the brick sidewalk had thrust their roots well under the paving, heaving the surface as efficiently as a family of moles. Caroline stepped carefully over the curb and glanced up at Dare’s house. A classic three-story Federal with black shutters and a historic plaque; lights burned behind the curtained windows to the left of the door. A few dead leaves skittered down the street; from the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a man slouching along the sidewalk with a duffel over his back. Homeless, she thought. Vietnam vet. And mounted the three marble steps, waiting for the bellow of Dare’s dog from within.
The bark came right on cue as she lifted the door knocker, followed by a brisk patter of high heels. Dare would be fully dressed, although it was nearly midnight. She’d been on her way to the Agency when they called.
“Caroline,” the DCI said as she swung wide the door. “Cuddy. Come in, won’t you? Don’t mind Alistair—he’s a big lap puppy.”
The Airedale was as tall as Dare’s thigh; he grinned at them hugely and thrust his nose into Caroline’s palm. The distinctive terrier smell of wet lambs’ wool rose comfortingly from his coat. She followed the DCI down the hall’s checkerboard of black and white marble and into the sage green living room.
Daniel had parked his motorcycle three blocks away on O Street, near the entrance gates of Georgetown University, where the welter of locked student bicycles and secondhand cars offered useful cover. He’d stored his rifle in a duffel bag he’d strapped to the motorcycle’s rear, and it was easy now to sling it over his shoulder and head toward the lights of Wisconsin Avenue. He knew exactly where he was going. He’d cased the place before. He intended to take his time getting there, and make certain he wasn’t being followed.
He’d done his recon well. He’d followed the DCI’s chauffeur-driven navy blue Town Car on his motorcycle several times over the past two weeks, from the CIA’s back entrance to this street in the heart of Georgetown. Once, the Town Car had led him to the gates of the White House and he’d been tempted, there and then, to weave through the concrete security pylons and straight up to the guardhouse, shooting as he went; but Daniel was no hothead. He was too smart to throw away his chance at glory in the End Times with some kickass assault on the Zoggite Seat of Power. He’d cut past the Town Car as it turned off Pennsylvania. And kept going toward Georgetown and the door that he knew was left unguarded.
Darien Atwood’s house sat halfway between Thirty-sixth and Thirty-fifth Streets. It had no garage, but a narrow brick walk fronted by an arched door separated the house from its neighbor. The path led around the side of the old structure to the walled garden behind. It had taken Daniel only minutes to learn that the lock was just a simple Colonial latch.
“You’re telling me there’s a 30 April cell in Washington?”
“We think so. With at least one member in the vice president’s residence,” Caroline said.
She and Cuddy were seated uncomfortably on a camelback sofa. The living room ran the length of the row house, with an area for dining set out in front of a pair of French doors. Beyond these lay the walled garden, a well of darkness Caroline kept at her back. Her eyes stayed fixed on the DCI.
Dare Atwood turned restlessly before the fire. She was a tall, angular woman with iron gray hair and a face as lined as crumpled tissue paper. Tonight, in deference to Sunday, she’d worn gray flannel trousers instead of correct executive suiting; a cashmere sweater gripped her throat. “Why didn’t we get this information out of Budapest?”
It was her oblique reference to Eric Carmichael, and the CD-ROM full of data he’d downloaded from 30 April’s computer. Terrorist networks and financial backing worldwide. Names, dates, and places of hits ample enough to roll up cells in half a dozen European
The bark came right on cue as she lifted the door knocker, followed by a brisk patter of high heels. Dare would be fully dressed, although it was nearly midnight. She’d been on her way to the Agency when they called.
“Caroline,” the DCI said as she swung wide the door. “Cuddy. Come in, won’t you? Don’t mind Alistair—he’s a big lap puppy.”
The Airedale was as tall as Dare’s thigh; he grinned at them hugely and thrust his nose into Caroline’s palm. The distinctive terrier smell of wet lambs’ wool rose comfortingly from his coat. She followed the DCI down the hall’s checkerboard of black and white marble and into the sage green living room.
Daniel had parked his motorcycle three blocks away on O Street, near the entrance gates of Georgetown University, where the welter of locked student bicycles and secondhand cars offered useful cover. He’d stored his rifle in a duffel bag he’d strapped to the motorcycle’s rear, and it was easy now to sling it over his shoulder and head toward the lights of Wisconsin Avenue. He knew exactly where he was going. He’d cased the place before. He intended to take his time getting there, and make certain he wasn’t being followed.
He’d done his recon well. He’d followed the DCI’s chauffeur-driven navy blue Town Car on his motorcycle several times over the past two weeks, from the CIA’s back entrance to this street in the heart of Georgetown. Once, the Town Car had led him to the gates of the White House and he’d been tempted, there and then, to weave through the concrete security pylons and straight up to the guardhouse, shooting as he went; but Daniel was no hothead. He was too smart to throw away his chance at glory in the End Times with some kickass assault on the Zoggite Seat of Power. He’d cut past the Town Car as it turned off Pennsylvania. And kept going toward Georgetown and the door that he knew was left unguarded.
Darien Atwood’s house sat halfway between Thirty-sixth and Thirty-fifth Streets. It had no garage, but a narrow brick walk fronted by an arched door separated the house from its neighbor. The path led around the side of the old structure to the walled garden behind. It had taken Daniel only minutes to learn that the lock was just a simple Colonial latch.
“You’re telling me there’s a 30 April cell in Washington?”
“We think so. With at least one member in the vice president’s residence,” Caroline said.
She and Cuddy were seated uncomfortably on a camelback sofa. The living room ran the length of the row house, with an area for dining set out in front of a pair of French doors. Beyond these lay the walled garden, a well of darkness Caroline kept at her back. Her eyes stayed fixed on the DCI.
Dare Atwood turned restlessly before the fire. She was a tall, angular woman with iron gray hair and a face as lined as crumpled tissue paper. Tonight, in deference to Sunday, she’d worn gray flannel trousers instead of correct executive suiting; a cashmere sweater gripped her throat. “Why didn’t we get this information out of Budapest?”
It was her oblique reference to Eric Carmichael, and the CD-ROM full of data he’d downloaded from 30 April’s computer. Terrorist networks and financial backing worldwide. Names, dates, and places of hits ample enough to roll up cells in half a dozen European
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