“We go to bed — separately,” she said. “And tomorrow I head south to the syncope facility.”
“Not alone, you don’t.” In another domain, his own authority came into play. “Something is happening downriver. You’ll have a military escort.”
“Fine. I have an escort. You do your inspection of this base. Then you return to Washington and have dinner with Tricia. If it helps when you’re with her, think of what you’ll be giving up with me if you fall into her clutches again. I don’t mind being used in that way. And here’s a taste of what you’d be missing.”
She put one arm around his neck and gave him a long, searching kiss, while her other hand worked its way slowly down his belly. He reached around her upper thighs to pull her closer. She shuddered, took a step backward, and said, “Don’t get me going again. I’m the one who has to say no, and that’s not fair.”
“Not fair? You started it.” But Saul released her. “Do you want to leave here before I do?”
“You mean, to protect my good name?” Yasmin smoothed her dress and checked its fastenings. “I think it’s too late for that. We’ve been alone for hours.”
She opened the door and looked out into the hallway. “So much for reputations. Nobody. I suppose even a security man can tell when he’s not wanted.”
She walked a couple of steps ahead of Saul, then turned her head. Already she was looking more perky. “One thing you might want to fix, just in case you meet somebody on the way to the rooms.”
“My hair?” Saul reached up to smooth his graying locks.
“Your zipper.” Yasmin kept on walking. “You know, I don’t think your mother would approve of me. I’m not a nice girl.”
21
Pride goeth before a fall. That, and. a hundred other admonitions not to get too cocky.
Art lay on his back, shielded his eyes from the morning sun with his hands, and made another attempt to find a comfortable position.
The planks beneath him were of wet unseasoned timber, flat to the eye but not to the back. He had just spent six hours proving that. For the previous four hours he had been working a paddle, when any chance to lie down and rest seemed like a prospect of bliss.
Be careful what you wish for; you might get it. You didn’t often experience such immediate verification.
After they came out of the storm drain Art had thought that the biggest problem in reaching the syncope facility was solved — and he was not the only one. Seth, too confident too soon, had predicted that he would locate a boat with no trouble.
Four hours of floundering in deep snow by the riverside taught them otherwise. They traveled less than two miles. At last they found not a powerboat, able to carry them quickly and comfortably downstream; nor a sailboat, where the wind could help. Their big find was a battered and unwieldy scow, half-rotted in its timbers and with mildewed cushions on its single seat. A pair of cracked paddles floated in the three inches of scum that had to be tipped from its flat bottom.
Spend the night moving downstream, or remain huddled on the snowy riverbank? That choice was easy. You pursue progress, even if you suspect that it is an illusion.
Art had gladly taken his turn paddling in the freezing hours before midnight, when hard physical effort was the best way to stay warm. He had labored again in the predawn gloom, when a great rush of wind raised whitecaps on the shallow river and drove the boat fast downstream.
The weather front passed through in less than an hour. When it left, the temperature was fifty degrees higher. Extra clothes had to be discarded, left in a heap in the bottom of the boat for use as makeshift bedding.
Now it was Art’s turn to take it easy, drifting in and out of uneasy half sleep while Dana and Seth paddled the hulk downstream. Even with the steady push from the current, the boat was achieving no more than a couple of miles an hour. At this rate it would take days to reach the Q-5 Syncope Facility. By the time they got there, Oliver Guest’s body in its cubicle could be thawed and rotten.
Why bother? Why keep going?
For the same reason that Seaman Edgar Evans, who pulled a sled the day he died, had kept going: you paddled because if you wanted to live you had no choice.
The change in the weather was bizarre. Twelve hours earlier Art had been chilled through every layer of clothing. This morning he was down to pants and a short-sleeved shirt, and still he sweltered under blue skies and rising sun.
The quiet splash of wavelets against the side of the boat was broken by a roar of engines. He opened his eyes and lifted his head. Off to the right, silver in the sunlight, two aircraft were lifting across the Potomac River.
“From National Airport,” Dana said. She had noticed Art’s movement. “Pity we can’t get our hands on one of those. We could be where we want in fifteen minutes.”
Art nodded, following the aircraft as they headed southeast. They were propeller planes, of a style not seen for forty years.
“Cessnas.” Seth was tracking them, too. “Good to know something’s flying again. But they’re too rich for our blood. No good even if we could steal one. We don’t want people to notice where we’re goin’.”
“We sure need something new.” Art gave up the attempt to rest and sat up. So much for yesterday’s feelgood moments. The long day and sleepless night made every bone in his body ache. “We’ll take days to get there in this tub — if it stays afloat that long.”
“We’ll get there. But that’s more our style than the Cessnas.” Seth pointed to the riverbank on their left. Art, squinting that way with tired eyes, heard a throb of engines and saw a dark hulk moving into view around a snow-covered spit of land.
He shielded his eyes against the bright glare of sun and snow. “It’s a Chesapeake fishing boat. Coming round Hains Point from Maine Avenue, heading down the Potomac to the bay. Their electronic gear won’t be working, but they never rely on that anyway unless there’s bad weather. For them it’s business as usual.”
“Or better than usual.” Seth nodded to Dana and they began to paddle toward the other ship. “They can name their own price for their catch and cargo. Though I’ll bet my ass and hat they’re not takin’ credit cards. What do you think they’d ask to pick us up and drop us off at Maryland Point?”
“I don’t know what they’d ask,” Dana said. “But it’s too much. Didn’t you just say we don’t want people to know where we’re going?”
“No need to tell ’em that. We get dropped off somewhere else. What’s the nearest town to the syncope facility?”
“Riverside. But then we’d lose this boat.” Art realized that he had changed his mind. Five minutes ago he hadn’t a good word for the wreck he was sitting in. “We may need it when we leave the facility.”
“So we’ll keep it.” Seth stopped paddling and stood up. The fishing boat was less than a hundred yards away, but it was moving at a respectable speed. Very soon it would be past them and beyond contact. The scow rocked as Seth shouted and waved.
The other boat didn’t seem to change course, but someone on board must have already been watching them. The engines could no longer be heard and the ship was slowing.
“You in trouble?” A woman in black trousers and a dark gray T-shirt came to the low rail and called across to them. Her hair was tied back with a bright red head scarf. The boat was about ten meters long, black hulled with a green trim. The awning that sheltered the bridge was a matching dark green. On bow and stern, in white stenciled letters, were the words Cypress Queen.