Any Minute Now (8 page)

Valerie had driven over in a dark-blue ten-year-old BMW. Though they met fairly regularly, she never arrived in the same car twice. They were not rentals, she had assured him early on in the relationship; all of them were completely secure.

She unlocked the car and they got in—she behind the wheel, him sitting in the shotgun seat. Now he had a moment to look at her naturally, rather than keeping her in the corner of his vision. She was a pleasant-looking woman, he supposed, though he was far from the one to ask about those things, rather full-figured, but all in the right places, so far as he knew. She was a redhead—natural, he surmised, from her pale coloring. Were he any other kind of male he would have liked her—perhaps he even did—though, again, he was hardly the person to ask about such things.

“How's tricks?” he asked.

She laughed, leaned forward, stuck the key in the ignition, and turned it halfway. She flicked on the radio. Country music filled the interior to the brim and then some. Lindstrom didn't much care for Toby Keith—Bach was more his speed, the mathematical notes falling on his ears like the parts of a physics equation—but he understood that the raucous noise was more beneficial for blocking their conversation from any electronic surveillance that might be in the area.

“I require your help,” Valerie said.

“Whatever I can do,” Lindstrom replied, “within reason.”

Valerie peered through the windshield and at her side and rearview mirrors before continuing. “The NSA doesn't have its house in order.”

Lindstrom appeared to roll this around in his brain for a time before he said. “That's not good.”

“Nosiree, not for anyone.”

“Should I worry? I mean, Mobius is an NSA initiative. It's completely shielded from the clowns on Capitol Hill. It's also shielded from DOD, CIA, and the rest of the alphabet soup agencies inside the Beltway.”

“It should be shielded from us, as well,” Valerie said, “but you're paid a small fortune into an anonymous overseas account to make sure Mobius runs smoothly, despite any government interference you might encounter. If NSA is compromised, then so might be Mobius.”

Lindstrom frowned. “You mean it might be shut down?”

“Or worse. If one or more pieces of your … project were to find their way into hostile hands—”

Lindstrom shuddered. “Please. I can't even go there!”

“Precisely.” Valerie's voice was cool and soothing. “And not only for the country. Your little side deal would possibly be exposed. Your money would be frozen, then impounded.”

Lindstrom cleared his throat. “Is there a plan afoot?”

Valerie was constantly amused by Lindstrom's turns of phrase. “That,” she said, meeting his gaze, “is more or less up to you.”

The line between Lindstrom's eyes deepened. “Frankly, I don't see what I can do.”

“You're in a unique position, Paulus. You understand that, don't you?”

Again the pause while Lindstrom processed what she had said. “I'm afraid I don't,” he said at length.

“Then let me enlighten you.” Valerie had the patience of a praying mantis, which was why Cutler had assigned her to Lindstrom. Irony was beyond him; so was sarcasm. She was used to spelling things out so he could see the angle. “DARPA is a nexus for all U.S. clandestine agencies, and your work, Paulus, is ground zero of that nexus. What you produce is of incalculable importance. Plus, you're a scientist. You're supposed to be dead neutral, to have no interest in either politics or the inner workings of the clandestine agencies' hierarchies.”

“I don't,” Lindstrom said.

This caused Valerie to laugh out loud.

“Have I said something amusing?”

“Yes, Paulus.” Impulsively, she leaned over and pecked him chastely on the cheek. She knew he had an aversion to being touched, but this one time she couldn't help herself. “See, you've just answered your own question. Your very indifference to political maneuvering makes you the perfect candidate to listen and report.”

He shook his head. “Listen and report what?”

“Anything,” Valerie said. “Everything.”

*   *   *

Whitman sat across from Charlie at a night-owl truck stop diner on the hem of the city. It was open from midnight till eleven a.m., which made it a perfect place to have a clandestine meet. The rumbling outside from rigs arriving and departing was constant. With mounting pleasure, he watched Charlie devour first a plate of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and whole wheat toast, then a second course of flapjacks and link sausage. He himself drank tea, very dark, and ate a bowl of oatmeal with walnuts.

Charlie ate with the full-out gusto of an animal, but with the manners of a doyen of society. This dichotomy caused a dissonance whose energy he could feel. He bathed in it as if it were silver blue light from a star.

“I think we should get you to the ER,” he said, after a time.

“No,” she said, around a mouthful of syrup-drenched flapjack, “we shouldn't.”

He knew what that meant. “You went off your meds.”

“I couldn't take it anymore. The prednisone was nauseating me and the Imuran was making me anemic. After twenty minutes at the gym I'd have to go home and take a nap.”

“Takayasu's is nothing to fool around with.”

“You're not the one to tell me that.”

“If not me, who?”

She finished her last bite of sausage, put her knife and fork down, and pushed her plate away. Then she looked up at him. “Why do you think it's your job to take care of me?”

“Why do you think?”

“Then you never should have left.”

“You threw me out!” He said this loud enough that the waitress paused in the act of pouring coffee and the patrons around them turned to stare.

“Nice going,” Charlie said under her breath.

“You are so infuriating sometimes.”

“That makes two of us.”

He leaned across the table. “Do you always have to have the last word?”

Staring at him, she remained silent. After a time, things returned to normal in the diner. Drivers paid their checks, got up, went out. Others came in, sat down, and ordered. A smattering of locals arrived, yawning and calling for coffee. The waitress moved into a higher gear. Whitman and Charlie were anonymous again.

“I appreciate you being so quick on the draw,” she said.

Whitman knew that was as close to a thank you as she was going to give him, so he accepted it graciously. “You're welcome.”

Could that exchange have been more stilted? he asked himself. They sat like that for a time, watching each other warily, as adversaries will. Neither of them spoke. The homey odors of sizzling bacon and brewing coffee perfumed the air. They both seemed to have settled down into a kind of détente, which, Whitman supposed, was all that he could expect.

Charlie cocked her head. “I think you said something about a death in the family. Do I remember that right?”

He nodded. “One of my team bought it on our last trip.”

She peered into his eyes, saw he was telling the truth. “I'm so sorry, Whit.”

He nodded. “To the point, there's a position to fill. Sandy was our armorer.”

“No,” she said at once.

“I haven't even asked you.”

“You didn't have to.” A bit of her even white teeth showed between her partly open lips. “I know you inside and out.”

If that were true, he thought, you'd never have gone out with me in the first place.

He sighed. “I need you, Charlie. Sandy was the best. He wasn't good enough. That only leaves you.”

“I don't do your kind of work.”

“You don't know—”

“Stop right there. Recall I once worked for the NSA.”

“The NSA is all electronic surveillance. It doesn't do a goddamned thing on the ground.”

“Nevertheless, I can guess well enough.”

It was like trying to chip away at granite with a spoon, he thought. “You owe me, Charlie.”

“What? I don't owe you a fucking thing.”

“We're now bound to each other.”

“Like hell we are,” she flared.

And then he let her have it, all that was left in his arsenal. “I saved your life.”

 

7

“Gregory, is this a joke?”

“You know me better than that, boss.”

King Cutler jammed his hands deeper in his raincoat. His collar was up, his shoulders hunched against the rain. No one had ever seen him deploy an umbrella no matter how filthy the weather. The two men were walking the Mall. The Reflecting Pool, a stippled mass, reflected nothing today, not even the low, gunmetal sky against which slate gray clouds ran as if being chased by the devil himself. Near to six p.m., the light was failing, colors suppressed to muddied tones of gray and black.

“You know the rules. I will not countenance a female on any of my field teams, let alone Red Rover.”

“Red Rover is
my
team, boss. You gave me that leeway when you hired me.”

“Everything has its limits,” Cutler said sourly. “Women are bad luck in the field.”

“You mean like Mata Hari?”

“Don't cut cute with me, Gregory. I'm like a sailor plying the high seas in the eighteen hundreds. Women are bad juju.”

“Bad juju is what we had on Red Rover's last brief,” Whitman pointed out. “No women there.”

Cutler stopped under the portico of the Smithsonian Castle. He ignored the water coursing down his face. “Listen, Gregory, I've afforded you immense independence—far more than any other team leader. I felt you needed it—and also, frankly, you deserved it. The places you go, the things you do are not for the faint of heart or the unsure of purpose. Let's call it a bonus, above and beyond the more than generous hazard pay USA deposits in your bank account every month.”

“Then let me make Charlie Daou a part of the reassembled team.”

Cutler shook his head. “Did you not hear a word I've been saying?”

“I'm particularly good at that.” Whitman didn't bother smiling, taking his cue from Cutler's expression. “What if she could prove to you that she's a better armorer than Sandy was?”

“I hardly think—”

“That she's the best armorer you've ever seen.”

Cutler laughed. “Boyo, if she can do that, I'll hire her on the spot.” He shook his head. “But she won't, and I won't.”

“Care to make a wager on it?”

“Yeah? How much? I'm not into puny bets.”

“Ten thousand meet your threshold?”

Cutler seemed taken aback. “Well, let's not go overboard.”

“Don't want to take my money all of a sudden?”

“No, I simply assumed you were bluffing.” He waited a moment to see if Whitman would confirm his assumption, then he shrugged. “Always happy to make a tax-free ten grand.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now where is this so-called marvel of yours?”

“She's busy right now.” Whitman gestured with his head. “While we're waiting, let's take a peek inside.”

Cutler, checking his wristwatch, said, “I don't have the time.”

“Make the time, boss. There's something here you need to see.”

*   *   *

One of the unsung perks of being hooked so deeply into the U.S. government was ID that gave you access to places like the Smithsonian after hours. The staff actually stayed late to accommodate you. Outstanding.

They passed through the strict security measures and were ushered inside. An attendant asked if they needed a guide, to which Whitman said no. He led Cutler past the rotunda, and the high-ceilinged rooms used for the presidential balls, following inaugurations. He was reminded of Versailles, of powdered wigs and buckled shoes. Not to mention the stink of high-level government. The West Wing contained many of the Institute's exhibits, including its impressive precious stone collection.

Cutler snorted. “I've seen the Hope diamond, thank you very much.” Then, sensing movement to his left, he turned, watched a female maintenance worker paying more attention to her mobile phone call than to buffing the floor. “Another reason why this county's going to the dogs,” he sneered. “No one takes pride in their work anymore.”

As if she heard him, the woman left her electric buffer, strode toward him. By the time she was two strides away, her mobile phone had somehow been transformed into a knife with a four-inch blade, serrated along its cutting edge and with a wicked-looking gut-hook at the tip.

Cutler was so shocked that he failed to mount a defense as she rushed at him. All he had time for was a step back, which did him no good at all. An instant later, the serrated blade was at his throat. Far too late, he tried to counter, lifting a knee to bury in her groin, but somehow she had pulled what looked like a push-dagger from the buckle of her belt. As his knee rose, she slammed the crescent-shaped butt of the push-dagger onto his kneecap.

“Christ!” Dropping all pretense at defense, he grabbed his knee with both hands, hopping a bit to keep his balance.

Whitman was laughing.

“Gregory, what the fuck!”

“Boss, meet Charlie Daou, my new armorer.”

*   *   *

Orteño was in rehab when Luther St. Vincent strode into the room and said to the PT nurse, “I am in need of your patient.” At almost the same time, he beckoned to Flix. “Let's go up to your room and get you dressed. I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep.”

Ten minutes later, he had bundled Orteño into a black Cadillac Escalade with smoked windows and enough room inside to erect a barn. The two men sat side by side while a driver in sunglasses, overcoat, and black leather gloves drove them very fast out to Rockville Pike, taking it north to Cedar Lane, then making a right. It wasn't long before the Escalade turned right again. Flix figured they couldn't have come more than five miles from the Walter Reed complex. Up ahead, he saw a sign for the Bethesda Institute of Mary Immaculate. Passing the sign, the driver immediately cut the Escalade's speed, like a motorboat in a no-wake zone. The two men had uttered not one word.