“I had the strangest dream last night,” she said.
“What was it?” he asked.
“I dreamed that we kissed.”
Chris smiled. “Is that so strange?”
“Surprising is a better word. A good surprise.”
Chris smiled. “I had the same dream.”
“You hungry?” she asked.
“Like a tiger.”
“Then let’s go, tiger.”
“I have a feeling that today we may not have much more time for eating,” Chris said.
“Me, too.”
They exited his room and checked on Young, but he was already eating and working. Chris and Hannah descended the stairs and made breakfast. The refrigerator and pantry were well stocked, and he made himself salmon with fresh fruit and orange juice.
Hannah only wanted a waffle, topped with fresh fruit and whipped cream.
“Your parents are diplomats, aren’t they?” she asked.
They sat down at the kitchen table and ate. “Service is important to them,” he said. “What about your parents? I don’t know anything about them.”
“My mother’s family was quite well-to-do, but her clan was weak, and the other clans persecuted her family — in the name of Allah. My mother’s family wanted to stay in Iran, but their lives were in danger, so they tried to get out. Only my mother survived. She was rescued by a case officer working for the Agency. His cover was blown, and he left the country with her.” Hannah ate a bite of her waffle.
“He sounds like a special man,” Chris said.
Hannah finished chewing.
“He was my biological father.”
Chris didn’t know what to say, so he waited for her to speak again.
“He died when I was young,” she said, “so I hardly knew him. But I knew I wanted to be like him. My whole life I’ve wanted to be like him.”
“Must’ve been hard.”
She leaned over the table. “You don’t understand. You don’t understand the half of it.”
“I can only understand what you share with me, Hannah.” Chris said softly. “How did he die?”
“Every time I ask around the Agency about how my father died, I hit a brick wall with the same old you-don’t-have-a-need-to-know BS.”
“It sounds like they want to cover something up,” Chris said.
“More like someone.”
Chris ate another morsel of salmon. The feeling that something bad might happen to her rushed over him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Your face says something is wrong,” she said.
He focused on finishing his meal, but he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in his gut.
What sounded like a stampede of feet pounded down the stairs then. Startled, Chris, Hannah, and the agents drew their pistols and aimed.
It was only Young, who promptly froze and threw up his hand. “Hey, guys, it’s me.” In his hand was a piece of paper. When they lowered their weapons, he extended the paper to Chris. “This is an address for the phone number you found on the tango in my living room.”
“You want to go hard or soft on this address?” Hannah asked Chris.
“Hard as woodpecker lips,” Chris said.
36
Chris and Hannah left the safe house and drove a rental SUV fifteen minutes to a neighborhood called Seven Corners. Chris turned north off Arlington Boulevard and entered a residential area filled with spacious two-story homes.
“I can see why the tangos chose this location,” Chris said. “So many trees here, and each house sits on a large lot to provide separation. Nobody can see what his neighbor is up to.”
“You just going to do a drive-by first?” Hannah asked.
“Probably. If the situation looks good, we’ll pay this guy a visit.”
Chris drove past the house, and there was only one vehicle in the driveway. “Looks good so far,” Hannah said.
No one seemed to be home at the neighbor’s house, so he pulled into the neighbor’s drive and parked. “We’ll enter the target building through the back, so nobody coming to the front will see evidence of our entry.”
“Roger,” Hannah said.
They wore civilian clothes but carried assault rifles. Leaving the neighbor’s property, they passed through a cluster of white cedar trees and walked around to the side of the target building. They looked inside the windows, but there was no sign of anyone. At the rear of the house, Chris kicked in the back door. Hannah entered first and peeled left. Chris followed her and peeled right. She was moving too fast, putting herself in Chris’s firing lane — if he had to shoot, he might end up shooting her, too. A more experienced operator would be careful not to get too far in front of his mates. Chris could speed up, but he might miss covering his area properly and get them both killed.
When they reached the kitchen, the dishwasher door was open, and there were dishes and eating utensils in the rack. The house appeared lived-in, but no one was on the first floor.
Chris and Hannah met at the stairs. “I’ll go first,” he whispered. “When we clear the rooms, be careful not to get too far ahead of me.”
This time, Hannah kept pace with him as they searched bedrooms, bathrooms, and closets. The master bedroom contained the usual furniture except for one thing: a coffin-sized wooden box. Combination locks secured it near both ends. The surrounding carpet was wet and smelled like an unflushed toilet.
Chris pulled out his lock picks, and as he worked the lock, something — or someone — stirred. After he picked the other lock, he motioned for Hannah to stand at an angle covering the box without standing in front of it. Chris stood off to the other side. He didn’t want to be in front when something blew up or when Jack-in-the-Box popped out shooting.
He quickly opened the box, and a fist-sized stench of piss and shit punched him in the face, making his eyes water and throat gag. Inside lay an Arab man clothed in a straitjacket and bound with leg irons, lying in his own filth.
“Please, help me,” the man cried in English, squinting his eyes against the light.
But Chris didn’t know if the hostage was friend or foe, and Chris didn’t have time to deal with him, so he left the man where he was and searched for more clues before taking any action.
“Please, get me out of here,” the hostage called out in Arabic this time.
Chris noticed a cell phone on a nightstand and pocketed it.
“He’s coming back any moment,” the hostage said.
“Who’s coming back?” Hannah asked.
“The Grave Man,” the hostage answered.
She looked at Chris, then back at the Arab. “Who is the Grave Man?”
“He works for Kalil.”
Chris’s senses heightened, and he looked out the window. “Do you know exactly when he’s coming back?”
“Soon!” the hostage shouted.
In the corner of the room, there was a computer on a small desk. Jackpot. He’d have to work quickly. He pulled out his burner phone and called Young to tell him about the computer. At Young’s instructions, Chris turned on the computer, opened the web browser, and found one of Young’s web pages. Young gave him an ID and password to log in.
“Now I’m going to access the computer by remote,” Young informed him. The cursor on the screen moved seemingly on its own, windows opening and closing. Young was in.