Jen ended the call abruptly, probably to answer a text from that malingering Taylor kid. Davis didn't take it personally. He pocketed his phone. The bartender was screwing with the remote again. Davis ignored the television, but found himself mesmerized by the remote control. He needed one for his life. Fast forward. Rewind. Maybe a mute or closed caption button for Thierry Bastien. Yes. That was exactly what he needed.
When Sorensen came back she looked a little more steady. He imagined she'd spent a few minutes in front of a mirror dabbing cool, water-soaked towels in all the right places.
"How's Jen?" she asked.
"All I heard about were boys and movies. She's great." Davis drained his mug and frowned.
"That was supposed to cheer you up, Jammer. Look, it could have been worse — at least it wasn't bring-your-daughter-to-work day."
His expression turned even more sour.
"Sorry. How about I buy the next round?" she offered.
He spun his empty back and forth in a half circle. "No thanks, I'm good."
"You don't sound like it. Let me guess — you'd rather be home."
"Yeah. And I'm still not sure I like being used by the CIA."
"Recruited is^ better word."
He shook his head. "The army recruits."
"Okay, call it a draft."
"Let's call it a mistake and leave it at that. You should tell your boss that if I stay on this little project, I'm going to drive him or her nuts."
Sorensen finished her wine. She said, "Maybe you should go home, Jammer. I wouldn't think any less of you."
"Yes you would."
The television went back to Caliph's picture. It was a head shot, his crown wrapped in a pristine white cloth. They both stared.
She said, "Do you think it's really possible?"
He gave her a sideways glance. "That those idiots we ran into tonight were linked to Caliph? No, no way. He gets too much credit."
"You said yourself that we were rousted because of the investigation. That all your poking and prodding must have hit a nerve with somebody. And I'm here because CargoAir is somehow linked to Caliph."
They both distilled the idea.
She asked idly, "The name Caliph — do you know what it translates to in English?"
He shrugged. "Shitwad?"
Sorensen smiled. It was still a nice smile, fat lip and all. "It means 'spiritual leader.' Maybe he really believes it."
"Yeah. He's a rpal messiah."
Davis leaned back, clasped his hands behind the bent Slinky that was his neck. Everything here was wrong. Bastien, Caliph, pulled circuit breakers — and now four thugs had come after him. It probably meant he was on the right track, turning over the right rocks. It all screamed for him to stop, to bail out and go home. But he knew he wouldn't. Knew he couldn't. And once Davis had settled that, he wasn't going to sit around and wait for the next fight to come to him.
He said, "Want to take a road trip tomorrow?"
"Sure. Where?"
Davis liked how the first word had come right out. No hesitation. "Marseille. I want to get a firsthand look at a C-500 — a tail number that's still in one piece."
"Will they let us?"
"They'd better." He slid a wad of euros onto the bar and pushed his stool back. "And in the meantime, there's something I'd like you to look into — you know, with your connections and all."
"What's that?"
"I want to know how the Bureau Enquetes-Accidents appoints these boards. I want to know how Thierry Bastien got in charge of this fiasco."
"You think somebody is messing with the investigation? Trying to manipulate the outcome?"
"No. That can't happen. There are a lot of competent people here — they'll figure out what happened to that airplane. But we have Bastien going after the captain and somebody tampering with evidence. And now you and I get roughed up. It's like — I don't know, it's like somebody is trying to delay the inevitable. Buy time."
"Buy time for what?"
Davis paused, said nothing. He reached out and took her elbow, inspected her wrist again. "This is swelling a lot."
"It's fine."
Davis kept holding her arm. Her wrist had a faint ring of white where a watch had been, the rest of her skin holding the subtle vestige of a distant, late-summer tan. The skin was smooth, all the way to her rolled up sleeve, and traces of faint blonde hair made it seem that much softer. When Davis looked up their faces were close. Probably closer than they'd ever been. Sorensen was looking at his hand, the one touching her. She was staring at his wedding ring.
Davis was struck by the odd realization that he and Sorensen were investigating each other. Searching for feelings and attachments, tying to make conclusions using all available evidence.
He pulled away.
Neither spoke for a moment.
"I guess we should get some sleep," she said.
"Yeah. But I really think we should wrap that wrist."
She looked at it and sighed. "I guess so."
Davis sat on his bed, the unused Ace bandage he'd dug out of his suitcase lying next to him on the blanket. His room was dark, the only light coming from the bathroom, a frail, indirect glow that left most of the room in shadows.
He'd been there for ten minutes. Sitting, thinking about Sorensen. Or more precisely, thinking about her wrist. It shouldn't have been such a complicated thing, yet Davis found no end to the tangents pinging through his head. Had she been wearing a watch earlier? He couldn't remember. Why didn't she wear one now? Maybe she had just started using her phone to keep the time like so many people. Or maybe the watch had been a gift from Mr. Almost, discarded when he was.
And why the hell are you sitting here worrying about it, Jammer?
Davis looked down and realized he was twisting his wedding ring, spinning the gold band in circles on his finger. He reached down and gave a slight tug. It moved.
For the first time in fifteen years.
Five minutes later Davis knocked on Sorensen's door. She opened it and then pulled back a stride, leaving plenty of room. She had changed into a nightshirt. It was nothing flimsy, just long and white and cottony.
Davis held out the bandage in his left hand.
Sorensen didn't take it.
He said, "Do you need this?" Because he couldn't just stand there and say nothing.
She stared at his hand for a moment, then took him by the shoulders and pulled him into the room. Sorensen took the Ace wrap. She dropped it on the floor. Then she stood on her tiptoes and put two very soft lips to his ear.
"Yes," she whispered.
Davis crooked his leg and shut the door with a heel. He leaned into her and they kissed. It was long and electric. Sorensen broke, stepped back a few paces. She looked him in the eye as she pulled her nightshirt over her head. There was nothing underneath, nothing except the hourglass shape of her hips and breasts silhouetted perfectly in pale light that cast through the window.
She smiled — slow, like a breaking sunrise — and said, "You're a visual guy, right?"
"Right."
Chapter TWENTY-NINE
At nine o'clock that evening, Herman Coyle was busy crunching numbers in a small office in the White House basement. Darlene Graham had given him the working space on his request. There was a cot in one corner — Coyle had not wanted to waste time commuting on the Beltway — and a dinner tray sat untouched by the door.
He had realized the magnitude of his miscalculations early this afternoon. The initial damage reports, security camera footage, and forensic analysis all confirmed his initial take — that the attacks on America's refineries had been very, very clinical. All but one had targeted the primary crude furnaces. Try as he might, Coyle could not think of a more incapacitating blow. But then, just minutes ago, he'd had his palm-to-the-forehead moment.