She would sleep well tonight.
It might be the last time she ever did.
CHAPTER
10
ROBIE SAT AT A TABLE in the restaurant that allowed him to see out onto the street. He alternated between looking out at the street and at the TV that was mounted on a wall behind the bar. On the TV was a news report about an upcoming Arab summit that was scheduled to occur in Canada. Apparently it was felt that the neutral setting, far away from terrorist acts and wars, might shorten the odds of a breakthrough occurring. Sponsored by the UN, it hoped, the news anchor said, to usher in a new age of cooperation among countries that had for too long been at war with one another.
“Good luck on that,” Robie said to himself.
The next instant the channel was changed and Robie was watching an ad for Cialis with an older man and woman in bathtubs that were set outside. It was apparently a sexual metaphor he had never figured out. Then the bathtubs vanished and another news anchor was talking about an upcoming trip by the president to Ireland where he was hosting a symposium on the threat of international terrorism and ways to stop it.
“Good luck on that too,” muttered Robie.
He glanced away from the TV in time to see Nicole Vance walking down the street at a hurried pace. He glanced at his watch. She was about fifteen minutes late. She was applying a touch of makeup and lipstick and checking the results in a small mirror she carried. He noted that she had changed from her working clothes into a dress, stockings, and heels. Maybe the reason for the lateness.
She fortunately did not see him watching her as she hurried past him to the door of the restaurant, slipping her makeup kit back into her small purse. Robie doubted Vance would have wanted to be spotted “checking her face” before their dinner.
“You look thinner.”
Robie glanced up as Nicole Vance sat across from him. “And you look harried,” he replied.
“Sorry about being late. Got stuck on a case.”
The waiter came and took their drink orders. When he departed Robie broke a breadstick in half, ate part of it, and said, “Something new?”
“Something interesting at least.”
“I thought all of your cases were interesting.”
“The bad guys are usually pretty obvious. It just becomes a matter of evidence collection. And that tends to get very boring very fast.”
“Care to talk about it?”
“You know better than that, Robie. Ongoing investigation. Unless you got transferred to the FBI and nobody told me.” She stared across at him. “So, have you been out of town?”
“You already asked me that.”
“You didn’t answer me.”
“Yeah, I did. I said, not much.”
“But some?”
“And you’re concerned about my travel schedule why?” he asked.
“Some interesting things going on in the world. Right in our backyard, even.”
“They always are. So what?”
“I’m not entirely unfamiliar with what you do for a living.”
Robie looked right and then left and then back at Vance.
Before he could speak she said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone there.”
“No, you shouldn’t.”
“We got off on the wrong foot.”
Robie said nothing.
“Okay, I got off on the wrong foot. How have you been?”
“Busy, just like you.” He paused. “I thought about calling you a few times. Just never got around to doing it. I’m sorry. Things got a little crazy for me.”
“I have to say I’m surprised you even thought about calling me.”
“Why? We’d agreed to keep in touch.”
“I appreciate that, Robie. But I don’t think your job allows for a lot of downtime.”
“Neither does yours.”
“It’s a different sort of thing. You know that.”
Their drinks came and Vance gratefully took a sip of hers. “Omigod that is good.”
“Can you taste the linen?”
She set her glass down and smiled. “Every single thread.”
“Sense of humor will get you through a lot.”
“That’s what people keep telling me. But I keep finding fewer things to laugh at.”
“Which brings us back to tonight. Why the call for drinks and dinner? Really?”
“Two friends getting together.”
“A busy FBI agent working long hours? Don’t think so.”
“I have no agenda, Robie.”
Robie just looked at her.
“Okay, I sort of have an agenda.”
“Then let me sort of hear it.”
She sat forward and lowered her voice. “Douglas Jacobs?”
Robie’s face was impassive. “Who is he?”
“Who was he. Jacobs is dead. Shot at his office.”
“Sorry to hear that. What happened?”
“Not sure. He apparently worked for DTRA. Do you know them?”
“I know of them.”
“I say ‘apparently’ because I’m pretty sure everyone I’ve spoken to is lying his ass off.”
“Why?”
“You know why, Robie. This is spook territory. I’m sure of it. And they always lie.”
“Not always,” he reminded her.
“Okay, but most of the time they do.” She took another sip of her cocktail and eyed him keenly. “You’re sure you didn’t know Jacobs?”
“I never met the man,” Robie said truthfully.
Vance sat back and looked at him skeptically.
“Do you know everyone at the FBI?” he said.
“Of course not. It’s too big.”
“Okay, proves my point.”
“My gut tells me that Jacobs was involved in something really important. And what happened to him has scared the crap out of certain highly placed people.”
Yes he was and yes it has, thought Robie.
“Even if I knew anything, Vance, I couldn’t tell you. You know that.”
“A girl can always hope,” she said sweetly, draining her glass and lifting her hand to order another.
They ate their meal mostly in silence. When they were done Vance said, “I never was fully briefed on what happened after Morocco.”
“I’m sure you weren’t.”
“Did it all turn out okay for you?”
“Sure. Everything’s fine.”
“He lied,” added Vance. “The thing at the White House?”
“What about it?”
“You were in the middle of it.”
“Not officially, no.”
“But in all important respects, yes.”
“It’s ancient history. I’m not much into history. I try to be more of a forward thinker.”
“Your compartmentalization skills are amazing, Robie.”
He shrugged. “Necessary part of the job. Hindsight might be twenty-twenty. You learn from mistakes, and you move on. But every situation is different. One size does not fit all.”
“A lot like working cases. So how much longer are you going to be doing what you’re doing?”
“How long are you going to be doing what you’re doing?”
“Probably till I drop.”
“You really think so?”
“I don’t know, Robie. You said you’re a forward thinker. I’m more of a live-in-the-present kind of person. So when are you going to call it quits?”
“I probably won’t be the one making that decision.”
She sat back, took in the meaning of his words, nodded. “Then maybe you should try to make sure you’re the one deciding.”
“Doesn’t go with the territory, Vance.”
They said nothing for about a minute. Each played with the drink in front of them.
Finally Vance asked, “Have you seen Julie?”
“No,” he replied.
“Didn’t you promise her you’d keep in touch?”
“I promised you too and loo
k what happened.”
“But she’s just a kid,” countered Vance.
“That’s right. She has a long life ahead of her.”
“But a promise is a promise.”
“No, not really,” answered Robie. “She doesn’t need me anywhere near her. She’s got a decent shot at a normal life. I’m not going to screw that up for her.”
“Noble of you.”
“Whatever you want to label it.”
“You’re a really hard person to relate to.”
Robie again said nothing.
“I guess as long as you do what you do this is how it’ll be.”
“It is what it is.”
“Do you wish it could be different?”
Robie started to answer this seemingly simple question and then realized it was not nearly as simple as it appeared to be. “I stopped wishing a long time ago, Vance.”
“Why keep doing it, then? I mean, I have a crazy-ass life, though nothing like yours. But at least I have the satisfaction of putting slime away.”
“And you think I don’t?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
Robie put some cash down on the table and rose. “Thanks for the call. It was nice catching up. And good luck on your case.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“Probably more than you know, actually.”
CHAPTER
11
JESSICA REEL HAD LEFT New York and flown to D.C. She had done this because what she had to do next had to be done here.
There were three ways to approach the mission. For a mission was what Jessica Reel was on.
You could start from the bottom and move to the top.
Or start at the top and move to the bottom.
Or you could mix it up, be unpredictable, go in no particular order.
The first option might be more symbolically pure.
The third approach greatly improved Reel’s odds of success. And her ability to survive.
She opted for success and survival over symbolism.
This area of D.C. was full of office buildings, all empty at this late hour. Many high-level government executives worked here, along with their even more affluent private-sector counterparts.
That didn’t matter much to Reel. Rich, poor, or in between, she just went to where she needed to go. She had killed whoever they had tasked her to eliminate. She had been a machine, executing orders with a surgical efficiency.
She placed an earwig in her left ear and ran the cord to the power pack attached to her belt. She smoothed down her hair and unbuttoned her jacket. The pistol sat ready in her shoulder holster.
She looked at her watch, did the math in her head, and knew she had about thirty minutes to think about what she was going to do.
The night was clear, if cool, the rain having finally passed. That was expected this time of year. The street was empty of traffic, also expected at this hour of the night.
She walked to a corner and took up position next to a tree with a bench below. She adjusted the earwig and looked at her watch again.
She was a prisoner not only to time but also to precise time, measured in seconds. A sliver off here or there and she was dead.
Through her earwig she learned that the man was on the move. A bit ahead of schedule, he would be here in ten minutes. Knowing her agency’s communication frequencies was a real advantage.
She pulled the device from her pocket. It had a black matte finish, measured four by six inches, two buttons on top, and was probably—aside from her gun—the most important thing she carried. Without this, her plan could not work barring a major piece of luck.
And Reel could not count on being that lucky.
I’ve already used up all of my luck anyway.
She looked up as the car came down the street.
A Lincoln Town Car.
Black.
Do they make them in any other color?
She needed confirmation. After all, in this city black Town Cars were nearly as plentiful as fish in the ocean. She raised the night optics to her eyes and looked through the windshield. All the other windows were tinted. She saw what she needed to see. She lowered the optics and put them in her pocket. She took a penlight from her pocket and flashed it one time. A beam of light answered her. She put the light away and fingered the black box. She looked up and then across the street.
What was about to happen next had cost her a hundred bucks. She hoped it was money well spent.
She pushed the right-side button on the black box.
The traffic light immediately turned from green to yellow to red. She put the box away.
The Lincoln pulled to a stop at the intersection.
The figure darted out from the shadows and approached the Lincoln. He held a bucket in one hand, something else in the other. Water splashed on the windshield.
“Hey!” yelled the driver, lowering his window.
The kid was black, about fourteen. He used a squeegee to get the soapy water off the glass.
The driver yelled, “Get the hell out of here!”
The light stayed red.
Reel had her gun out now, its barrel resting on a low branch of the tree she was standing beside. On the gun’s Picatinny rail was a scope. The pistol’s barrel had been lengthened and specially engineered for a
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