"Not much. Half day leads, as long as he keeps it fair." "Anything else?" Bob asked, not responding to Ty. "One last thing," Tyrone said sitting up straighter. "After this one, you promise to let me alone and work my golden years, the way I want, where I want until my overdue retirement." "I don't know if I can . . ." "Then forget it," interrupted Tyrone. "I'll just quit." It was the penultimate threat and bluff and caught Bob off balance. "Wait a minute. You can't hold me hostage . . ." "Isn't that what you're doing to me?" Touch<130>! Bob sat back in thought. To an event, Duncan had been right on. He had uncannily been able to solve, or direct the solution of a crime where all others had failed. And, he always put the Bureau in the best possible light. If he didn't go with him now, lose him for sure. "And, I may need some discretionary funds." Duncan was making a mental list of those things he thought he needed. His sources of information were the most valuable. Without them, it would be a bad case of babysitting sissy assed bureaucrats staking out their ground. "Yes to the money. Ouch, but yes to hands off your promotion. Maybe, to the reporter. It's my ass, too, you know." "You called me," Tyrone said calmly. "Remember?" I can't win this one, thought Bob. He's never screwed up yet. Not big time. As they say, with enough rope you either bring in the gang or hang yourself. "I want results." That's all Bob had to say. "Other than that, I don't give a good goddamn what you do," Bob resigned. "One more thing," Tyrone slipped in. "What is it?" Bob was getting exasperated. "It happens out of New York, not here." "But . . ." "No buts. Period." "Ok, New York, but you report here when I need you. Agreed?" "Agreed," said Tyrone agreeably. "Deal?" "Yes, except no with the press, this reporter of yours. Agreed?" "Whatever," Tyrone told Bob. * * * * * From his hotel room, Tyrone Duncan called Scott Mason at his home. It was after 11P.M. EST, and Ty was feeling no pain after several hours of drinking and slipping $10 bills into garter belts at Camelot. "RCA, Russian Division," Scott Mason answered his phone. "Don't do that," Tyrone slurred. "That'll trigger the monitors." "Oh, sorry, I thought you wanted the plans for the Stealth Bom- ber . . ." "C'mon, man," Tyrone pleaded. "It's not worth the paperwork." Scott choked through his laughter. "I'm watching a Honeymooner rerun. This better be good." "We need to talk." * * * * * Thursday, October 15 Washington, D.C.