At the word, he felt anger rise within him, and he grabbed her hair, pulling her head back.
“Yes,” he said. He began to kiss her naked shoulders, then breasts, then throat. He heard her gasp again, and he covered her open mouth with his.
In a moment, something changed. She began to return his kisses and to move with him. She drew up her legs and wrapped them around him; her arms snaked around his back and she began to rake his skin with her nails…
*
Afterward, they lay quietly, wrapped in each other’s arms. He stroked her hair with his fingers, feeling his pulse slow, feeling the heat rising from their bodies.
Yet as close as they held each other, he felt a widening chasm between them.
His hand touched her cheek. It was damp.
She knows.
*
He didn’t sleep. Hours later, when her breathing at last became long and steady, he slid carefully from beneath the sheets. Gathering his bathrobe from a hook on the door, he stole from the room, drawing the door shut behind him. Then he entered the den. In the dark, he felt for the hidden latch at the bottom of his bookcase and eased open the panel. His fingers probed inside for what he needed. He withdrew it, then clicked the drawer back into place.
In the living room, he pulled his key card from his wallet, then carefully opened the door to his apartment and headed for the elevators.
Three minutes later, his task completed, he returned.
Then sat alone in the dark on the living room sofa, stroking the cat.
He knew that tomorrow, they would engage in a complex minuet of forced affection. Both would try to be light and frivolous, pretending that everything was normal.
And of course it would not be. Could not be.
Until morning, he would sit here and try to learn to live with this new pain.
THIRTY-FIVE
Bethesda, Maryland
Monday, December 22, 5:02 a.m.
He arose at five in the morning. He pulled on his sweats and went down to the gym on the first floor. After warming up with some katas, he hit the machines and free weights, using the ultra-slow-repetition routines that he’d practiced for many years-the kind of high-intensity workouts that build the most muscle in the shortest amount of time.
After just over half an hour, sweating profusely, he went back to his apartment and headed directly into the shower. He winced as the hot water stung the places on his back where she had scratched him. In spite of everything, he had to smile, marveling at the intensity of her passion even after she had discovered the truth about him. Some things about women, he thought, would always remain a mystery to him.
After feeding Luna, he dressed, sat at his desk in the den, and went back to puzzling it all out.
She had left yesterday in the early evening, telling him that she had to get ready for work on Monday morning. He’d expected that; keeping up the charade any longer was just too awkward for both of them.
There was no way he’d fool her again, of course. Her reaction to the dog bite made it clear that Cronin had told her about the Doberman. Now she had confirmed, at least in her own mind, not only that he was a vigilante; she also knew, specifically, that he had to be Navarro’s shooter. She’d tell Cronin all about it later today. They still wouldn’t have proof, of course, but with their suspicions now confirmed, they would be all over him like fleas on a dog.
He would still have ways of eluding them, even while they were watching him closely. However, before he disappeared, he had some unfinished business to take care of.
For now, though, he had to put himself in their shoes. How would it go down today? He had begun to work it out on Saturday night, while lying awake next to her in the dark.
It was unlikely that she’d tell Cronin much by phone; he would need a detailed report from her, and that would take at least an hour, plus travel time. And other members of the task force would probably attend, too.
But where and when? Maybe at police headquarters in Alexandria, though possibly somewhere else. And probably after work-unless she was so upset that she’d take the day off and go see them in the middle of the day.
Timing was important. To make sure he had enough time to react before they arrived later today, he had to know exactly when she left her house or workplace and went to meet them.
Which is why he had sneaked from bed on Saturday night while she was asleep, gone down to the garage, and hidden the real-time GPS tracker in her car.
*
He was filling another coffee cup at 7:47 a.m. when he heard the computer program for the tracker start to beep. It automatically activated a computer alert when the subject vehicle was in motion. He went back into the den, sat, and zoomed in on the screen map.
The flashing red dot representing her car entered the maze of highways in Falls Church, moving east toward Route 29. He remembered that she worked for an insurance company in Fairfax; so she’d probably get on 29 and shoot straight west. Once he was sure she was on her way to work, he’d probably be okay for hours, maybe all day.
He sipped his coffee and watched. Watched her turn onto 29 east.
He sighed. It was looking as if her meeting with Cronin amp; Company would be first thing in the morning. That didn’t give him as much time as he’d like. He watched for a while as the red dot continued on 29. If she were meeting the cops in Alexandria, she might next take 120-Glebe Road-south, cutting off a lot of miles.
The red dot intersected 120 on the map.
But turned north.
What the hell?
He watched the red dot track along Glebe all the way past the George Washington Parkway, where it picked up the end of Route 123 and veered north again.
Probably heading now for the big cloverleaf entrance onto the GW, just a mile ahead.
He sipped more coffee, staring at the screen.
But the dot kept moving past the GW intersection.
He clicked the mouse several times, enlarging the street map.
Then the hair began to stand up on the back of his neck as he watched the red dot approach a place that he knew very well.
He put down his cup.
Surely she would continue right on by.
But she didn’t. Annie Woods’s car made the right turn off 123.
And onto the access road the led into the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Stunned, he zoomed in to the maximum magnification. Watched the red dot pause at the security entrance, then move on, entering the Agency campus. Then loop around to an area he knew was set aside for employee parking.
Where it stopped moving.
*
He stood on his balcony, staring blankly at the neighborhood.
He wracked his brain for something, anything, that could make sense of what he had just seen. But came up empty. It was as if all the laws of nature had been repealed-as if up and down were suddenly reversed, while gravity and inertia no longer existed. Everything he knew was coming apart, spinning crazily into chaos. And he had no idea why.
Start with what you know about her.
He realized then that he actually knew very little. Nothing but what she had told him. Except for the house in Falls Church, which was real enough; he had been there. But what else did he really know?
She was young, extremely smart, very athletic. She claimed to be an insurance claims investigator, obviously false.
What about her name? The crime victims he had met, including Susanne Copeland, all called her Annie Woods. But was it real? Could she have fooled them, too?
The funeral. He recalled all the Agency faces there. Of course, Arthur Copeland had worked for Langley as a contractor. But what if there was more to it?
The thought occurred to him: How did Annie know Susanne?
He went back inside. He needed answers.
He spent a few minutes working out his pretext. Then pulled a fresh phone and battery from his desk drawer, dialed into the “spoof” website, and programmed in an internal Agency phone number he knew by heart. That one would show up on the Caller ID when he dialed the main number.