She gave Lasker an impatient look, then disappeared into the bedroom with a toss of her head.
“Where do you find them?” Kranemeyer asked, slightly bemused.
“What?” Lasker seemed preoccupied with his towel. “Oh, her? A junior at Georgetown, majoring in international relations.”
The DCS raised an eyebrow and Lasker went on, “Was there something I can do for you, sir?”
Kranemeyer nodded, taking another look down the hallway to make sure the girl was nowhere in sight. He reached into his pocket, extracting the phone SIM card that Thomas Parker had cloned earlier in the day.
“Where did you get this?” Lasker asked, taking it from him.
“This is for me, Danny. And you don’t have need-to-know.” He held the young comm chief’s gaze, willing him not to ask too many questions. If Lasker knew under what circumstances it had been obtained…
“What exactly are we looking for?”
“I want a list of the most commonly called numbers, along with names and usual call zones. Anything that can help us pin down their location. If any of the numbers belong to pre-paid cells, I want that noted. Make this a priority, and give me a call the minute you have something.”
“Will do.” Kranemeyer turned to leave, his hand on the door, when Lasker spoke again.
“Sir? You want me to keep this on the down low?”
Another night, another time the choice of words might have brought a smile to Kranemeyer’s face. As it was, he simply nodded. “That would be best.”
And then he was gone.
There were no answers. She’d arrived at that conclusion after a hot shower, a “supper” of stale crackers and a half-empty can of Corona. No reason why the Bureau hadn’t already placed her at the scene of Vic’s murder.
A tired face, lined with age, looked back at Marika Altmann when she glanced in the mirror. She really should retire. A traitor at the highest levels of the Bureau? What was this, the Stasi?
It was time to give it up, the fight that she’d waged ever since coming to this land of the free. It just didn’t matter anymore.
It was as if the rules had changed, passing her by as if she’d been standing still. Were there still rules? Or was it just the alcohol talking?
She walked into her small bedroom, taking in the sight of the loaded Glock on her nightstand. She hadn’t always lived this way, in fear.
Her phone began to vibrate without warning, buzzing against the wood of the nightstand. The display told her it was the Bureau. “Altmann here,” she answered, trying to focus her thoughts.
The next words accomplished that for her. “Pack your bags. We’ve got a situation developing on the Michigan peninsula.”
Numb. That was the best way to describe it. Her tongue felt dry, as if her mouth had been stuffed with cotton. A dull, throbbing pain in her mouth.
Carol’s eyes flickered open, staring up at the dull, off-white paint of the ceiling. Where?
Voices. She tried to sit up, grabbing the edge of the bed’s headboard as another wave of dizziness washed over her.
Her vision cleared for a moment and she could glimpse another room through the partially-closed bedroom door. Kitchen?
Vasiliev was in her line of sight, his back to her as he leaned forward, both of his hands on the kitchen table. She could hear Han’s voice — then Harry’s, louder now.
“We’re going to need a panel van — tinted windows would be a plus.”
“Rent or buy?” Han moved into view, his face impassive.
“Buy — we’ll be ditching it when we’re done.” Harry’s voice seemed to be closer than it had been before and she looked up to see a blurred figure standing in the doorway.
The room began to spin, and Carol put out a hand to steady herself.
An arm wrapped itself gently around her waist, providing support. “Take it easy, there.”Harry.
A glass pressed against her lips, cool water trickling down her throat. The repeated assurance, “Easy, there.”
She leaned back against the pillows, surrendering to the darkness. So tired…
Harry closed the door softly behind him, returning the empty glass to the sink. “How’s she doing?” Han asked, looking up from his wallet.
“Out cold,” Harry responded. “More than I’d expect from a normal anesthetic.”
His head came up, staring at Vasiliev. “What did your dentist give her?”
Vasiliev shrugged. “To remove a microchip without damaging the tracking mechanism…is an operation of great delicacy. It is imperative that the patient be motionless.”
“What did he give her?” Harry repeated, an edge of steel creeping into his voice.
“I didn’t ask,” the former KGB officer responded. “I relied upon his professionalism in doing the job we required of him. He did say that it would probably be tomorrow morning before she is completely over the effects.”
Great.
Vasiliev moved to the table, looking at the maps Han had printed off the safehouse’s desktop computer. “At first glance, there are not many good ways to approach the Andropov estate. High walls on three sides, he’s built himself a well-nigh impregnable fortress.”
Harry shook his head, motioning for Han to go secure their van. “Nothing is impregnable. Man never built a fortress that man couldn’t take.”
Chapter 16
The night is darkest just before the dawn, or so the writers say. At the very least, the early hours of morning are when the human body experiences its deepest sleep.
Noise. The sound of a door being slammed, somewhere distant, penetrating through a cobweb of dreams. On the street, maybe — a car door?
Nasir al-Khalidi came awake slowly, realizing that it wasn’t street noise. And it wasn’t one of their neighbors, paper-thin though the walls of the tenement were. It was in the very room with him.
He threw off the thin blanket, reaching under the pillow for the switchblade he kept with him as he slept. Ten times he had asked the Americans to give him a gun, ten times they had denied him, saying it was too “dangerous.”
Dangerous. As if what he was doing for them wasn’t? He had been in Lebanon, had seen what the jihadis could do. There had been a time…he had even believed in their cause.
His bare feet touched the carpet, the shag cold between his toes. The heat must have shut off at some point in the night. Typical.
A drawer slid open, wood squeaking against wood and his breath caught in his throat. Light. He needed light.
The knife turned in his hand until he found the button, the rusty five-inch blade flipping open with a faint snick. It was little enough in the face of an intruder.
The drawer shut with a thud. Nasir thrust his hand out along the wall, finding the light switch and flicking it up.
The single compact fluorescent bulb in the ceiling came slowly to life, casting a faint glow over the room, the intruder on his knees in front of the faded wood dresser. The man looked up, his face ghostly white, the picture of terror.
“Jamal!” Nasir nearly dropped the knife. “What are you doing?”
In recent years, his older brother had always possessed confidence enough for the both of them, a surety of purpose. A faith, as if he believed his very steps were guided from Allah, subhanahu wa ta’ala.