“Hot chocolate,” our driver announced cheerily. “Right through that door.”
I glanced at Barrett. He offered me an encouraging nod. We stepped from the golf cart, pushed through the portal Suzie Smock had indicated—and found ourselves in some kind of conference room straight out of a science fiction flick.
Men in power suits and high-ranking military types argued over printouts, reports, maps, and grids spread all over the glossy surface of an enormous table. Past their hunched shoulders, a wall as wide as a house in the suburbs was nothing more than a pane of tinted glass. Beyond it, workstations, loaded with electronics, occupied level after level. On the floor below, more soldiers in headsets sweated over additional data or sat in ergonomic chairs pointed at screens mounted overhead. The screens were bigger than any Jumbotron at any NHL hockey game, and they displayed real-time images from reconnaissance aircraft and unmanned drones prowling the skies half a world away—or maybe even closer.
As a little kid, I’d seen a place like this when I’d accompanied my father to a military installation buried deep in the mountains. Just like the one at that top-secret facility, this was a command-and-control center. And its entire mission was to keep our country’s defenses up and running despite attack, damage, and even utter destruction of our national infrastructure.
A radioactive dirty bomb targeting soldiers at Dining Out certainly qualified as an attack, and in the conference room with us, the man at the head of the table glanced up as Barrett and I entered. He was as stout and sturdy as a garden gate, and he wore a gray suit with a cadet-blue tie. Though I couldn’t quite make out his lapel pin from where I stood, it looked an awful lot like the seal of the Department of Homeland Security.
“Miss Sinclair,” he said. “Please. Sit.”
I claimed a chair at the foot of the table. Barrett sat beside me. Suzie Smock reappeared, slipped a tray between us. It bore a mug of coffee for Barrett, a mug of cocoa for me, and a plate of sandwich cookies that made my tummy rumble.
The man said, “Thank you, Cora. That will be all.”
Suzie Smock, a.k.a. Cora, beamed at me like a pleased kindergarten teacher and swanned off, no doubt in search of others to mother on behalf of the government.
As the door swung shut behind her, the man spoke again. “Don’t stand on ceremony, Miss Sinclair. Your blood sugar could use a boost after the shock your body’s had. And while you’re eating, tell us about the altercation between Specialist Maddox and the two civilians you witnessed on the observation deck this evening.”
I shook my head. “I wouldn’t describe it as an altercation.”
“All right. How would you describe it?”
Sexual harassment? An intervention? An act of domestic terrorism?
“Actually,” I said, reaching for a golden vanilla cookie, “the tensions began in the bar.”
And while I described Bran’s prurient interest in Damon’s date—and Eddie Jepson’s interest in me—another person slipped into the conference room.
She was tall and slim and wore her jet-black hair in a sleek French twist pinned at the nape of her elegant neck. Her belted black trench coat showed off her narrow waist. And when she took up a spot leaning against the wall behind the man in gray, her coat gapped to show off her short black skirt and killer legs.
Compared to her smooth sophistication, I felt frumpy in my ugly jumpsuit. My freshly washed hair, I was sure, had air-dried in frizzy hanks. But I knew I was more than met the eye, so I squared my shoulders and kept on talking.
I left nothing out. Not Bran’s bothering Damon’s date on the observation deck, not Eddie Jepson’s pushing his way in, and not Damon’s swooping in with fists flying. I detailed Eddie’s messenger bag hitting the deck and how he’d lobbed it over the rail when Colonel Durante showed up. I even described how Bran, Eddie, and the beautiful girl decamped when Durante took hold of Damon.
And then the woman in black piped up.
“Ms. Sinclair,” she said, “how did you and Lieutenant Colonel Barrett happen to be outside the kill radius?”
The kill radius is the distance between the epicenter of an explosion and the point at which the blast’s force is no longer deadly. In other words, it’s the zone surrounding the bomb where the greatest loss of life occurs. If Barrett and I had been standing next to the paddle wheel when Eddie’s messenger bag blew, our families would certainly be planning our funerals right now. If we’d loitered outside the private parlors, we would’ve been severely injured. And if we’d been at the rail of the observation deck, alongside Damon and Durante, the odds could’ve gone either way. Like Durante, we could’ve gotten hurt. Or, like Damon, we could’ve gotten killed.
“You were onboard,” the brunette continued, “to attend Dining Out, which was held on the second deck. An explosive device killed forty people on that deck alone. Yet, before detonation, you went up to the third deck where you met two of your acquaintances, Brandon Laurent and Eddie Jepson.”
“Today was the first time I’d ever seen Bran Laurent. And I doubt Eddie Jepson would call me an acquaintance.”
“Really? When you saw him in the bar, he didn’t direct you and Lieutenant Colonel Barrett to steer clear of the kill radius?”
Eddie had had nothing to do with that.
Barrett and I had headed for the third deck because we’d been more eager than we should’ve been to get our hands on each other.
Of course, Barrett hadn’t stopped there. He’d had a pressing question on his mind. Remembering the moment made me feel itchy all over. Of course, I could blame anything he’d been about to say on the liquor he’d consumed at the grog bowl and hope Barrett had come to his senses since then. But in the meantime, I wasn’t about to disclose any of this to a room full of strangers.
“We went up to the third deck,” I answered, “for the view—and that’s all.”
“I see,” the brunette replied.
She turned a sly smile on Barrett. And I was seized with a decidedly unprofessional urge to smack her. Not that I got the chance.
Mr. Homeland Security spoke up as he and his compatriots got to their feet. “Thank you, Miss Sinclair. Cora will see you out. Of course, if you’d like to call your father, I can arrange a secure line…”
Everyone froze when he said that.
Because everyone was mesmerized by my father’s job description these days.
“That won’t be necessary,” I replied.
I bared my teeth in what I hoped would pass for a smile. A collective sigh of relief rose. No one would want to tell my father his only child had very nearly been blown to kingdom come. Now, no one had to. Mr. Homeland Security and his colleagues were instantly in motion, reaching for phones, arranging warrants, and ordering the arrest of Eddie Jepson.
Cora appeared at my elbow, invited me to follow her. But Barrett had been waylaid by the woman in black. Which didn’t sit right with me.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” I told Cora.
And I waded into the brunette’s conversation.
“—coast guard has no record of transporting an Eddie Jepson to shore,” she was saying.
“What are you telling me?” Barrett asked. “Jepson had a rowboat in his pocket?”
“No, I’m saying Jepson never boarded the Lady Luck in the first place. He isn’t listed on tonight’s passenger manifest.” She shifted closer to Barrett. “And that’s not all. According to the 405th’s guest list, Specialist Maddox’s date was a woman named Monique Wells, but the coast guard has no record of transporting her, either.”
“Maybe she and Jepson were thrown from the boat in the blast.”
“Maybe. The coasties are sweeping the water just in case. Or maybe your Ms. Sinclair got it wrong. Maybe the guy she saw in the bar wasn’t Eddie Jepson. By her own account, it’s been fifteen years since—”
She clammed up when I reached Barrett’s side.
“Don’t mind me,” I said. “I just came along for the cookies. Anyway, I don’t be
lieve I caught your name.”
“I didn’t toss it,” she replied.
As far as Ice Queen imitations went, hers was pretty good, but I grinned in spite of myself. She might’ve been bent on keeping secrets, but even her reticence said a lot. For instance, by withholding her name, she convinced me of one thing.
She had to belong to one of the government’s hush-hush organizations like the Defense Intelligence Agency, some subsection of the Central Intelligence Agency, or even the National Security Agency.
The men and women of the National Security Agency are notorious for keeping their names to themselves and it was little wonder. After all, the NSA keeps its ear to the ground, listening for intelligence at home and abroad in order to keep American citizens safe from terror attacks. And you can’t be successful at a job like that if you’re loud about it.
“Jamie,” Barrett said, “this is April Callahan. April, lighten up.”
“I suppose I could do that,” she admitted, and shook my hand at last. Not unkindly, she said, “Are you sure you saw Eddie Jepson this evening?”
“I’m positive. He recognized me as well.”
“You’re the only one who’s identified him.”
“Bran Laurent didn’t ID him? Push came to shove on that observation deck when Eddie tapped Bran’s shoulder. To me, that suggests they might know one another.”
“Bran Laurent isn’t here,” Barrett told me. “He refused treatment, so the coast guard released him on the docks.”
“That’s nuts,” I said.
“That’s his right,” Barrett reminded me.
“Well, with or without Bran’s corroboration, I know what I saw. I saw Eddie Jepson.” And because I couldn’t leave well enough alone, I turned to the operative. “And for the record, Eddie didn’t tip me off about the bomb. That’s not why Barrett and I went up to the third deck.”
“Oh,” Callahan said, “I’m convinced of that. Nice to meet you, Ms. Sinclair. I’ll see you around, Adam.”
She sent another one of those sly grins Barrett’s way.
And then she stalked off on those killer legs of hers.
Chapter 7
Just as the eastern horizon began to glow with the pearly pink light of dawn, Cora booted me into some nondescript parking lot eating up real estate in the middle of nowhere.
“Be sure to take your pills,” she chirped—and pushed an amber bottle into my hand. “One a day, every day, until they’re gone.”
I squinted at the label, managed to read the word iodine. During the Cold War, every self-respecting homeowner had been sure to stock the stuff in his fallout shelter, because heavy doses would combat the effects of radiation on internal organs. I was too young to have lived through those scares, but after the events I’d experienced on the Lady Luck, I had to say iodine made for one hell of a parting gift.
I opened my mouth to ask what exactly was wrong with my insides, but Cora had retreated into the bunker. Built into a hillock with waving grasses planted on the top, the entrance looked a good bit like a baseball dugout, but I knew better. Especially when the thick steel door clanged shut behind her.
I turned toward the parking lot then, its surface so old the painted lines marking out the spaces were all but gone. Weeds in rank hanks had sprouted through the cracked asphalt. Where the sunrise had begun to chase away the night, I could see bracken crowding close at the edge of the pavement and smell the salt coast not far away. There were no buildings nearby and certainly no bus stops. I supposed the rest of the Lady Luck’s passengers had been conducted through a lovely lobby and loaded onto minibuses that would drive them to their doorsteps—and I wondered if April Callahan had personally arranged for me to take the scenic route on my own.
Except, as it turned out, I wasn’t completely by my lonesome.
In the gloom, at the edge of the lot, a pair of headlamps flared to life. I could make out a plain sedan behind the glare. The car rolled toward me slowly, sand grinding under its tires. It drew alongside me and a man got out of the passenger side. He opened the rear door for me.
“Miss Sinclair, will you come with us, please?”
Really, it wasn’t a request. And I wasn’t in much of a position to refuse. But the glow spilling from the sedan’s dome light splashed across the man’s flank and down his pant leg to illuminate the fine fabric of his suit. It was as black as sin. And it wasn’t the first one I’d seen recently.
“Must be the uniform on that side of the Beltway,” I remarked, climbing into the back of the car.
“Beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“Nothing. Please give Ms. Callahan my regards.”
“Yes, ma’am, I will.”
I hadn’t been able to shake the impression that April Callahan, despite her penchant for keeping secrets, knew Barrett pretty darn well. Or if she didn’t, she definitely wanted to. Of course, Barrett had been divorced for years, and it would have been foolish of me to imagine he’d lived like a monk the entire time, so maybe the two of them had—
I didn’t want to think about Barrett like that.
And I didn’t want to think about April Callahan at all.
I turned my attention to her cronies as my escort slammed my door, then slid into his own seat. Even in silhouette, he and the driver made a matching pair. As the driver hit the gas, I angled my face toward the window and watched the Saturday sun rise over marshland.
Deep underground, in the secret conference room, in plain view of the command-and-control center’s soldiers, Barrett and I had exchanged strictly platonic goodbyes. He vowed to call me when he could, and I knew he would. And when he did, I hoped he’d tell me he and the civilian team had caught up with Eddie Jepson.
To my knowledge, Eddie had never shown an interest in explosives before. But he had now, in the worst way. He needed to be stopped in case he intended to do more damage with his newfound hobby—and in case he meant to end more lives.
Forty-one fatalities were forty-one too many, and Barrett, I knew, was heartsick that Damon had been among them. I’d seen it in his eyes before Cora lured us from the common room with promises of hot chocolate. And now, after learning that the coast guard hadn’t transported Eddie or Damon’s date from the sinking riverboat, I was worried for her.
Callahan had said her name was Monique Wells. And Damon had sure been smitten with her. But it didn’t track that she and Eddie would both tussle with Bran, and then both decamp before the bomb exploded, and then both end up missing.
That, in layman’s terms, was a heck of a coincidence.
And if there was anything I’d learned from Ray about crime and criminals, it was that there’s no such thing as coincidence.
“Ma’am?” my driver said, and I realized we’d returned to civilization. Or at least what passed for it on the main drag through Fort Donovan. “Where would you like to go?”
“The airport, please.”
Not that I had any intention of boarding a flight or heading home. Barrett had invited me down south for a romantic weekend. And even though Eddie Jepson’s attack had altered our plans, down south was where I intended to stay.
At the curb outside the Arrivals terminal, I thanked Callahan’s henchmen for the ride. Inside, I located a public payphone. Such outdated artifacts are hard to find in our cellular age, but airport arrival lounges tend to be flush with them, though whether for the sake of incoming travelers or because they’re too expensive to remove, I have no idea.
Arrival terminals also offered another attraction. They typically played host to a variety of rental car companies. So, while a bevy of flat-screen TVs broadcast images of the decimated Lady Luck towed to shore by a team of tugboats, and talking heads breathlessly speculated about what it all meant, I placed a collect call to my office manager, Laura Rygaard. With no ID, no credit cards, no cash, and no wheels, I was stranded in a world of hurt. Laura, however, is a miracle worker, even on a Saturday morning. Within forty minutes, I bellied up to a particular car rental company’s coun
ter, collected the keys to a nice Ford Focus that Laura had finagled for me, and walked away with a bottle of water, a road atlas, and a booklet of coupons good for discounts at over twenty-five Beauville-area dining establishments.
On the way to the rental car shuttle stop, travelers I passed began to eye me strangely. One woman nudged her husband and pointed at me with her boarding pass as he attempted to stuff his windbreaker into his carry-on. His mouth dropped open when he got a look at me, and I followed his gaze as it shifted to one of the televisions pigeonholed in a shabby seating area.
On the TV’s screen, an anchorman, freshly shaven and suitably serious, yammered in front of a wall-sized image of me with my father. The picture had been pulled from video taken at a political fundraiser the previous spring, because my father wasn’t just a former two-star general anymore. These days, he was a United States senator—and his occupation was apparently enough to disrupt the news cycle and put the focus on insignificant me instead of on the tragedy of Damon and the forty other Americans who’d lost their lives for no good reason.
I wasn’t sure how often this network had run my connection to the bombing story—or when it had first gone on air—but my guess was some enterprising local news producer had spotted my name on the Lady Luck’s manifest late last night and blabbed. As a result, Wolf Blitzer had probably been talking about me in his sleep. And his wide-awake early-morning colleague was poised to do the same.
I drifted closer to the television, listened to the anchor announce, “We go now to Washington, DC, where Senator James Sinclair, ranking member of the Senate Armed Services Committee, is standing by. Sir, if I might, have you spoken with your daughter since this incident? How is she?”
And there, suddenly on screen, was my father, looking like a seventy-year-old Clark Kent and standing in the stone splendor of the Capitol’s National Statuary Hall as Augustus Lukeman’s bronze likeness of Jefferson Davis peered down on him.
The Kill Radius Page 6
