countries. Nothing that suggested a terrorist presence in the United States.
“We don’t know,” Cuddy answered. “Maybe because Eric never had it.”
“—Or deliberately held it back.” The DCI’s cool gray eyes flicked remorselessly over Caroline’s face. “This could be his bargaining chip. The most essential piece of the puzzle. The one piece he knew we’d need.”
“Maybe,” Cuddy agreed cautiously. “Or maybe he never knew there were 30 April cells in the U.S. Maybe that truth died with Krucevic. We can’t say.”
“Tell that to the President,” Dare retorted bitterly. “Hundreds of people are showing up at hospitals, all of them poisoned, eight days after he declared victory on 30 April. He looks clueless. Worse—he looks weak. We’ll be the first people Jack Bigelow blames, of course. This is our blunder. The hit we didn’t see coming. Even though we’ve got no jurisdiction in this country—”
“What if we tried to find him?” Caroline interrupted.
“Eric?” The DCI stopped pacing, hands on her hips. “Are you nuts ? Do you think I want to see Eric Carmichael’s face anywhere this side of hell, Caroline, with the vice president’s blood on his hands?”
“He could help. He may know something.”
Dare laughed harshly. “Too late. It’s absolutely out of the question. Eric screwed the deadliest terror organization on the face of the earth— and the President of the United States. I’m not going to let him screw me, too.”
Daniel was lying on his stomach as he’d been taught to do by the army overlords who’d driven him like a steer through that Bosnian winter, years ago. His fingers were steady on the M16’s barrel as he focused his telescopic sight. He hardly needed it, here in the November garden, motionless beneath the bare twigs of a dogwood tree. He was only thirty feet away from the three people talking around the fire.
He could smell the wet clay of the Potomac riverbank, the sickly sweetness of decaying leaves. Woodsmoke from the chimney of this three-hundred-year-old house. It was strange, how often he’d found himself outside in the dark like this—watching the perfect life of another human being unfold before his eyes. The richness of the silk damask on that sofa, copper red; the black and tan dog sprawled with its muzzle reaching toward Atwood’s feet. The younger blond woman, thin and tense as she gestured with her hands. The faded pattern of the Oriental rug and the dark gleam of mahogany throwing back the flames. Order. Beauty. And the chaos he alone could bring.
He fixed her head in the crosshairs, and fired.
Chapter 10
BERLIN, 10:03 P.M.
It was not the first time he had wandered one of the world’s great cities without a place to call home. As he hoisted himself out of the trunk of Dagmar’s sedan and kissed her on both cheeks, the two solemn little boys watching from the backseat, Eric had already decided where he would go. The Mitte District of Berlin—where Sharif’s wife had bolted with him to an underground parking garage—was too chic, a decade after unification, for flophouse hotels. Dossing in one of the parks would get him arrested. He’d double back toward the Bahnhof Friedrichstrasse, the gloomy old train station that had once been the main portal to East Germany, and catch one of the all-night elevateds to the western part of town. There he could wait for the first fast train of the morning. Frankfurt, maybe. Munich. Even Paris was only fourteen hours away.
His blood quickened at the thought of Paris. Border security might ask for his passport as he approached the edge of France—but in unified Europe, they usually did not. Somehow he felt he could be safe in Paris. It was a city 30 April had never hurt.
He mounted the concrete steps leading out of the garage into the chill drizzle of a persistent rain, and glanced casually in both directions as he reached the street. It was dark and empty of life. Better to run
“We don’t know,” Cuddy answered. “Maybe because Eric never had it.”
“—Or deliberately held it back.” The DCI’s cool gray eyes flicked remorselessly over Caroline’s face. “This could be his bargaining chip. The most essential piece of the puzzle. The one piece he knew we’d need.”
“Maybe,” Cuddy agreed cautiously. “Or maybe he never knew there were 30 April cells in the U.S. Maybe that truth died with Krucevic. We can’t say.”
“Tell that to the President,” Dare retorted bitterly. “Hundreds of people are showing up at hospitals, all of them poisoned, eight days after he declared victory on 30 April. He looks clueless. Worse—he looks weak. We’ll be the first people Jack Bigelow blames, of course. This is our blunder. The hit we didn’t see coming. Even though we’ve got no jurisdiction in this country—”
“What if we tried to find him?” Caroline interrupted.
“Eric?” The DCI stopped pacing, hands on her hips. “Are you nuts ? Do you think I want to see Eric Carmichael’s face anywhere this side of hell, Caroline, with the vice president’s blood on his hands?”
“He could help. He may know something.”
Dare laughed harshly. “Too late. It’s absolutely out of the question. Eric screwed the deadliest terror organization on the face of the earth— and the President of the United States. I’m not going to let him screw me, too.”
Daniel was lying on his stomach as he’d been taught to do by the army overlords who’d driven him like a steer through that Bosnian winter, years ago. His fingers were steady on the M16’s barrel as he focused his telescopic sight. He hardly needed it, here in the November garden, motionless beneath the bare twigs of a dogwood tree. He was only thirty feet away from the three people talking around the fire.
He could smell the wet clay of the Potomac riverbank, the sickly sweetness of decaying leaves. Woodsmoke from the chimney of this three-hundred-year-old house. It was strange, how often he’d found himself outside in the dark like this—watching the perfect life of another human being unfold before his eyes. The richness of the silk damask on that sofa, copper red; the black and tan dog sprawled with its muzzle reaching toward Atwood’s feet. The younger blond woman, thin and tense as she gestured with her hands. The faded pattern of the Oriental rug and the dark gleam of mahogany throwing back the flames. Order. Beauty. And the chaos he alone could bring.
He fixed her head in the crosshairs, and fired.
Chapter 10
BERLIN, 10:03 P.M.
It was not the first time he had wandered one of the world’s great cities without a place to call home. As he hoisted himself out of the trunk of Dagmar’s sedan and kissed her on both cheeks, the two solemn little boys watching from the backseat, Eric had already decided where he would go. The Mitte District of Berlin—where Sharif’s wife had bolted with him to an underground parking garage—was too chic, a decade after unification, for flophouse hotels. Dossing in one of the parks would get him arrested. He’d double back toward the Bahnhof Friedrichstrasse, the gloomy old train station that had once been the main portal to East Germany, and catch one of the all-night elevateds to the western part of town. There he could wait for the first fast train of the morning. Frankfurt, maybe. Munich. Even Paris was only fourteen hours away.
His blood quickened at the thought of Paris. Border security might ask for his passport as he approached the edge of France—but in unified Europe, they usually did not. Somehow he felt he could be safe in Paris. It was a city 30 April had never hurt.
He mounted the concrete steps leading out of the garage into the chill drizzle of a persistent rain, and glanced casually in both directions as he reached the street. It was dark and empty of life. Better to run
Similar Books
