“I don’t know.”
“Really puttin’ you out. Kind of a rip-off, huh?” said Karr, glancing back. “Did they at least offer to put you up or buy dinner?”
“They canceled our flights and told us to come back tomorrow.”
“Where ya goin’?” asked Karr. He jerked his head around. Dabir’s face, tired, seemed pale.
“To the hotel?”
“No, I mean flyin’. Maybe I could drive you.”
“No, thank you.”
“You’re the boss. Holiday Inn’s our next stop.”
Karr pulled around Route 300, driving toward the hotel and humming the Star Wars theme song as he did.
“Uh-oh,” said Karr as he pulled into the driveway. “Home-coming week.”
“What does that mean?” asked Dabir, digging into his wallet to pay him.
“It’s a college thing. Graduates come back. The hotel may be booked. Want me to wait?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“No problem for me. The night is dead. You want change?”
“Keep it.” said Dabir, getting out.
“Good tipper,” Karr told Rockman as he pulled ahead.
“He’s at the desk. Not too happy.”
Karr put the taxi in gear and drove to the end of the driveway. As Dabir came through the front door, he pulled out, then pretended to spot him, and veered back into the lot through the other entrance, narrowly missing a pickup truck.
“Problem?” he asked Dabir, rolling down the window.
“Take me to the Minerva.”
“You got an address on that?”
“You never heard of it?”
“It’s near the river somewhere. I can find it, but, uh, if you have the address it’ll kind of save a little time, you know? Most people come here.”
Dabir gave him the voucher.
“Be there in two shakes,” said Karr, handing the slip back.
CHAPTER 152
Dabir got out of the taxi and walked into the hotel, trying not to let fatigue lower his guard. The clerk at the Holiday Inn had been a snotty kid, full of American arrogance toward strangers, taking glee in predicting that he would not find a hotel with a free room until next Monday. That behavior would never be tolerated in Europe, thought Dabir, let alone in an Arab country, where guests were to be treated with honor and respect.
He would remember the kid when he coordinated his first attack here. It would inspire him.
“Oh, there you are,” said one of the passengers from the plane, passing him in the lobby. It was the Asian-American woman named Li. “We wondered what had happened to you.”
“I decided to see if a friend was home,” lied Dabir. “But he wasn’t.”
“Oh, too bad. Well, listen. There’s a restaurant up the street. Some of us are checking it out.”
“No, thank you.”
“There’s no room service,” she added. “But they do have a little coffee shop around the back through that door. You can take the steps. See you on the plane in the morning.”
Dabir presented his voucher to the clerk, who immediately punched it into his computer and retrieved a key for him.
“You can leave your bag, sir,” added the man. “We’ll bring it right up to you.”
“No, that’s all right.” said Dabir, who was nonetheless pleased to see that at least some employees here had manners. “Thank you, though.”
“Elevator right there. I’m sorry that you were inconvenienced at the airport. It’s really unusual.”
The room was good sized. The desk clerk’s polite manner had mollified Dabir somewhat and he found himself actually regretting that he hadn’t gone to dinner.
The woman was attractive. It might have been enjoyable to spend a few hours with her.
Dangerous, though. It would mean lowering his guard, something he must not, could not do. Besides, she was an American, a nonbeliever who, at heart, was his enemy.
Dabir decided he was feeling hungry rather than lonely, and after washing up went to find the hotel cafe she had mentioned. The stairs were at the end of the hall; he pushed open the door, took a step, then felt himself falling backwards. The back of his head seemed to pop, and everything went black.
CHAPTER 153
“Heavier than he looks,” grunted Tommy Karr as he hauled Dabir over his shoulder. “How we lookin’, Rockman?”
“Coast is clear. I thought you were going to wait until he’d eaten?”
“I sees my chances and I takes ’em, boss,” said Karr, still talking like the cab driver he’d pretended to be. He slid open the door and hustled into the hallway.
The door to room 213 opened and Hernes Jackson’s face appeared.
“Here we go, Ambassador,” said Karr, striding into the room. “One patient, prepped and ready to go under the knife.”
* * *
Sweat rolled down Dr. Ramil’s fingers as well as his brow. His first thought was that Dabir was dead. He felt for a pulse at the neck.
It wouldn’t be a great loss if he were dead, Ramil thought. But the thump beneath his fingers was strong and steady.
“Did you give him the drugs?” Ramil asked Karr.
“Popped him on the head, poked him with the tack,” said Karr. The “tack” was a hypodermic needle designed to be concealed in a fist. It looked like a rubber ball with a metal snout and needle.
“Is there a problem, doctor?” asked Jackson.
Ramil looked across the bed at him. “No, I–I just want to make sure we’re ready.”
“Looks gone to me,” said Karr.
Ramil turned around to the second bed and opened the two attaché cases. He pulled on the gloves, aware that he was breathing deeply.
This is your chance. Cut the veins in the neck. It will take only a minute.
Ramil looked at the knife, then went to Dabir. The new device was designed to be inserted at the back of the skull. Its design made it harder to detect, and it had a range nearly twice that of the one he had implanted in Asad.
Do it, Ramil. Rid the world of the vermin.
The knife felt heavy in his hand. Ramil looked across the room at Jackson, who stared back at him.
Was this really what God wanted? Murder? It was not murder to kill an enemy of the faith. And Dabir clearly was an enemy.
But Allah would not command him to make such a judgment. The voice was not God’s, it was his — a product of stress.
Yes. Every time he’d heard it he had been under heavy stress.
Take revenge for the people he has murdered.
And if it weren’t stress, surely it came from the Devil, not Allah. For wasn’t what it commanded him to do not only a sin, but one that would harm many others? It would stop the operation, depriving Desk Three of the chance to save others.
Karr’s heavy hand clamped on Ramil’s shoulder. “Don’t cut the wrong place, right?”
Ramil turned and looked at Karr. The op grinned, then took his hand off his shoulder.
Ramil made the cut. His hands took over, moving swiftly, expertly. The device was a little more difficult to handle, but he got it in, checking twice to make sure it was oriented properly. The shape and location of the incision allowed them to use surgical glue rather than stitches; with a bandage in place, Dabir would never know he’d been slit open.
A tear slid down Ramil’s cheek as he finished. He felt his shoulders sag.
Done.
He would never hear the voice again. But God’s true voice — in the flow of the river, in the wind, in the science that saved lives and made men whole — that voice Ramil was only beginning to hear.
* * *
Jackson watched Ramil finish. The doctor’s hands were shaking, but he had held up.
“Maybe we should get a drink,” Jackson suggested as the doctor cleaned up. “Then bring something back for Mr. Karr.”
“Sounds good,” Karr said. “Two Italian heroes, the works. I saw a sub place up the block.”
“I don’t d
rink,” said Ramil. He smiled weakly. “It’s against my religion.”
“Sorry,” said Jackson. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“No offense,” said Ramil.
“Doc doesn’t drink,” said Karr. “I’ve tempted him myself.”
“Sometimes we all give in to temptation,” said Ramil. “We all occasionally slip.”
“It’s difficult to do the right thing,” said Jackson.
“Very,” agreed the doctor, closing his medical case.
CHAPTER 154
“Done. Downhill from here,” said Telach. “Bug is working perfectly.”
“Yes,” said Rubens. He walked over to the console and picked up the phone.
“Calling the president?”
“No. Ms. Collins, actually.”
* * *
It didn’t surprise Rubens at all that Collins was suspicious when he proposed that the CIA take over the “handling” of the bugging operation.
“Since when does Desk Three turn over any operation it starts?” she asked.
“It’s not a trick, Debra. Desk Three is designed for short operations, not keeping someone under surveillance for weeks or even months at a time. We simply don’t have the personnel to devote to an extended mission. As this one has shown.”
“You’ve done pretty well until now.”
“I appreciate the compliment.”
Collins was silent, but it was obvious what she was thinking: What is he up to?
“I believe you yourself said that we’re not enemies,” Rubens told her. “Your people were supporting the operation overseas anyway.”
“It’s Bing, isn’t it? You figure she’ll hound you until you make a mistake, and you don’t want to take a chance.”
Rubens sighed. He did hate Bing. He suspected Collins did as well. But that wasn’t it. On the contrary, he was sure that Bing would use this against him somehow. It was all grist for the mill.
If there were a way to store the information and occasionally download it or pick it up, like some of the NSA’s other programs, his feeling might have been different. But politics aside, having the CIA take over was the best strategy.
“Desk Three is not designed for long-term missions,” he said. “It’s simply not what we do. You are positioned much better. But if you want—”
“No. No, you’re right.” said Collins. “When do you propose we switch?”
“As soon as you want,” said Rubens. “There are FBI agents standing by in Boston. They can back your people up as easily as they can back up mine. Assuming the president agrees.”
“And Bing.”
“Yes. And Bing.”
“Bill?” she added as he was about to hang up.
“We shouldn’t be enemies.”
“I hope we’re not.”
“I didn’t mean what I said the other day.”
“About?”
“One hand washing the other.”
“Well, it does, doesn’t it?” said Rubens. “We just can’t make decisions on that basis, can we?”
CHAPTER 155
The light pounded through his skull, pushing its way past his heading, pushing and diving into his skull, pounding him.
“Oh, thank God. I was beginning to worry that you’d never wake up.”
Dabir started to rise but the pain pushed him back down.
“Where am I?”
“St. Theresa’s,” said a woman’s voice on the far side of the room.
“I found you on the steps when I went down for breakfast. You seem to have passed out,” said another voice. It seemed familiar. “Are you okay?”
“Li?”
“Yes. Listen. The plane for Boston leaves in an hour. Um, I hate to leave you here, but I kind of have to make it. I’m late already. Is there anyone you want me to call?”
“No. I–I have to make the plane.” Dabir started to get up.
A woman in a white dress — a nun or a nurse, he couldn’t tell which — came to his side. “Are you sure you’re okay to leave?”
“What happened to me?”
“You bashed the back of your head on some steps. We took X-rays. They’re negative. You don’t have a concussion, but I would imagine it hurts a great deal.”
That much was true. Dabir touched the back of his head gingerly.
“There was’a small cut and some abrasions. We cut off some of your hair to clean it. I think it will heal fine,” added the nurse. “You didn’t even need stitches.”
“That’s all that’s wrong with me?”
“Yes.”
“I have to go.” Dabir placed his feet on the floor. His head hurt, but he wasn’t dizzy.
“You should leave the bandage on for a few days,” said the nurse.
“Are you going to try and make the plane?” asked Li.
“Can we?”
“If we hurry. I’ll call a taxi.”
Dabir gazed at her as she left the room. She had a small, compact body — an attractive one. Had circumstances only been different, he might have found it too tempting to resist…
CHAPTER 156
Dean flew into Boston to back up Lia, even though the Art Room told him it wasn’t necessary. He’d learned from experience that he was one who had to make that call as far as Lia was concerned, or he wouldn’t be able to live with himself.
Waiting for her flight to come in, Dean found himself with time on his hands. After scoping out the terminal for the third time, he wandered over to the payphones. As he stared at them, he realized he hadn’t wandered here at all. He went to one, punched in a credit card number, then told the Art Room he’d be off-line for a few minutes.
“Hello.” The word sounded more like a demand than a greeting.
“Hey, Dad,” said Dean.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Charlie. Who’d you think it was?”
“Why are you calling?”
“I felt like it.”
The answer seemed to stump his old man. Dean imagined him scowling at the phone. He half expected him to hang up.
“Good,” said his father finally. “I’m glad.”
To Dean’s great surprise, he actually sounded as if he meant it.
* * *
Lia took a taxi from Logan Airport in Boston, checked into a hotel, and waited for the Art Room to tell her Dabir had gotten a room before leaving. A pair of CIA agents had trailed him from the airport; Desk Three was feeding them intercepts from the implanted bug and would continue to do so until he arrived in Ireland, where the CIA was installing gear to take over the rest of the job.
As far as she was concerned, they could have the creep. Every minute she spent near him, the temptation to shoot him increased tenfold.
Charlie Dean was waiting for Lia when she got out of the taxi.
“Hey, good looking,” he said, grabbing her by the waist. She started to resist — reflex onty — then gave in, wrapping her body around him in a long kiss.
“I missed you,” she whispered. “Bad.”
“Yeah? Even though I’m over the hill?”
“Oh, stop.”
“How’s Terry?”
Lia felt her face warm. She bit down on her lower lip. “Stop that,” she told him.
“You gonna tell me about Pinchon sometime?” asked Dean, taking her bag.
“Sometime. Maybe,” said Lia. “Where’s our flight?”
* * *
“I don’t like the insinuations that my father was a criminal,” said Irena when Rubens met her for lunch. With the bugging operation now in the CIA’s hands, he’d rewarded himself with a few hours off. “The Justice Department people were quite nasty.”
“You mustn’t take it personally. It’s part of Washington politics.”
“I hate it. They’re implying that he had the documents simply because they can’t locate them. He must not have had them, or they would have found them. Right?”
“No, not exactly,” said Rubens. He patted her hand. A warm wave — of what?
electricity? emotion? — ran through him. “Your father is not the real target here.”
“Who is?”
“Me. Among others.”
Rubens explained that an investigation, even one that began innocently, could be used to damage reputations by casting doubt indirectly. Clearly that was what was going on here.
The papers that were missing had to do with Asian trade matters, and while they had been code-word classified, the information in them would hardly bring down the republic if revealed. They had been prepared in conjunction with Hadash’s recent mission to China, which accounted for their secret classification. It was possible that Hadash had inadvertently shredded them without recording that fact (or returning them to their electronic “locker,” which would have been the correct procedure). It was also possible — and more likely, Rubens thought — that one of his aides had taken the copies under his authority while preparing for the mission and now felt there was too much heat to own up to the mistake.
“Is this going to hurt you?” Irena asked.
“I wouldn’t think so. On the contrary, it’s so transparent — I would think it might help in some quarters.”
This was a lie. Every bump and bruise, no matter how slight, took its toll. The slate would eventually grow crowded, and sooner or later the tipping point would be reached. The criticisms, spoken and unspoken, would coalesce; one’s star would sink. That was the Washington way. But Rubens wasn’t thinking about that eventuality now. He wasn’t thinking about politics at all. He was staring into Irena’s eyes, lost in them.
“I’m not so naive as that,” said Irena. She lifted her hand. Rubens began to draw his back reluctantly, but stopped as she caught his fingertips. “You’ve been a real friend. More.”
“Of course.”
“I would like to see you. Under — other circumstances. I would like that. If it’s possible,” she said.
For the first time, he noticed a tremor in her voice. His own throat suddenly dry, Rubens nodded, then moved his hand to hold hers properly.
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