“… comes down,” he finished.
She nodded. “It will rouse waves more than a hundred meters tall off the coast of Africa, fifty meters tall as far south as Brazil, and sixty meters tall off the coast of Florida and the Caribbean four thousand miles away. That’s eighteen stories high.” She paused for a moment, then added, “It’s funny you should ask about that. James spent most of last year on La Palma working on a new book about the Cumbre Vieja. He… ” She stopped midstream.
“Yes?”
Swenson stared at Decker, her eyes suddenly cold. Then she shook her head. “No. Nothing.” She glanced down at her watch. “Wow,” she said. “I didn’t realize the time.” She stood up from behind the desk.
“Just a minute. What were you going to say?”
Swenson hesitated, glanced out the window. “Nothing.”
“Yes, you were.” Decker stood up. He leaned against the desk. “Look, Ms. Swenson, you can either answer my questions here, or I can take you back to New York. It’s up to you. And while I’d greatly enjoy your company on the long drive home, I feel obliged to warn you that — since Nine Eleven, when it comes to matters of national security — the government doesn’t look too kindly on those who obstruct justice, wittingly or unwittingly. Have you ever actually read the Patriot’s Act?”
“He’s gone,” she said.
“Who?”
“Dr. White!” She glanced about the room as if the scientist might suddenly appear from behind the bookcase. “It looks like he hasn’t been here for days. And he’d never leave, not voluntarily. Not with his wife so sick.”
“Unless he’s hiding.”
“From whom?”
“I don’t know. Do you?” Decker stared at Swenson. She was still holding something back. He could see it in her eyes. He could sense it. “You must have some idea.”
“Someone,” she said. “Someone’s been following me.”
Decker felt a strange tingling at the back of his neck. “Who?” he said.
She shrugged. “I don’t know him.”
“What’s he look like?”
“A foreigner. I saw him for the first time the night James disappeared. About five feet seven, or eight. Short. Dark. Dark eyes. Slim. Middle-Eastern or North African, I’d say.” She shrugged and wrapped her arms about her chest, hugging herself. Decker was fascinated by the way she moved. She seemed confident and fearful all at once. Then her face completely changed, running from a kind of abstract, dull distaste to loathing, to genuine surprise. And then, finally, to horror.
“Like him,” she said, pointing at the window.
Decker turned. The face that he had stared at for days, the eyes and nose and mouth of Salim Moussa were pressed against the glass. And in his hand was a gun. Decker reached for his Beretta. He turned and took a bullet in his chest.
When Decker awoke, he was handcuffed to a radiator, and Swenson was standing above him. He immediately recoiled into the snake position, and took her down in one smooth movement. With his free hand he pinned her to the floor. He wrapped his fingers around her throat. She choked and sputtered. She coughed. Then he noticed the wallet in her hand. His wallet. Decker loosened his grip. He brought her close to him, clenching her head in the crook of his arm. The unforgettable smell of burnt gunpowder permeated the room.
“Let go of me,” she gasped.
“What were you looking for?” he said. He squeezed her tighter.
“I wanted to be sure.”
“Sure? About what?”
“That you’re really with the FBI.”
“Who else would I be with?”
“I don’t know,” she gasped, relaxing, then bucking like an alligator, twisting in his grasp. He squeezed her even tighter. She stretched, and reached out for his face, trying to scratch his eyes. He pressed the soft spots immediately behind her earlobes. Swenson screamed. “I don’t know,” she repeated, growing still. Her voice was laced with fear now. “I swear I don’t.”
Decker noticed a series of bullet holes in the front door. The shots had been fired from within. “I believe you,” he said. Then he shook his wrist and said, “The key, please.” He relaxed his grip slightly, just enough for her to reach into her jeans. A moment later, Decker was free. Only then did he release her.
She shimmied across the floor. “That’s big of you,” she said as soon as she was out of reach. She struggled to her feet. She shook the wallet in her hand. “IDs can be faked, you know.”
“Then why did I let you go?”
She hesitated for a moment. “It’s not a very good likeness of you,” she added, tossing his wallet back.
“Did you do that?” He pointed at the door.
Swenson bent down and picked up his Beretta from behind the desk. “Oh, I get it,” she said. “Because I’m a woman, I can’t shoot, right?” Without looking, she pressed the release button behind the combat trigger guard. “I grew up on a ranch in South Dakota, Agent Decker.” The magazine popped out in her hand. “I think I prefer the 9000 to the 92FS. Must be the polymer frame. Here.” She slid the empty gun across the floor. “I was just trying to scare him off.”
Decker picked up his Beretta and returned it to his Bianchi holster. “Looks like you succeeded,” he said. He parted his topcoat and blazer, and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. He was wearing a Kevlar vest underneath. A flattened slug was clearly visible, buried just to the left of his heart. He picked it out and handed it to Swenson.
She stared at the shiny object in her hand with both disgust and fascination, as though it were some hideous benthic beast, freshly hauled out of the deep, potentially lethal. Then she walked over to the window — pierced by a single bullet hole — and glanced about the porch. The yard was empty. “I think he’s gone,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”
Decker was impressed by Swenson’s calm demeanor. Most people would have been shaking like a leaf about this time. She’s got grit, this girl, he thought, and he found himself drawn to her even more. He followed her into the kitchen. As Swenson fiddled with the kettle, he sat down at the breakfast table. He watched her fill the kettle, watched her turn and settle it upon the stove. Then she looked up, her eyes moist, indecisive, torn. Her lips were almost tremulous. She stared directly at his face and said, “Will you help me, Agent Decker?”
Decker smiled. After a few seconds, he replied, “What am I meant to say?” He shrugged his shoulders, throwing the last few words away. “You saved my life.”
“I’m worried about James,” she answered, riding over him. She sat down at the table. “He’s been acting so strange lately. At first I thought it was because of Doris. But now… ”
“Go on,” he said. “What is it?”
“Maybe it will help. I don’t know. The truth is James has got some serious financial problems. There. I said it. Doris’s medical bills are huge and the health coverage at the Institute isn’t what it should be, believe me. He’s even started stripping his retirement accounts, his TIAA-CREF.”
“Where is he now?” he asked. “With Doris?”
She shook her head. “No, that’s just it. He hasn’t been at the hospice to see her in days. I don’t know where he is. Nobody does. He’s just… disappeared.” The kettle whistled like a train. Swenson stood up and poured the boiling water on the tea leaves. “And now this guy,” she added. She handed him a steaming mug of tea. Her voice was calm but Decker could plainly see the worry in her eyes. “The man who’s been following me,” she said, sitting down again. “Who is he? What does he want with me?”