1:15 PM
T he powder-blue Sikorsky Executive helicopter lifted vertically off the South Street helipad, dipped left briefly, then climbed to a thousand feet under a southwest compass heading. Within minutes, they were flying low and fast over the coastline of New Jersey.
Garrett lay back in the plush leather seat. Alexis made a series of cell-phone calls, talking quietly but forcefully into a Bluetooth headset. She seemed to alternate between anger and surprise. Garrett tried to hear her over the rotor and engine noise, trying all the time to regain control of his hearing, but gave up after a few minutes. He pulled out his own cell phone and tried to call Avery Bernstein, just to tell him he was okay, but Garrett couldn’t get any reception—Alexis Truffant’s military technology was clearly better than his. He closed his eyes, exhausted, the shock of the explosion having worn off, leaving him drained. His hands were trembling slightly. Just as he was on the verge of sleep, Alexis tapped him on the shoulder.
“You shouldn’t sleep. You might have a concussion.”
Garrett kept his eyes open after that. He watched the coastline rush past, then the inland scrub of South Jersey, then the yawning blue of the Delaware Bay. It was beautiful, whitecaps and sailboats and rusting freighters, all splayed out just below him. He had never flown in a helicopter before. As they sped over the Delaware peninsula, then across Chesapeake Bay and over the suburban sprawl that clustered between Baltimore and Washington, he ran over what had happened on the street in his head. He tried to focus on the face ofthe slouching man, and then the second man on his cell phone. Was that bomb meant to kill him? His memory told Garrett that they had been watching him. Okay, he thought, if so, then Captain Truffant was correct, and the bomb was aimed at him. But why blow him up? Was this about the Treasury bonds? And Avery’s warning? But Garrett had already passed on what he knew. It made no sense. Given that it was a singular occurrence, it fit no pattern, and Garrett was not good at one-offs. His head still hurt from the explosion, so he decided to stop thinking about it.
He turned to Alexis when she was between calls.
“Where are we going? Exactly?” he asked.
“Bolling Air Force Base. It’s where my agency is headquartered. The Defense Intelligence Agency.” She smiled at him. “So now you know who I work for.”
“Woo-hoo,” Garrett answered, wagging his finger in the air.
The Sikorsky swung south to avoid the restricted air space over D.C., then approached Bolling by going up along the Potomac. From the air, the base seemed not unlike any other corporate mall or planned community, with tract homes, baseball fields, and a small marina on the river. It didn’t even have a runway. The Sikorsky set down on a helipad near a parking lot, and Garrett and Alexis climbed into a waiting black sedan. They were driven to the east edge of the base, where there was a small hospital.
Garrett was waved through an admitting room, past a triage nurse and into a green examination room. A young doctor was waiting for him. She cleaned the cuts on his face and shoulder, then ran him through a series of concussion tests, all of which he passed. The doctor handed him a card and asked him to call if he felt dizzy or nauseous. Alexis seemed to have disappeared—the doctor said she was going to examine her next—and in her stead a pair of military policemen escorted Garrett out of the hospital to a single-story, windowless office-park building. They brought him to a fluorescent-lit conference room, asked him if he’d like a sandwich—he asked for a turkey and Swiss—and then returned with the food and a soda ten minutes later.
Garrett ate hurriedly, and considered whom he might call. The truth was, there were only a few people who cared about his welfare, Mitty and Avery being top of the list. It occurred to Garrett that he might finally have managed
T he powder-blue Sikorsky Executive helicopter lifted vertically off the South Street helipad, dipped left briefly, then climbed to a thousand feet under a southwest compass heading. Within minutes, they were flying low and fast over the coastline of New Jersey.
Garrett lay back in the plush leather seat. Alexis made a series of cell-phone calls, talking quietly but forcefully into a Bluetooth headset. She seemed to alternate between anger and surprise. Garrett tried to hear her over the rotor and engine noise, trying all the time to regain control of his hearing, but gave up after a few minutes. He pulled out his own cell phone and tried to call Avery Bernstein, just to tell him he was okay, but Garrett couldn’t get any reception—Alexis Truffant’s military technology was clearly better than his. He closed his eyes, exhausted, the shock of the explosion having worn off, leaving him drained. His hands were trembling slightly. Just as he was on the verge of sleep, Alexis tapped him on the shoulder.
“You shouldn’t sleep. You might have a concussion.”
Garrett kept his eyes open after that. He watched the coastline rush past, then the inland scrub of South Jersey, then the yawning blue of the Delaware Bay. It was beautiful, whitecaps and sailboats and rusting freighters, all splayed out just below him. He had never flown in a helicopter before. As they sped over the Delaware peninsula, then across Chesapeake Bay and over the suburban sprawl that clustered between Baltimore and Washington, he ran over what had happened on the street in his head. He tried to focus on the face ofthe slouching man, and then the second man on his cell phone. Was that bomb meant to kill him? His memory told Garrett that they had been watching him. Okay, he thought, if so, then Captain Truffant was correct, and the bomb was aimed at him. But why blow him up? Was this about the Treasury bonds? And Avery’s warning? But Garrett had already passed on what he knew. It made no sense. Given that it was a singular occurrence, it fit no pattern, and Garrett was not good at one-offs. His head still hurt from the explosion, so he decided to stop thinking about it.
He turned to Alexis when she was between calls.
“Where are we going? Exactly?” he asked.
“Bolling Air Force Base. It’s where my agency is headquartered. The Defense Intelligence Agency.” She smiled at him. “So now you know who I work for.”
“Woo-hoo,” Garrett answered, wagging his finger in the air.
The Sikorsky swung south to avoid the restricted air space over D.C., then approached Bolling by going up along the Potomac. From the air, the base seemed not unlike any other corporate mall or planned community, with tract homes, baseball fields, and a small marina on the river. It didn’t even have a runway. The Sikorsky set down on a helipad near a parking lot, and Garrett and Alexis climbed into a waiting black sedan. They were driven to the east edge of the base, where there was a small hospital.
Garrett was waved through an admitting room, past a triage nurse and into a green examination room. A young doctor was waiting for him. She cleaned the cuts on his face and shoulder, then ran him through a series of concussion tests, all of which he passed. The doctor handed him a card and asked him to call if he felt dizzy or nauseous. Alexis seemed to have disappeared—the doctor said she was going to examine her next—and in her stead a pair of military policemen escorted Garrett out of the hospital to a single-story, windowless office-park building. They brought him to a fluorescent-lit conference room, asked him if he’d like a sandwich—he asked for a turkey and Swiss—and then returned with the food and a soda ten minutes later.
Garrett ate hurriedly, and considered whom he might call. The truth was, there were only a few people who cared about his welfare, Mitty and Avery being top of the list. It occurred to Garrett that he might finally have managed
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