We’re ready.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want to miss a date.”
~ * ~
T
he thin wall separating caution and paranoia had melted by the time Arna Kerr cleared the ticket counter. A kind of panic regularly accompanied this stage of a job—when the fieldwork was done but before she returned to Sweden and safety.
Arna Kerr forced herself to remain calm as she went through gate security, fiddling with her hair and fussing with her makeup to hide her jitters. Once through, she went into a washroom and checked her bags and clothes for a bug or tracking device, by going over them first with a detector and then painstakingly by hand, visually inspecting everything. She’d done this already at the hotel before leaving— and also examined the footage on the two digital cameras she’d left running on the desk—yet she still felt as if she had missed something.
She told herself she was overcompensating for spending the night with the Irishman.
God, what a mistake.
Arna Kerr leaned back against the toilet stall and pulled out his card. She started to throw it into the toilet, then stopped herself. She’d already had the license checked by e-mailing the number to one of her associates; a few speeding violations were the only blemish on the Irishman’s record. But he deserved more thorough scrutiny.
Scrutiny? Or did she really want to contact him?
She couldn’t.
Her body nearly trembled, remembering how they’d made love.
No, she told herself, dropping the card in the toilet. Not worth the risk.
~ * ~
T
hera waited until Arna Kerr’s plane had taxied to the runway before she left the terminal. Outside, the air smelled wet, heavy with moisture, as if it were going to snow. Thera zipped her jacket tighter. She was glad Arna Kerr was gone. Maybe now she could get some sleep.
“Hey,” said Ferguson, appearing beside her. “You with us?”
Thera jumped. “Jesus, Ferg. You scared me.”
“You have to pay attention to where you are,” he told her. He was serious.
“I am.”
“You were daydreaming. Somebody could have snuck up on you like I did. Are you being followed?”
Thera, embarrassed that she had let her guard down, said nothing.
“You’re not,” added Ferguson. “But keep your head in the game, all right? We’re just at the start of this.”
~ * ~
~ * ~
1
WASHINGTON, D.C.
In some alternate universe, Corrine Alston was perpetually ten minutes ahead of schedule. Her habitual punctuality impressed friends and influenced enemies. Her hair always looked perfectly groomed, and her stockings never ran.
But that was an alternate universe. In this one, Corrine was lucky if she managed to stay within fifteen minutes of the bulleted times her secretary prepared for her. As the President’s personal counsel, Corrine found her days filled with appointments, phone conferences, lunch and dinner meetings, and—on occasion—real legal work. She was three weeks past-due for a haircut, and finding time to buy a new pair of panty hose could take a month.
“They’re waiting,” said her secretary, Teri Gatins, as Corrine rushed into her office for the ten a.m. conference call. Corrine’s day had started with a phone conference at six; the half-filled cup of coffee she held in her hand was her breakfast.
“Thanks,” said Corrine. She dropped her briefcase at the side of her desk, spun the chair around, and picked up the phone.
CIA Deputy Director of Operations Daniel Slott was already talking.
“It’s a theory. I don’t know if it’s a good one,” said Slott.
“What’s that?” said Corrine.
“I was just explaining that we have a theory about what T Rex is up to in Bologna.”
“Hey, Counselor. How’s the weather at the White House?” said Bob Ferguson.
“They say it may snow,” answered Corrine.
“Gee, wish I was there.”
“Could you please
“Good. I wouldn’t want to miss a date.”
~ * ~
T
he thin wall separating caution and paranoia had melted by the time Arna Kerr cleared the ticket counter. A kind of panic regularly accompanied this stage of a job—when the fieldwork was done but before she returned to Sweden and safety.
Arna Kerr forced herself to remain calm as she went through gate security, fiddling with her hair and fussing with her makeup to hide her jitters. Once through, she went into a washroom and checked her bags and clothes for a bug or tracking device, by going over them first with a detector and then painstakingly by hand, visually inspecting everything. She’d done this already at the hotel before leaving— and also examined the footage on the two digital cameras she’d left running on the desk—yet she still felt as if she had missed something.
She told herself she was overcompensating for spending the night with the Irishman.
God, what a mistake.
Arna Kerr leaned back against the toilet stall and pulled out his card. She started to throw it into the toilet, then stopped herself. She’d already had the license checked by e-mailing the number to one of her associates; a few speeding violations were the only blemish on the Irishman’s record. But he deserved more thorough scrutiny.
Scrutiny? Or did she really want to contact him?
She couldn’t.
Her body nearly trembled, remembering how they’d made love.
No, she told herself, dropping the card in the toilet. Not worth the risk.
~ * ~
T
hera waited until Arna Kerr’s plane had taxied to the runway before she left the terminal. Outside, the air smelled wet, heavy with moisture, as if it were going to snow. Thera zipped her jacket tighter. She was glad Arna Kerr was gone. Maybe now she could get some sleep.
“Hey,” said Ferguson, appearing beside her. “You with us?”
Thera jumped. “Jesus, Ferg. You scared me.”
“You have to pay attention to where you are,” he told her. He was serious.
“I am.”
“You were daydreaming. Somebody could have snuck up on you like I did. Are you being followed?”
Thera, embarrassed that she had let her guard down, said nothing.
“You’re not,” added Ferguson. “But keep your head in the game, all right? We’re just at the start of this.”
~ * ~
~ * ~
1
WASHINGTON, D.C.
In some alternate universe, Corrine Alston was perpetually ten minutes ahead of schedule. Her habitual punctuality impressed friends and influenced enemies. Her hair always looked perfectly groomed, and her stockings never ran.
But that was an alternate universe. In this one, Corrine was lucky if she managed to stay within fifteen minutes of the bulleted times her secretary prepared for her. As the President’s personal counsel, Corrine found her days filled with appointments, phone conferences, lunch and dinner meetings, and—on occasion—real legal work. She was three weeks past-due for a haircut, and finding time to buy a new pair of panty hose could take a month.
“They’re waiting,” said her secretary, Teri Gatins, as Corrine rushed into her office for the ten a.m. conference call. Corrine’s day had started with a phone conference at six; the half-filled cup of coffee she held in her hand was her breakfast.
“Thanks,” said Corrine. She dropped her briefcase at the side of her desk, spun the chair around, and picked up the phone.
CIA Deputy Director of Operations Daniel Slott was already talking.
“It’s a theory. I don’t know if it’s a good one,” said Slott.
“What’s that?” said Corrine.
“I was just explaining that we have a theory about what T Rex is up to in Bologna.”
“Hey, Counselor. How’s the weather at the White House?” said Bob Ferguson.
“They say it may snow,” answered Corrine.
“Gee, wish I was there.”
“Could you please
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