Peering inside the Audi, she saw Jay Weston, an operative she‘d poached from Hobart, the largest government ODC-overseas defense contractor-six weeks ago.
At once she put up the Lady Hawk, holstered it. -Jesus, Jay, you could‘ve gotten yourself killed.
— I need to see you.
She squinted. -Well, shit, you could‘ve called.
He shook his head. His face was pinched and tight with unaccustomed tension. -Cell phones are too insecure. I couldn‘t take the risk, not with this.
— Well, she said, leaning on the window frame, — what‘s so important?
— Not here, he said, looking around furtively. -Not anywhere where we can be overheard.
Moira frowned. -Don‘t you think you‘re being a bit paranoid?
— Being paranoid is in my job description, isn‘t it?
She nodded; she supposed it was. -All right, how d‘you-
— I need to show you something, he said, patting a pocket of an expensive-looking sapphire-blue suede jacket slung across the passenger‘s seat, then took off toward the ramp up to the street before she had a chance to climb in or even answer him.
She sprinted to her car, starting it up with the remote as she ran. Hauling open the door, she slid behind the wheel, slammed the door shut behind her, and put the car in gear. Jay‘s Audi was waiting for her at the top of the ramp. The moment he saw her approach in his rearview mirror, he took off, turning right out of the garage. Moira followed.
Latenight traffic with people returning home from the theater and movies was light, so there was no real reason for Jay to run the lights on P Street, but that‘s precisely what he continued to do. Moira put on speed to keep up with him; more than once she barely avoided being clipped by the cross-street traffic, tires squealing, horns blaring angrily.
Three blocks from her building they picked up a cop on a motorcycle. She flashed her high beams at Jay, but either he wasn‘t looking or he chose to ignore her because he kept running the red lights. All at once she saw the cop flash by her, heading toward the Audi in front of her.
— Shit, she muttered, putting on some more speed.
She was thinking of how she was going to explain her operative‘s repeated infractions when the cop drew up alongside the Audi. An instant later he‘d drawn his service revolver, aimed it squarely at the driver‘s window, and pulled the trigger twice in close succession.
The Audi bucked and swerved. Moira had only seconds to avoid slamming into the car, but she was fighting the immoderate speed of her own vehicle. At the periphery of her vision she saw the motorcycle cop peel off and head north at a cross street. The Audi, in the middle of a series of sickening pendulum-like swings, smashed into her, sending her car spinning.
The collision flipped the Audi over like a beetle on its hard, shiny back. Then, as if a monstrous fingertip had flicked it, it continued to roll over, but Moira lost track of it as her car struck a streetlight and careened into a parked car, staving in the offside front fender and door. A blizzard of shattered glass covered her as she was jerked forward, hit the deployed air bag then dizzyingly was slammed back against her seat.
Everything went black.
Climbing carefully over the rows of seat backs was like wading into a sea frozen solid with reef-struck bodies. It was the small broken bodies of the children that were hardest to pass by without heartbreak. Soraya murmured a prayer for each of the souls deprived of the full flight of life.
By the time she reached Delia‘s position, she realized that she‘d been holding her breath. She let it out now with a small hiss, the acrid odors of burned wiring, synthetic fabrics, and plastics invading her nostrils in full force.
She touched her friend on the shoulder and, mindful of her Egyptian observer, said softly, — Let‘s take a walk.
The observer made to follow them, but stopped at a subtle hand sign from Chalthoum. Outside, the desert light was blinding, even with sunglasses, but the heat was clean, the arid spice of the desert, the murderous sun a welcome respite from the death pit into which they‘d both sunk. Coming home to the desert, Soraya thought, was like returning to a longed-for lover: The sand whispered against your skin in intimate caress. In the desert you could see things coming at you. Which was why people like Amun lied, because the desert told the truth, always, in the history it covered and uncovered, in the bones of civilization from which the eternal sand had scoured away all lies. Too much truth, people like Amun believed, was a terrible thing, because it left you nothing to believe in, nothing to live for. She knew she understood him far better than he understood her. He believed otherwise, of course, but that was a useful delusion for him to hold close.
— Delia, what‘s really going on? Soraya asked when they‘d plodded some distance away from the al Mokhabarat sentries.
— Nothing I can substantiate at the moment. She looked around to make sure they were alone. Seeing Chalthoum staring after them, she said, — That man is creeping me out.
Soraya moved them farther away from the Egyptian‘s penetrating gaze.
— Don‘t worry, he can‘t overhear what we say. What‘s on your mind?
— Fucking sun. Squinting behind her sunglasses, Delia used her hands to shadow her face. -My lips are going to peel off before the night is over.
Soraya waited while the sun continued to throb in the sky and Delia‘s lips continued to burn.
— Fuck it, Delia said at last. -Five to two the crash wasn‘t caused by something inside the aircraft. She was an inveterate poker player; every situation was a matter of odds. She often transformed nouns into verbs, too.
— I instinct a particular explosive.
— So it was no accident. Soraya‘s blood ran cold. -You ruled out a bomb so, what, an air-to-air missile?
Delia shrugged. -Could be, but you read the transcript of the flight crew‘s last conversation with the tower at Cairo International. They saw no sign of a jet coming up on them.
— What about from underneath or behind?
— Sure, but then the radar would‘ve picked it up. Besides, according to the copilot, he saw something smaller even than a private jet coming up on them.
— But only at the last possible instant. The explosion took place before he had time to describe what it was.
— If you‘re right, that leads us toward a ground-to-air missile.
Delia nodded. -If we get lucky the black box will be intact, and its recorder might tell us more.
— When?
— You saw what a mess it is in there. It‘s going to take a while to ascertain whether it‘s even retrievable.
Soraya said in the dry, ominous whisper of the hot wind that reshapes the dunes, — A ground-to-air missile would bring an entire universe of very nasty possibilities into play.
— I know, Delia said. -Such as the involvement, either complicit or implicit, of the Egyptian government.
Soraya couldn‘t help but turn to look at Chalthoum. -Or al Mokhabarat.
6
MOIRA AWOKE to the ticking of her mother‘s heart. It was as loud as a grandfather clock and it terrified her. For a moment she lay in a fury of darkness, reliving the blur of sound and motion as the paramedics came, took her mother off to the hospital, all seen through a haze of tears. That was the last time she saw her mother alive. She never had a chance to say goodbye; instead, the last words she‘d said to her were — I hate your guts. Why don‘t you stay out of my life! All of a sudden her mother was dead. Moira was seventeen.
Then the pain set in and she began screaming.
The ticking was real; it was, in fact, the sound of the over-revved engine cooling. Hands were pulling at her, cutting through the web of her seat belt, the flaccid cloud of the air bag. As if in a dream, she felt her body moving, the drag of gravity settling in her shoulder and the pit of her stomach. Her head felt as if it had been split open; she was nauseated with pain. Then, with a crash that reverberated through the cotton in her ears, she was out of her steel cage. She felt the
night air soft on her cheek, and there were voices near her, buzzing like angry insects.
Her mother… the hospital waiting room, stinking of disinfectant and despair… the sight of the wax doll in the open coffin, horrifying in its inhuman lack of animation… at the cemetery, the yellow sky reeking of coal gas and sorrow… the ground swallowing the coffin whole, like a beast closing its jaws… clods of newly turned earth damp with rain and tears…
Awareness returned to her slowly, like a fog creeping over a moor, and then, with the suddenness of a floodlight being switched on, full consciousness returned. Awakening from a dream, she knew where she was and what had happened. She felt death close by, knew that it had bypassed her by inches. Each breath felt like fire and ice, but she was alive. She wriggled her fingers and toes. All there; all working.
— Jay, she said into the face of the paramedic bent over her. -Is Jay all right?
— Who‘s Jay? a voice out of her field of vision said.
— There was no one else in your car. The paramedic had a kind face. He looked too young for this kind of work.
— Not my car, she managed. -The one in front.
— Oh, jeez, came the voice at her side.
The kind face above her split in sorrow. -Your friend… Jay. He didn‘t make it.
Tears leaked from the corners of Moira‘s eyes. -Oh, hell, she said. -Oh, damn.
They began to work on her again, and she said, — I want to sit up.
— That wouldn‘t be a good idea, ma‘am, the kind face said. -You‘re in shock and-
— I‘m sitting up, Moira said, — with or without your help.
With hands under her arms, he drew her up. She was in the street, next to her car. When she tried to look around, she winced and lights exploded behind her eyes.
— Get me to my feet, she said through gritted teeth. -I need to see him.
— Ma‘am-
— Is anything broken?
— No, ma‘am, but-
— Then get me to my goddamn feet!
There were two of them now, the second one improbably looking younger than the first.
— Do you even shave? she said as they raised her off the tarmac. Her knees nearly buckled and a wave of blackness consumed her so she had to lean on them for a minute.
— Ma‘am, you‘re white as a sheet, the kind face said. -I really think-
— Please don‘t call me ma‘am. My name is Moira.
— The cops will be here in a minute, the other one said under his breath.
She felt a clutch in the pit of her stomach.
The kind face said to her, — Moira, my name is Dave and my partner here is Earl. There are policemen who want to ask you what happened.
— It was a policeman who caused all this, Moira said.
— What? Dave said. -What did you say?
— I want to see Jay.
— Believe me, Earl said, — you really don‘t.
Moira reached down, patted her Lady Hawk. -Don‘t fuck with me, guys.
Without another word they took her down the street. It was littered with car parts and the glitter of blown-out windows and taillights. She saw a fire truck, an EMT ambulance beside the hideous wreck of the Audi. No one could have survived that crash. With each step she gained strength and confidence. She was banged up and bruised, possibly, as they said, in shock, but otherwise unscathed. Luck beyond words. She thought of the pig spirit in Bali, who must still be protecting her.
— Here come the Warm Jets, Earl said.
— He means the cops, Dave translated.
— Guys, she said, — I need some alone time with my friend and the cops won‘t let me have it.
— Neither should we, Dave said dubiously.
— I‘ll handle these bozos. Earl peeled off to intercept them.
— Steady on.
Dave gripped her more tightly as she staggered without Earl‘s countervailing support. She took another couple of deep breaths to clear her mind and steady her body. She knew she had very little time before the cops would brush aside whatever smokescreen Earl managed to concoct.
They passed the all-but-unrecognizable crumple-and-twist of the Audi. She took a deep breath, righted herself, then they were at what remained of Jay Weston. He looked more like a lump of raw meat than a human being.
— How in the world did you get him out?
— Jaws of Life. In his case, it didn‘t help. Dave helped her to squat down beside the corpse, held her up as another wave of dizziness threatened to topple her. -It might be my job for this, he said.
— Relax. My friends will keep you safe. Her eyes were roving over every inch of the wasteland that was Jay. -Jesus, nothing could survive this mashup.
— What are you looking for?
— I wish I knew, but his jacket…
Dave reached down, drew something out from underneath the wreckage. -You mean this?
Moira‘s heart rate accelerated. It was Jay‘s sapphire-blue suede jacket, miraculously unscathed except for a couple of burned patches on the sleeves. It stank of smoke and toasted cologne.
— Believe it or not, things like this happen all the time, Dave said. He had deliberately positioned himself between Moira and the two cops who now brushed by Earl, having had their fill of his medical gobbledygook. -We find things-wallets, keys, baseball caps, condoms-you wouldn‘t believe-in virtually mint condition, thrown clear of the most horrendous wrecks.
Moira was listening with only one ear as her nimble fingers rifled through the outer and inner pockets. Rolaids, two rubber bands, a paper clip, a pinch of lint. Inside pockets contained no wallet or ID of any kind, which was standard operating procedure. If he got into trouble or needed clearance he made a call. Money was somewhere on his person, burned to a crisp. But speaking of his cell, she palmed it as Dave rose to intercept the cops.
She was about to give up when she spotted the loose thread at one of the inside seams. Pulling it opened a small hole out of which she dug a twogigabyte thumb drive. Hearing the sound of heavy footfalls coming up behind her, she made the sign of the cross over Jay‘s body and, with Dave‘s strong hand gripping her elbow, stood up to face her wearying interview with the Warm Jets.
Which turned out to be fully as stultifying and dunderheaded as she had foreseen, but at least she had the last laugh because before they got around to asking her the same questions for the third time she pulled out her Federal Securities Act ID, at which point they went silent. It was all Dave and Earl could do not to snicker into their red faces.
— About this traffic cop, Moira said. -I need to know who he was. I‘ve already told you twice even though you clearly didn‘t believe me, he discharged his weapon through the side window of Mr. Weston‘s Audi.
— And you say Mr. Weston worked for you? The taller of the two cops was a badge named Severin.
When she said yes, he nodded at his partner, who stepped away to use his cell phone.
— What were you doing kneeling over the body? Severin said. Maybe he was just marking time, because he‘d seen what she was doing and he‘d already asked her twice.
— Praying for my friend‘s soul.
Severin frowned, though he nodded, possibly in sympathy. Then he jerked his head at Dave and Earl. -These yahoos shouldn‘t have let you anywhere near your friend. This is a crime scene.
— So I understand.
His frown deepened, but the nature of his thoughts remained a mystery as his partner returned to the huddle.
— Here‘s a kick in the groin, he said facetiously. -There‘s no record of a motorcycle police from traffic or from any other department, for that matter, in this vicinity in the time frame we have.
— Damn it to hell.
Moira palmed open her cell, but before she had a chance to make a call, two men strode up. They wore identical dark suits but had the slopeshouldered military bearing of NSA operatives. She knew she was in trouble the moment they showed their IDs to the detectives.
— We‘ve
got it from here, boys, Dark Suit Number One said while his partner gave the cops the thousand-yard stare. As the police backed off, Dark Suit Number One slipped his hand into Moira‘s pocket with the deftness of a professional pickpocket. -I‘ll take that, Ms. Trevor, he said, holding Jay‘s cell between the tips of his blunt fingers.
Moira lunged for it, but Dark Suit One snatched it out of her reach.
— Hey, that‘s the property of my company.
— Sorry, Dark Suit One said, — this has been impounded as a matter of national security.
Before Moira could say a word he took her arm. -Now if you‘ll be kind enough to come with us.
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