“Will you have dinner with me tonight?” he asked. “Please?” he added, slowly turning to face her. When she hesitated, he said, “We’ll discuss the terms of the lease.”
She stuttered, “I … ah … ah … whi—which house? The lease, I mean.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“No.”
“No, you didn’t answer the question, or no, you won’t have dinner with me?” he asked.
“No, I didn’t answer the question.”
“Then you will have dinner with me?”
“No. I … I mean … that is …” He was standing too close. Her heart was pounding so hard, she feared he might hear it. She crossed her arms in an attempt to mute the pounding. “I think I’m feeling the wine.” She was hoping he might make one of his jokes, or somehow break the silence, but he just stood there staring at her, so close she could hear his shirt rustle as he breathed. He clearly had no intention of speaking until she answered him. “I’m involved with somebody, Anthony.” There, she had said it. She immediately regretted having said it, but at least she had said it. She was proud of herself.
“The man at the reception,” he said. “What was his name? Dog-something.”
“Daggett. Yes. That’s him.”
“And he’s involved in your business?”
“No,” she said, smirking. He was going to win out, she could feel it.
“I invited you to dinner, Caroline. A business dinner to discuss the terms of the lease. Dinner tonight. We all have to eat, don’t we? Does this Daggett not like you to eat?”
She blushed. She wasn’t sure what to say. Had she misunderstood him?
He named the restaurant and the time.
“I’ll have to check …” she said.
“I’ll expect you at eight,” he said, repeating the time. “Good. That’s settled. Now,” he added, taking hold of her elbow, looking directly into her eyes, “show me the bedroom, would you please?”
20
* * *
It was a French restaurant located on N Street, Chartreuse, two blocks off Connecticut. An unpretentious but definitely romantic setting, low ceiling, candlelight, chamber music turned down soft. Three of the eight small tables were occupied.
She was late. It didn’t matter. It didn’t bother him. He debated ordering a drink.
A woman cleared her voice. He looked up to see Caroline standing by the table. His Caroline, he thought. He jumped to his feet, nearly spilling his water. “Enchanté,” he said, taking her cold hand, brushing her cheek with his lips. “You are more beautiful than ever.”
She wore a navy blue silk blouse with embroidered stitching in the collar and on the pockets, faux pearls, cream-colored pleated linen pants, a wide leather belt with a delicate gold buckle. Informal but powerful. The silk fell over her full breasts and gathered tightly at her small waist. There was suggestion in the way she had left the blouse unbuttoned well into her cleavage.
He brushed aside the waiter and seated her himself, dipping low to drink in her perfume. She smelled of fresh gardenias.
She blushed. “Good evening, Carl.”
“Much better now,” he said, finding his seat.
“I interrupted you. You were deep in thought.”
He lied, “No, not really.” Then he spoke the truth: “Nothing as important as seeing you.”
She twitched with the compliment. He couldn’t tell if this was good or bad. She said, “You looked quite serious.”
“I was worried you wouldn’t come,” he said. “It was serious.”
She smiled slowly, but widely. Kort intercepted the waiter’s attempt to hand her a menu. Again, he waved the man off. “Is there any particular food you don’t like?” He gave her a few seconds to think. “Be honest, or you may not like the dinner.”
“You’re going to order for us?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Not at all. Please.”
“You haven’t told me what to avoid.”
“Tripe, sweetbread, any of the exotic meats. I love escargots, but I won’t eat shrimp because of the way they net everything in sight to catch them, and I won’t eat veal because I’ve heard dreadful stories of how they fatten them and refuse them exercise. If anything, Carl, I’m opinionated. I should have warned you about that.”
“So am I,” he said. “Especially—as with you, it would seem—when it comes to the environment.” He smirked. “Would you care for a cocktail, or wine?”
“Will you be drinking?”
“We’re discussing you.”
“Wine would be fine.”
“Red or white?”
“You’re ordering for us. I’ll leave that to you.”
He ordered her a California wine: a 1985 Silver Oak Cabernet. A bottle. He ordered them escargots, Caesar salad, and rack of lamb.
Halfway through dinner, when she attempted once again to pry into his past, he changed subjects, saying, “I hope to lease the last house you showed me, but I would very much like to take one last look at the yellow-and-white cottage we visited on our first day together. If you don’t mind, I’ll make my decision based on these last inspections. Does tomorrow work for you?”
She took a minute to search her purse and check her appointment book. He couldn’t determine if this mention of business had upset her, but he sensed a definite change of her mood, which he regretted. They agreed on a time.
“You’re a hard sell,” she told him.
“I warned you: if anything, I’m particular.”
A dollop of gravy fell from her fork and ran down her blouse. Kort saw it first. He leaned forward, extended a finger and hesitated, allowing her to stop him if she wanted. She lowered her eyes in self-inspection.
“You spilled,” he said as he ran his finger deliberately around the soft curve of her breast. He sat back in his seat, placed the gravy-coated fingertip between his lips, and sucked it clean.
Carrie felt a jolt of heat run from her breast to her toes. Her nipple hardened; she was glad for the bra. She tingled. The small of her back went damp, as did the palms of her hands. What he had just done was outrageous. Rude.
She wanted him to do it again.
She wanted privacy.
The way he smiled, he seemed to be reading her thoughts. It frightened her so much that she banged her way out of her chair.
“Let me apologize,” he said.
“Carl … I think I should go.” She wondered who was speaking for her. This wasn’t what she felt. It was as if a script had been placed in front of her and that these lines were expected of her. She couldn’t think straight.
“Caroline. There’s no need for this. Honestly! Please, sit. Stay.”
“Carl …”
“Please. Sit back down. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
She tried to stop herself from saying it. Where had such a thought come from? But it surfaced effortlessly and she heard herself say it: “I don’t want you to be.” She gasped at her own words, and then there was no choice. She turned and hurried from the restaurant, wondering who was controlling her legs. What was happening to her?
She dared not look back. The waiter bowed his head politely as she reached the door. She could feel Carl only steps behind her. Go away! she willed, reeling in embarrassment.
She reached the street. Thankfully, her car was less than a block away. She headed off in its direction, increasing the length of her strides.
His warm hands fell onto her shoulders, and she felt him slow her and spin her around to face him. She heard “What do you think you’re doing?” and she felt his lips press against her mouth, and herself willingly accept them. She withered under his strength. As he drew her against him, she opened her mouth and kissed him fully.
It wasn’t right, and somewhere deep inside she knew this. But it was very right. It wasn’t fair to Cam, but it was just what he deserved.
“We can’t,” she finally insisted, though weakly. She drew away from him.
“No!” she snapped sharply, now separating from him. He was a client, nothing more. It was absurdity. The first rule! Was he even a client? Had she seen a check yet? Who exactly was he? How could she feel so attracted to him so quickly? A few days, a week or so was all … She hated herself. “Don’t stop me, Carl,” she demanded, turning and walking to her car. But as she reached her car she wished he would stop her, wished he would do something. She didn’t want to leave it like this. “I’ll be there tomorrow,” she said to him over the roof, knowing he stood immediately behind her.
“I won’t apologize, Caroline. If that’s what you want—”
“That’s not what I want,” she admitted. You know what I want, she thought. Damn you.
He didn’t speak; didn’t say anything. She felt foolish. What a thing to say! He controlled her now and this frightened her. It thrilled her.
“Then tomorrow it is,” he said, his breath hot on her neck.
She heard him walk away. “Thank you for dinner,” she said in a choked voice. Said without looking at him. She was tempted to turn and beg him not to leave her this way.
By the time she had turned around, he was gone.
Rationality had nothing to do with it.
Carl had heated her up and she intended to put out the fire at any cost. She felt angry with Cam, whether guilt-driven or not, and she felt like penalizing him somehow, and she had decided that this was the way.
She knocked on the front door and then let herself in with her key. Cam was on the couch wearing a set of headphones, a half-empty glass of Scotch on the coffee table, his eyes open now, but she could picture how he had been only moments earlier, reclined and deeply into the second movement of Beethoven’s Seventh, asleep perhaps, the room speakers switched off, the headphones up loudly enough that she could hear the music faintly from across the room.
He seemed shocked to see her. Had it been so long? She couldn’t even remember.
He slipped off the headphones and let them fall to the couch, the music, though thin, suddenly louder. “Dunc?” she asked.
“In bed,” he answered, reaching out for the Scotch.
“Good,” she said, unbuttoning her blouse, unfastening her belt and walking defiantly toward the bedroom.
“Carrie?” he asked, following her now. Following her as Carl had. He stepped into the bedroom behind her and she pushed the door shut and switched off the lights and dropped the blouse to the floor. She heard him undress. She didn’t want to think of this as Cam. She wanted this to happen quickly, but she wanted to get something out of it.
She worked her way out of her clothes, found him in the limited light, and pushed him to the bed. She pulled his pants off.
“Carrie?” he asked again, this time bewildered and confused. Good, she liked the sound of that.
No, it’s not Carrie, she was thinking. I’m not sure who it is. She stripped him naked, climbed over him, kept him pinned to the bed, and then fell on him fully.
In her mind’s eye, she saw Carl beneath her. Much too soon, he swelled and flooded inside of her. But she wouldn’t let him go. She wanted satisfaction for herself.
“Carrie?” he attempted cautiously. “My God,” he added, “that was incredible!”
Her breathing rapid, her senses heightened but unsatisfied, she felt wild, and unsure of herself. She crawled forward and she lowered herself gently onto his mouth and said in a strange and unfamiliar voice, “Finish it!”
Which he did.
When it was over, she slid off the bed, turned her back, and began to dress in the darkness. Her eyes had adjusted. She didn’t want to see him.
“Stay. Please.”
“I’ve got to go,” she said.
“Why?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. But I know I’ve got to.”
“This … This is all?”
“It wasn’t enough?” she asked. Where had this new tone of voice of hers come from? She was being purposely cruel to him and she didn’t understand it. As she was buttoning the blouse, she felt the wet spot left by the gravy. All that was left of Carl.
“I’ve never seen you like this.”
“No.”
“You used me,” he said in astonishment, in realization. She had turned in an effort to find her other shoe. Even in the dim light they caught eyes, and she knew he could read her face. He could always read her face.
There was no use denying it.
“Yes,” she admitted, “I used you.”
He said nothing. She reveled in his silence, in her newfound power. She turned and left him lying there.
21
* * *
The red BMW was registered to a Monique Paine, a name that also appeared on the flight manifest from LAX to Washington, the flight Fragile Ramirez had placed her on using her video skills. This linkage proved enough for a surveillance warrant on the address listed on the registration. Full surveillance, including wiretaps, had begun at midnight the night before, Bradley Levin in charge. Despite the alias, to the FBI she was not Monique Paine but Monique Cheysson. To Paul Pullman and Richard Mumford she was “good, but not enough.” Physical evidence linking Bernard’s detonators to flight 64 remained the miracle Daggett awaited. Without it, at 5:00 P.M. today his involvement in this investigation came to an end, and his report on the Backman-Bernard bombing began. He had slumped into a deep depression, as much over Carrie’s unusual behavior the night before as over his work. Everything seemed to be falling apart.
The miracle came in the form of a phone call.
“It’s Chaz,” the voice said. “You shouldn’t threaten people. Especially when they run the explosives lab. Bad idea.”
“I was desperate. You have the one piece of evidence that may save this case for me. Tomorrow won’t do, Chaz. It has to be today.”
“It is today. Why don’t you hop the shuttle and get your butt over here? I’ve got something interesting to show you.”
The blue shuttle van appeared in front of the Buzzard Point building at twenty after the hour. Six people got out. A green padlocked chest was removed and transferred over to the security people at the front desk. Daggett and three others loaded and bounced around for the fifteen-minute return ride to headquarters. For Daggett, the ride was interminable.
Chaz Meecham was seated behind his generous desk waiting for him. “We could have done this on the phone,” he said, “But I hate phones.”
“You and me both.”
With a flick of the chin, he indicated the file folder in front of Daggett. “There’s your report. Your glass bulb.” He rose, shut the office door, and sat down squarely in his high-back leather office chair. He opened a drawer and removed a sealed clear plastic bag containing the remains of the glass bulb. He handed it to Daggett. “If there was mercury in that thing, Michigan, it’s long gone. Probably burned up in the fire.” After a few seconds he asked, “You all right?”
“Disappointed is all.”
“Jesus! Give me a minute to explain. It’s not all bad. The down side of this report is the lack of any evidence of mercury. Not surprising, incidentally. It’s a heavy metal. When the glass bulb broke apart, it was history; and the glass itself was too burned to give us any trace amounts.
“But one man’s ceiling is another man’s floor,” he continued. “The Lord giveth and he taketh away. The fire robbed us of the mercury, but it gave us something better. It adhered to the outside curve of your glass bulb. And we were able to identify that as what’s left behind when you burn silicon. Silicon, as in what we found in Bernard’s hotel room. In fact, the exact same chemical composition as the silicon our people lifted from his hotel room carpet. The same stuff. Page three and four, in the file.”
Daggett didn’t touch the file. “Translation?”
“The way it work
s is this: When you build a detonator, you create gates between the power source—a battery—and the explosive. Every time a gate opens, the electricity from the battery gets that much closer to the explosive.” He raised his hand like a teacher. “Let me show you what one of these babies looks like.”
Chaz Meecham left the room. When he returned, he slapped a hard cube into Daggett’s hand. “We call them ‘ice cubes.’ You can see why.” Daggett was holding a small brick of hardened epoxy with four wires sticking out. It was small and clear, like an ice cube. Two of the wires were attached to a nine-volt battery clip. The other two were bare-ended and tipped with solder. “The ones Bernard built might not look exactly like this. I have a feeling he packed it all into the altimeter, or why else would he have cut down the plastic? I don’t know … The point is, he puts all his works inside some kind of ice cube so the operative can’t screw it up, can’t dink with the electronics. He might leave a way to, say, set the clock, or something like that, but he doesn’t want his wiring messed around with. Bernard didn’t use epoxy; he used silicon. We know that from the hotel room evidence.”
“Is there a reason for that?”
“In bomb-building, there’s a reason for everything. Count on it. Silicon dries fast. It’s less messy. It flexes easily—might have something to do with the sensitivity of altimeter. Who knows?” Meecham glanced over at Daggett. “He’s good, Michigan. Real good.” Daggett felt a tension he had previously missed. This was some sort of competition between Meecham and Bernard. Could Meecham, through a few pieces of microscopic evidence found collectively in a hotel room rug, and the mud of an airplane crash, establish exactly what kind of device Bernard had built and what he intended to use it for?
“That’s my job,” Meecham said. Daggett hadn’t realized he had asked this aloud. Meecham lectured, “A simple example of a gated detonator is a clock timer—a single gate. Set the clock to a certain time and, blammo, up she goes. Not so easy on a plane. Not if you want the bird aloft and well away from where it took off. So you use a series of gates: pressure switches, blocks, thermometers, humidistats—you name it; each one responds to a different condition, a different requirement—altitude, time, temperature. It can be any number of things.”
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