He laughed. “Yeah, it’s a total piece of shit. But where did you park the piece of shit, Megan? Somewhere near the restaurant?”
“What restaurant?”
He pointed over his shoulder. “This one. Habana. Where you had the swell mojitos.”
“The mojitos were swell,” she agreed. “But the clientele sucked. Some guy actually grabbed my ass in there, can you believe it?”
Why, yes, Dawtry thought, but instead said, “Inconceivable,” shaking his head. “So, the piece-of-shit rental car, Megan. Where did you park it?”
“Oh, that. I got really lucky. I found a parking place right by the hotel. It was a pain in the ass to get into, though—I had to back into it. Uphill. With a stick, and a clutch, and no brakes. Did I tell you I’ve got no brakes? None.”
“You did. That rental car of yours is a piece of shit.”
“A total piece of shit! Don’t get me started. The gas pedal? It’s almost as bad as the brakes. The gas pedal is an implement of torture. Implement? Instrument? Point is, it hurts like a son of a bitch to press on the gas pedal.”
“I had a rental car like that once,” he said. “Hey, do you remember where the parking place is? Or the hotel?”
“Sure. That way.” She pointed to the right. “It gets kinda mazy, though. I always get a little turned around. Virgin Something-or-other Street.”
Great, Dawtry thought. That really narrows it down, in a Catholic country. “How about the hotel, Megan—what’s the name of the hotel?”
“San Something-or-other,” she said. “They name everything after saints and virgins. This place is lousy with saints and virgins.” She stopped suddenly, jerking his arm to make him stop, too. “Did you know, by the way, that Saint Anthony is the patron saint of lost shit?”
“Uh, no, I don’t think I did.”
“It’s true. Now that’s a useful saint, ’cause I’m always losing my shit. Literarily and metamorphically.” She laughed. “Ha—I even lost my faith. But I don’t think even Saint Ant’ny can find that for me.”
“Mmm,” Dawtry grunted. He had taken out his phone and opened a map of Santa Cruz. Their location showed as a blue dot—a comfortingly familiar anchor, given the uncertainty swirling around them. He typed in “Hotel San” and hit “Search,” not expecting much. To his surprise and relief, the map showed him a Hotel San Telmo—quite nearby, and just off a street whose name—Virgen de la Luz—seemed to translate as “Virgin of Light.”
“San Telmo?” he asked.
“No, Ant’ny,” she said. “I’m talking about Saint Ant’ny. You don’t pay very good attention for a super-duper FBI guy.”
“I mean your hotel, Megan. Are you staying in the Hotel San Telmo?”
“I told you that already,” she said. “You’re not listening.”
“Sorry,” he said. He pointed to the right, in the direction that both the map and O’Malley had indicated. “So, let’s head toward the hotel and look for a good place to eat.”
“Wow,” she told him, “that was tasty. What an amazing find.”
He smiled and nodded, pleased that she liked it as much as he did. Good finding, Dawtry, he told himself. You’re a regular Saint Anthony.
From the Cuban place, they had made their way, slowly and unsteadily, toward O’Malley’s hotel. The route had initially taken them along a pedestrian street, filled with tourists and expensive shops. After several blocks, though, the map steered them uphill, away from the crowds. They had passed her rental car, tucked into a tight spot on a narrow, hilly street—she had done a good job of parking, Dawtry saw—and crossed a charming square. The square was fronted by a school, some of whose students, perhaps—boys aged eight or ten—practiced skateboard tricks, their parents chatting in clumps on the school’s steps. The streets here were nearly empty, and the conversations were all in Spanish. At the far side of the square, O’Malley had pointed at a stylish restaurant that had tables on the square—Cinnamon Bar, it was called, and a quick phone search told Dawtry that it got good reviews. Approaching, however, they’d been engulfed in cigarette smoke, and they’d turned away, grimacing and disappointed. It was then that Dawtry had spotted another place—this place—directly across the street. The sign proclaimed it to be a pizzeria, and the inside was tiny and uninspiring, but the patio—half-hidden to one side, screened by a wall of lush planters—turned out to be charming, with two quiet couples and one chattering family dining beneath fairy lights.
“Yes, tasty indeed,” he agreed, raising his glass—they were both drinking sparkling water—and clinking it against hers. Happily, the pizzeria’s menu had proved to be far more diverse than the name had suggested. O’Malley was finishing off a plate of cannelloni, smooth but tangy, judging from the bite she had shared with him. For his part, Dawtry had polished off a platter of seafood paella, and he’d never tasted better, with the possible exception of the black squid ink paella at Jaleo, a DC tapas restaurant a few blocks from the FBI building.
Dawtry watched as she used a hunk of bread to mop the last of the sauce from her plate. The food, the walk, and the passage of an hour appeared to have sobered her up completely. That was good, as they both needed to be clearheaded. “So, Megan,” he began, then paused. Her name sounded oddly out of place now, as he set down his fork and took up his profession. “First off, I’m sorry nobody took you seriously at first.”
She smiled slightly—a wry, sad smile, it struck him—and shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. It does sound crazy. The only one that stings is David, my seismologist ex. I really hoped Dave would believe me.” She grimaced. “David used to say that my tombstone will read, ‘Couldn’t stop picking at it.’ Anyhow, what matters is you believed me—you came through for me—when I needed you.”
He grunted. “Better late than never, I guess. So, can we try to rewind? Can you back up, tell me how it all started? And how we got to”—he looked around, as if reminding himself where he was, and shrugged—“here?”
And so she did.
Dawtry interrupted her story often, mainly to drill down into details, but partly to prolong the pleasure of the conversation as well.
He excused himself from the table twice: once to go to the bathroom, once to send a terse memo to his boss.
Have found O’Malley, just in time to keep her from being shot. Assailant now dead. He confirmed to O’M that plot is serious. Prof. Charles Boyd, in London confirms that global seismographic network (GSN) is being hacked to conceal plot. Boyd is now receiving genuine data from seismometers O’M has installed here. Suggest you follow up with Boyd to confirm and get latest info. Also suggest looping in CIA, if they haven’t stopped taking our calls. Maybe British intelligence, too, since Boyd’s a Brit. National security and millions of lives at stake. A clear and present danger.
Dawtry added Boyd’s email address and phone number at the bottom of the message before hitting “Send.”
Both times he left the table, Dawtry took the precaution of stepping into the street and scanning both directions, as well as peering over the edge of the patio and checking the street below—Virgin of Light—which ran parallel to San Telmo. No one seemed to be looking for them, at least not yet, but he knew that whatever head start they had gained by not reporting Iñigo’s death was bound to evaporate. Later, please, he prayed, not sooner.
O’Malley had hesitated whenever she mentioned Iñigo, and Dawtry sensed that she was uneasy. Initially he attributed her discomfort to the strong emotions stirred up by the man’s attempt to kill her, or by the distress of seeing him fall to his death. Gradually, though, a realization dawned: She’s embarrassed about something. His FBI training told him to bear down, to confront or coerce her into revealing whatever it was she was withholding. But another voice—the same voice that had finally sent him looking for her at Johns Hopkins—told him to trust her, to give her space and time around whatever it was she was reluctant to disclose.
“I knew something wasn’t right,” she was saying, “but he kept re
assuring me. Downplaying my worries. Teasing me.” She looked away, chewing her lower lip, then turned back and looked Dawtry frankly in the eyes. “I let him distract me,” she said. Even by the faint glow from the table’s candle and the overhead fairy lights, he could see her flush. “He made a pass at me, and I . . . I fell for it. What a chump, right? I let him play me like a fish.”
Dawtry half frowned, inclining his head to one side. “Easy to see it that way in hindsight,” he said. “But at the time? How were you to know? Are you supposed to be suspicious of every guy who finds you attractive?” He opened his mouth to continue, then closed it and felt himself turn crimson. “No judgment here, Megan. I think you’ve been perceptive, persistent, and very, very brave. I admire the hell out of you.”
She drew back, staring, as if surprised by his words or uncertain of his sincerity. She looked away once more, and when she faced him again, he saw tears rolling down her cheeks. “Do you mean that?” Dawtry started to smile, but the smile froze when she added, “Or are you just playing me, too?”
He blinked, surprised and stung by the implied accusation. “What? Oh, wait, I see. ‘Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me’?” She neither confirmed nor denied his analysis. “Fair enough. But, no, I’m not playing you, Megan.”
“Then I’m sorry,” she said. “And thank you.”
“It’s okay. And you’re welcome.” But still it stung; when he’d finally pulled the plug on his two-year relationship with Gina—a woman he’d really liked but not truly loved—she’d accused him of playing her, so O’Malley’s echoing of it touched a nerve. “It’s late,” he said, scanning the now-empty patio, “and you must be exhausted. You should get some sleep. First thing in the morning, we’ve got to get you out of here.”
“But my flight’s not till Thursday.”
He snorted. “Jesus, Megan. Everything’s changed. Whoever Iñigo was working with has got to be looking for him. For you, too.” He told her about the break-in at her apartment, but when he saw her alarmed expression, he decided not to mention the two men who had inquired about her at the hotel. “Besides,” he added gently, “the seismometers are up and running. We’re done—you did it. So let’s get while the getting’s good.”
Halfway down the third flight of stairs, Dawtry muttered, “Sheesh, where did they put you, O’Malley—in the wine cellar? The bomb shelter? The catacombs?”
“I was lucky to get anything,” she said. “They book up months in advance. Only reason I got it was because they had a cancellation.”
“Hmm,” he grunted as he fumbled for a light switch in the hallway. “You sure the hotel isn’t playing you?” He was taking a risk with the joke, he knew, but O’Malley had shown herself to be smart and funny, with a strong streak of self-irony.
“Smart-ass,” she said, but her tone sounded amused and approving.
Whew, he thought.
She put her key in the lock and twisted, but before she could open the door, Dawtry held up a hand, then pointed to himself. “Me first,” he mouthed.
“Where’s your gun?” she mouthed back, pantomiming a pistol and a quizzical expression.
“DC,” he mouthed, but her lipreading wasn’t up to the challenge. “DC,” he whispered. “Not allowed on international flights.” He pushed her aside gently.
Then his gentleness ended. Dawtry kicked open the door with enough force to shake the wall, enough force to stun anyone lurking behind it, enough force to dent the steel and bruise his heel. Reaching inside the room, he felt for the light, switched it on, and bobbed his head into the doorway and swiftly back out again. Having glimpsed no one, he risked a longer look, and, satisfied that he was not about to be shot, he stepped into the room, motioning for O’Malley to wait in the hallway.
Methodically, he cleared the room, lifting the lid on an immense blanket chest (Room for two, he thought, relieved to find it empty), peering under the bed (many dust bunnies, one crusty earplug), opening and closing the floor-length drapes, inspecting the interior of the wardrobe. Next, he checked the bathroom, where his laserlike gaze was drawn, briefly but appreciatively, to a lace thong dangling from the showerhead. He did not linger but hurried back to the doorway and motioned her inside, hoping that his face looked cool, professional, and not nearly as red as it suddenly felt.
He closed and bolted the door behind her, then nodded at the laptop perched on the small desk. “You want to see how soon we can blow this pop stand?”
“Okay. Sure.” She flipped up the screen, and the Apple logo glowed in the lid and the display lit up. Using the track pad, she moved the cursor and clicked. Dawtry came closer and stood behind her, watching over her shoulder as she scrolled down a page. “Earliest is at eight.”
“Eight? That sucks.”
“Would you prefer ten?”
“No,” he said, “I’d prefer six, but what I’d like most is midnight tonight.”
“Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore,” she said.
“Obviously. Okay, if eight’s the best we can do, let’s do it. Can you change your ticket online?”
“I don’t know. Let me look.”
“Here,” he said, reaching over her shoulder and tapping the screen. “Change Flight.”
“Hey,” she squawked, “it’s not a touch screen. Look, you left a fingerprint.”
“Look on the bright side. You can get the cops to run it—make sure I’m who I say I am.”
She swatted his arm. “So. Not. Funny.” She clicked on the now-smudged link, then signed on, typing her name and a ticket number.
“You know your ticket number by heart?” Dawtry was amazed and also appalled—it seemed a waste of good brain space.
“I’m good with numbers,” she said. “Besides, that one’s easy—it’s the first seven prime numbers, in order.”
He leaned closer and studied the sequence: 1357111317, which, indeed, could be read as 1, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “You’re right.”
“Thanks for the validation.” She highlighted the 8:00 a.m. departure and clicked “Select this flight.” After a moment, a message appeared on the screen. “Unable to complete your request online,” it read. “Shit,” said O’Malley. “Want me to try the ten o’clock?”
Dawtry spun through several possible scenarios, and he didn’t like most of them. Maybe there was simply a glitch in the online booking system, but maybe there were no seats available. Or, worse, maybe O’Malley was on a watch list. Christ, is the local government in on this? “Nah, never mind for now,” he said, as casually as he could. “The flight’s only nine hours from now. Such short notice, we probably have to change it in person, at the airport. Let’s just get up early so we’ve got plenty of time.”
She shrugged. “That’s fine. I don’t have much packing to do.”
Dawtry couldn’t help thinking of the thong dangling from the showerhead. You could pack that in your pocket, he thought. With room to spare. But discretion being the better part of valor, he simply said, “That’s handy.”
She turned in the chair. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“How long will it take you to get ready?”
“I’m ready now.” He extended his arms, as if presenting himself for inspection.
“But what about your clothes?”
“I’m wearing ’em.”
“I mean the rest of them. The stuff in your room.”
“What room?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Wait. Are you telling me that you came here—across the ocean—with no place to stay and only the clothes on your back?”
“I was in a hurry,” he said. “If I’d gone home to pack, I would’ve missed the last flight of the night—and you would’ve missed, oh, I don’t know, the rest of your life.” Her eyes widened. “As it was, they had to hold the plane at the gate for twenty minutes. Man, everybody on board was giving me the stink eye.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding. They w
ere pissed.”
“No, I mean the plane—they actually held the plane for you?”
He shrugged, then grinned. “National security hath its privileges.” He hesitated. “So,” he finally said, “I guess we’d better get some rest.”
He could see the wheels turning behind her eyes. “Okay. Sure. Where will you . . . go?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Excuse me?”
“Megan. I came here to protect you. To bring you home safe. One person already tried to kill you today. I can’t leave you alone.”
“But . . .” Her eyes scanned the room. “I’m really not comfortable with this.”
“You’re not comfortable? I’m the one who’ll be sleeping on the floor.” He slid his lower jaw to one side, pressed the tip of his tongue into the pit of an upper molar—a stress response he seemed to have first developed the day of the New York City Marathon. “You still think I’m playing you, O’Malley? Take it up with my boss. If he hasn’t already fired me, he’ll be glad to have one more reason to.” Dawtry rooted in his pocket, extricated his phone, and jabbed at the keys. “Shit,” he said. “I’ve had better signal in a submarine than I do down here. Do you have signal?”
“Let me check.” She fished out her phone and frowned. “I forgot. It’s dead.”
“Great,” he said. He heaved a sigh. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Go where?”
He headed toward the door. “Upstairs. Outside. Someplace where my phone’ll work. So I can call. And you can talk to my boss.”
“You’re limping.”
“What?” He turned toward her, self-conscious, careful of his posture.
“You hurt your foot kicking the door. You’re limping.”
“No, I’m not,” he said, reverting to his Monty Python accent. “It’s only a flesh wound.”
Apparently, movie dialogue was the key to her heart, or at least the key to her trust. Her face, which had turned stony when the subject of sleeping arrangements came up, relaxed and opened. She smiled and shook her head. “Hell,” she said. “Never mind. If I can’t trust you, there’s nobody left to trust.” She plugged her phone into a charger on the desk. “Besides, if we leave the room, you’ll have to kick the door again when we come back, right?”
Wave of Terror Page 16
