Jack Crawford's office in the FBI's Washington headquarters was painted an oppressive gray, but it had big windows.
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Crawford stood at these windows with his clipboard held to the light, peering at a list off a God damned fuzzy dotmatrix printer that he'd told them to get rid of.
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He'd come here from the funeral home and worked all morning, tweaking the Norwegians to hurry with their dental records on the missing seaman named Klaus, jerking San Diego's chain to check Benjamin Raspail's familiars at the Conservatory where he had taught, and stirring up Customs, which was supposed to be checking for import violations involving living insects.
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第五十一章
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