending the arrival of Dare’s next of kin. A daughter, he’d told Scottie disbelievingly. Lives somewhere in Miami. I didn’t know Dare was ever married.“This thug sought out our COS Berlin?” he demanded now. “That’s interesting. Very.” Rinehart ran one of his small and rather delicate hands over his beautifully trimmed black hair. He was a spare man, compact and athletic, his clothes almost obsessively pressed; a former navy pilot, Scottie remembered.
