Fear and confusion raced through her mind, along with uncontrollable rage. She appealed to him through the gag using groans and moans and spleen and spittle. He ignored her, silent as the grave, shutting out her whiny pleas as if they were mere annoyances, his double-fisted grip knuckle-sharp on the steering wheel. Only once did he glance her way, his expression somewhat contrite, but immediately returned his attention to traffic whizzing past, eyes attentive. He hitched his shoulder, grimacing tightly. He looked whipped and disillusioned and uneasy, all those things one would imagine a desperate man on the ropes would look like. He certainly didn’t look like the mild-mannered analyst she once worked with, more like his evil twin brother. He also looked as if he had been in a scrap, the bruises and scrapes on his hands and face glaring. The radio volume was deafening loud. The booming bass of hard-rock music pounding in her ears made it impossible for her to think, to plan, to find a way out. She shook her head, trying to throw off the hood, but the cords were tied unforgivingly. She struggled to reach the knots binding her wrists, but her palms were pressed together, impeding movement and rendering her fingers useless. She was in a fighting mood.
Jack drove with single-mindedness, his face a fierce mask, not the jokey fellow she knew from work. He would drive one way, slam on the brakes, execute a sharp turn, circle around the block, reemerge on the same boulevard, and shoot off in the opposite direction. Or he would pull onto a side street, park, and wait with roving eyes. A minute later he would pull back into traffic, this time cautiously, mindfully obeying the rules of the road, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror. It finally came to her what he was doing. He was making sure no one was following him, or if someone were, to flush him out. She trembled at the thought and started to feel sorry for him. But god damn it, not that sorry.
After fifteen minutes of dodging and burning, he picked up the state highway and took it west for several miles before getting off on a road heading north. He drove past a commercial zone, crossed over railroad tracks, and hurled past entrances of multimillion-dollar subdivisions before burrowing deeper into the countryside. He plowed along winding roads, zipped through woods and fields and open land, and finally slowed down before backing into an access road, engine running and fingers impatiently tapping the steering wheel. He switched off the radio. Summer cicadas were singing their high-keening songs. Somewhere a red cardinal called to his mate.
“Where are you taking me?”
The words had come out garbled through the folds of the scarf. He understood her well enough but said nothing, only sent her an unnerving look. Eventually he pulled out of the access road and drove at a leisurely pace, more relaxed than before. Five minutes later, he swung onto a two-lane road, drove for another mile, and turned into a remote wooded area. Gravel crunched beneath the tires before the car entered a side lane of encroaching vegetation and low branches. They came upon a placid lake surrounded by pine trees and picnic tables. Two mallards paddled peacefully across the shimmering surface, a brood of ducklings trailing behind in V-formation. He pulled over, settled back, and shut his eyes. He sat there for nearly a full minute. Except for the grinding of his jaw, not a muscle moved.
He opened bloodshot eyes and reached over, gently pulling the hood off her head and fingering the scarf away from her mouth. “We need to talk.”
She shook her mane, as much to clear hair from her eyes as a gesture of defiance. “Untie me first.”
“Got to admit,” he said, grinning. “The lady has balls.”
“You think I’ll run?”
“I know you’ll run.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“I can’t trust you. Hell, I can’t trust anyone.” His laughter was laced with irony and a touch of melancholy.
A man as beaten as he was, was a dangerous man. “What happened to you? It looks like―”
“I walked into a wall. Like you care.”
“I care.”
He shot her a quick look. Those two words had probably been the nicest words spoken to him in weeks. He let out a heavy sigh and sank into the seat. He was thinner than when last she saw him. Skinny and scrawny and drawn. A broken man.
“Why did you kill Milly?” The coarseness in her voice surprised even her.
“If you can ask a question like that, you don’t know me very well.”
“I thought I did. Once. But everybody says―”
“Do you always believe what everybody says?”
She gazed into her lap. “Not always, but―”
“But nothing. You know me. You know what kind of man I am. Or should.”
She turned her head and looked at him, really looked at him. She saw the man she first met last year—his bronze complexion, prominent cheekbones, tapered eyes, dark-brown almost bluish-black hair, square jawline—features that set him apart from most of the pale Caucasian men she had known, the Asian influence of his Native American heritage strong on his face. Then she saw a different man, this one with a pallid complexion, multiple bruises, livid injuries, and drained lifeforce. In measured, barely controlled tones, she said, “I want to hear you say it.”
“It wasn’t me. Someone set me up.”
She looked at him again—this time beneath the injuries and haggardness—and tried to see whether he was a truthsayer or a storyteller. He was the same man he had always been, in the soulfulness of his expression, the intelligence about his eyes, and the placidness in his expression. “Who?”
“You know who.” He emphasized each word, leaving pauses in between so she would get his meaning. “Someone must have hacked me.”
“Why? What were you doing?”
“It’s what I wasn’t doing. I wasn’t believing in the mission statement. I wasn’t toeing the line. I wasn’t keeping my mouth shut.”
She glanced away and swept her eyes over the bucolic scenery. Aneila had always been an obedient girl, a quiet girl, a girl who never questioned her elders, a girl afraid of her own shadow. But here was Jack, telling her that he was the target of some sort of assassination plot. Her thoughts weighed good against evil, right against wrong, innocence against guilt. She was trembling uncontrollably from both fear and anger. It was important for the world around her to be orderly and predictable. Jack had robbed her of both. “Are you one of those conspiracy theorists? Seeing spies behind every tree? Black helicopters in the sky? Assassins crouched in grassy knolls?”
“I wasn’t before.”
“You’d be dreaming if you think HID is out to get you.”
“Call me a dreamer.”
He couldn’t look at her. She couldn’t look at him. A wall of ice separated them, his torments on one side and her fears on the other. Before she was scared of him. Now she was scared for him.
“Does HID have special operatives on the payroll?” he asked. “For setups. Assassinations. Kidnappings. Stuff like that.”
She could feel her body expand with a shuddering intake of breath and then deflate as the air escaped in a rush. “You’re kidding me, right? You’re having me on?”
“What have we been talking about? What do you think happened to me?”
“I guess ….” She made a weary shrug. “I guess I didn’t want to know.”
“So,” Jack pressed. “Operatives. Contractors. Mercenaries.”
“They hire people from the outside. Do it all the time. From what I’ve heard, usually against foreign principals. But you already know that.”
“I thought … never mind what I thought.”
“Do you really think they set you up?”
“And Harry.”
She gave him a meaningful look, closed her eyes, whispered a silent prayer, and nodded.
“What have you heard?” he asked. “What are they planning to do?”
“Nobody knows. They hold enough meetings. Behind closed doors. Without putting anything in writing. I’ve checked. Scoured the share sites. Asked others. Everything is being kept very quiet.”
“You’re a terror, Miss Chowdhury. A po
sitive terror.”
“You just found out?” She flung her head haughtily back, glorying in his praise. “Anyway … they’re very tight … Browne, Howden, and the rest. Tight lipped. I know of at least two meetings held offsite.”
“With DOJ? Or the FBI?”
She shook her head, shrugging helplessly.
“I have to talk to someone high up. Someone I can trust. What about Cameron? Or Sessions. Maybe Allison Dovecote. She’s liaison with the NSA, isn’t she?”
“You still haven’t told me why you were set up … what you found out.”
“It’s what I didn’t find out.”
Thoughts rushed through her head. Wild thoughts. Irrational thoughts. “Are you a spy or something? For the Russians? Or for―?”
“You haven’t asked me to untie you.”
She became quiet within herself. Both of their lives had been forever changed. He couldn’t go back. She feared going forward. “I figured you’d eventually get around to it.”
Eventually was now. He leaned over, reached around, and undid the knots, his touch gentle, his face close to hers, close enough to kiss her and to drink in her breath. When he finished, she gazed into his eyes.
“What’re we going to do?” she said, rubbing circulation back into her wrists.
“You? Nothing. Me? Run.”
She fell against him, the side of her face flush against his chest, her hands sweeping around him and bringing him close. He needed comfort as much as she did. The meeting of their lips came naturally. The kiss turned into something extra. The anguish of the moment had everything to do with it. They were living in an upside-down, inside-out world with everything twisting in the wind. She supposed that when a man like Jack faces mortality at the age of thirty-two and a lady gazes at him with wet and worried eyes, a lady who smells sweet in a foul world, a lady who believes him … and believes in him … well, a lady like that is a lady to cling to for as long as time will allow. And he did, until the sweetness of hello turned into the bitterness of goodbye.
“Where will you go? What will you do?”
“If they don’t catch me first? Find out who did this to me.” He released her and put the car into gear, once again becoming a loner on the run with nowhere to go but everything on the line.
On the ride back to town, they sat in silence, each wholly aware of the other, neither reaching out by deed or word. He parked a few blocks north of West Street. Reaching over, he fingered the security badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck. “I need a favor.”
“Don’t even ask.”
“And your laptop.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Either you’re on my side or you’re not.” He lifted the lanyard from around her neck and put it around his. “Logins? Passwords?”
She recited them. They didn’t need repeating.
“I’ll get everything back to you as soon as I can.” He gave her a swift parting kiss before climbing out of the car and ambling away, her laptop case slung over his shoulder.
For a few brief moments, she wished with all her might that he would turn around, get back into the car, and drive toward the sunset with her by his side.
He didn’t look back.
9
Annapolis, Maryland
Friday, July 25
FOR MOST OF her adult life, Liz had pursued power. Power, influence, and the satisfaction of fooling every man she ever met. Worthy or not. Prominent or not.
When she stepped into the balmy evening, she also stepped into her future. Brandon’s invitation was significant, of that she had little doubt. His German-make four-door sedan was waiting for her curbside, engine running. She climbed in beside him. He looked her over with covetous eyes. Saying nothing, he put the car in gear and headed out. After a while, he said, “Tell me about yourself. Your family.”
Hometown Smyrna, Georgia. Youngest child of three girls born to Harold Langdon and Bette Johnson, divorced. Contentious relationship with Bette. Distant relationship with Harold. Dysfunctional families make for dysfunctional children, and the Langdon family was no exception. Liz had grown up thinking Harold was her real father, but at the impressionable age of thirteen, she asked her mother several questions. Why don’t I look like Daddy? Why am I taller than both of you? Why is my hair brown but yours isn’t? I know I have your laugh, but nothing belonging to Daddy. Her mother told her she was being silly, but she went on asking. Why don’t I fit in? What’s wrong with me? The look in her mother’s eyes spoke the truth. There had been another man. It explained quite a lot, particularly why her father never paid any attention to her, ridiculed her, and belittled her. Mom went on pretending theirs was a perfect family, even after divorcing husband number one and marrying husband number two, Liz’s real father, brown-haired, brown-eyed, and tall like Lizzy.
“There’s nothing to tell really,” she told Brandon. “I come from a very ordinary family.”
He reached over and ran the palm of his hand down her hair, from the crown of her head to the nape of her neck, and there let it linger, a power move. “Maybe so. But you’re very special, aren’t you? You made sure of that.”
He took her to the Elysian, known for its ambiance, its celebrated chef, and its tab. Reservations were difficult to come by, but he must have dined here often enough to greet the host by his first name. Before they were even seated, he ordered a magnum of premium champagne followed by a sumptuous meal of lobster and prime rib. The usual, he told the host. Rare. Very rare. Blood dripping.
Never thinking he would take her to such a fine restaurant or treat her to a five-course meal delivered with obsequious service by supercilious waiters, she became uncomfortable and a tiny bit suspicious. More than a tiny bit. Liz was many things, but she was not a fool. He was wining and dining her for a reason. She had an inkling of what that reason was. Whatever he wanted, she could handle it. Hell, she could handle anything. Always had.
As the waiters bowed and scraped, and delivered each course with precision and smarmy smiles, Brandon wooed her with flattery, telling her what a magnificent woman she was, not only of beauty but of intelligence. “A cum laude distinction from MIT. Impressive. A posting with the Department of Education before moving on to State and finally landing at HID. Equally impressive. Matched with loyalty, dedication, and toughness under pressure, your stellar rise in the ranks, and the respect of your colleagues, it pretty much makes you the complete package, doesn’t it? You have a bright future with the Firm, despite this recent setback,” he said, alluding to Milly and Jack. “You’re ambitious and capable. But since everyone in Washington is ambitious and capable, it won’t get you very far, now will it? From what I’ve been hearing, you’re also hard-working. But working hard won’t get you very far, either. Yes, you’re useful. And yes, you excel in everything you do. But it only puts you on the same playing field with everyone else. And so you’ve made a conscious decision to stand out, haven’t you? The only way to stand out is by being the most conniving, scheming, and cunning bitch in town.”
She set down her fork and knife. Reached for her water glass. Took one swallow. Meticulously replaced the water glass on the white linen. Folded her hands in her lap. Stared directly into his eyes. And willed herself not to blink.
“You have other assets. Attractiveness, allure, appeal. These, you’ve decided, are the calling cards that will separate you from everyone else. And it worked. Until this recent roadblock.”
She finally blinked. “Is it a roadblock?”
He shrugged noncommittally. “There’s a way around it. You and I can work on it together. Call it a team effort.”
His flattery went to her head but not enough for her to lose perspective. He was after something he could put in his pocket like loose change. She would have to tread carefully.
The evening wore on. They talked of other things. Pending legislation in Congress. The next presidential election. Ongoing tensions with Russia. Unending wars in the Middle East. The rising seas. In betw
een, he lavished compliments on the way she handled herself. Her professionalism. Her measured posturing. And the way she silently observed. More than once she called him Mr. Brandon, but he insisted she call him Neville. She did.
They finished the magnum and moved on to after-dinner drinks. For every one of her drinks, he downed two, making him very talkative while she sat back and listened. She was surprised to discover that behind the gruff exterior lurked a charming, affable, and witty man. Also a man who knew who he was and what he wanted. He admitted he wasn’t particularly attractive. He knew everyone was afraid of him. He planned it that way. It made things simple.
“You were going to fill me in on Harry.”
“We’ll get to it.”
After settling the bill, he applied his gentlemanly graces, pulling the chair out for her and saying he would call a taxi to take her home. He would never forgive himself if she had an accident or was pulled over. He had one last thing to do, a small errand really. An old friend from out of town was staying at the Arcadia. Since the hotel was just around the corner, would she mind? It wouldn’t take long, and besides, he said when they stepped outside, it’s a nice evening for a walk.
They strolled along K Street toward Farragut Square. The streets were crowded and the evening glorious. The hint of approaching rain hung in the air, but the light breeze felt fresh on her face. When they approached a rowdy group of celebrants, he lightly grasped her waist, a protective gesture, and guided her around them, releasing her as soon as the way opened. Her hair swirled and flipped in the puffs of air. It was a mellow evening with the slightest hint of melancholia accompanied by an electricity she could feel in her fingertips.
The father who brought her up was a Catholic, her mother a Baptist, but Liz was an apostate and a sinner. Her family wondered why men kept dumping her. It was perfectly obvious why. She was damaged goods and had been since conception. Nothing else mattered but to prove herself worthy. Of what or to whom, she could never fully answer. Brandon might be the key. She had always been independent and stubborn. She had an insightful mind, a keen self-awareness, and could see straight into the devious hearts of insecure men. Neville Brandon was devious but he wasn’t insecure. He could prove difficult. Time would tell.
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