by Greg Rucka
“Working on it.”
“That CIA guy, he’s leading?”
“Wallford, yes.”
“We know he’s solid?”
Ruiz nods.
“Fine.” Heath opens her right fist, turns it palm up.
“Thing two, ‘it’ two, is Brock. The guy who’s having the chief and me confirm Heatdish’s death and who CI confirms accessed Indigo personnel files and who has been sharing God knows what with God knows who—Echo, certainly, maybe others.”
Heath lowers her hands, sets them on her thighs, rubs her legs as though she’s trying to make fire with the friction.
“Brock didn’t lean on Steelriver,” Bell says.
“Doesn’t look that way, no, at least not directly. His movements put him out of the running for the death of O’Day’s family.”
“Which means it was Echo.”
“Jesus fuck,” Nessuno says. “Brock isn’t working for Echo, he’s working with him.”
“You said Echo was about money,” Bell says. “General may be well above our pay grade, but he’s not into that kind of money.”
“But Jamieson was,” Ruiz says. “And men like Jamieson have friends.”
Bell makes a noise, almost a growl. “We get anything off Ledor’s cell phone?”
“It’s a burner, and clean. We’ve got it on, if a call comes in.”
“Assuming they think Ledor’s still alive.”
“I’m not holding my breath.”
Ruiz’s phone bleats. He turns away to answer it.
“This is follow-the-chain,” Bell says. “There’s a cutout in here somewhere, has to be, someone between Brock and Echo.”
“At least one, maybe more,” says Heath.
“We squeeze Brock for the cutout, that should lead to Echo.”
“We jump on Brock—” Nessuno says.
“Assuming we get clearance to go after a fucking general,” Heath says.
“—and Echo will know,” Nessuno continues. “Just speaking from experience with Tohir, now, but if that cutout gets a whiff that Brock’s compromised, he’s going to vanish. We’ll get nothing.”
“We can’t sit here and wait,” Bell says.
Ruiz is getting off the phone again. There’s something in the way he says “Yes, sir” before hanging up that catches their attention.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Ruiz says.
Bell drives, Nessuno beside him. She slides the seat back, draws her knees up to her chest, stares at the road appearing ahead of them in the predawn hours. The traffic is light, and the drive from Westminster to Chevy Chase should take only an hour, but Bell is lead-footing it, and she knows it’ll take less. There’s at least one counterintelligence team moving in on Brock at the moment, their orders to maintain surveillance until Bell and Nessuno can get on-site and to break off entirely if there’s fear of exposure. Bell has a reason to speed.
“How you holding up?” Bell asks. The tone of the question surprises her more than the content. He asks it like a human who cares, not like a soldier who’s worried.
“I’m still in Provo.”
“With the bends.”
“With the bends, yeah.”
“You need to set Provo down,” Bell says. “You can’t carry that, not right now.”
“You’re not the one who blinked.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to pick it apart later, trust me.”
“The voice of experience?”
“I’ve made more mistakes than you can count, Chief. Find me someone who hasn’t.”
“How many have gotten men killed?”
He shakes his head slightly, then reaches out and sets his hand on her arm. She takes it in her right, laces her fingers with his. His hand is large, and strong, and everything she likes.
“I can’t read you,” Nessuno says.
He laughs.
“What?”
“It’s mutual, Chief.” He glances to the mirrors, then to her, and she’s surprised again, because he’s grinning. He goes back to looking at the road. “We didn’t fuck.”
“What?”
“In Hailey, when I asked who you were. You said we fucked. It’s schoolboy, I know it. I’m soft on this, I know that, too. But if that’s what you think, you need to know you’re thinking it alone. That’s not what that was.”
Nessuno stares at him, trying to understand what she’s feeling. When she does, she looks out her window, sees her own smile in the reflection.
She doesn’t let go of his hand.
Chapter Twenty-Four
CI HAS A command post established and operational before Bell arrives at Find Your Space Storage in Chevy Chase, pulls up to the gate as dawn is creeping into the sky. Nessuno has been asleep, or nearly so, for the last twenty minutes of the drive, head against the window, but she opens her eyes as Bell comes to a stop, and she releases his hand at long last. The plainclothes on the gate ID’s them and lets them through, pointing the way to the row of units that’s been commandeered for the operation. One is being used for command, another for commo, and there are soldiers sorting wardrobe choices for quick change and checking gear as Bell and Nessuno approach.
In the command post they find a sergeant who identifies himself as Lopez.
“Warlock?”
“Warlock,” Bell says. “Blackfriars. What’s the word?”
“We’ve got a watch on the subject at his residence.” Sergeant Lopez checks a sheet on his clipboard, looks at the digital clock that’s been hung on one of the unit’s walls. “His wife left four minutes ago, alone. We’ve got a team following her now.”
Bell looks at the maps that have been taped to the wall, the photographs of the house and of the man. “What’s on the residence?”
“Three teams, one static.”
“Stand off?”
“We’re under orders not to spook him.”
“Positive he’s still there?”
“As positive as we can be without getting into bed with him.”
“Radio? Phone?”
Sergeant Lopez grins. “We’re assured a warrant is on its way.”
Nessuno has moved to one of the two long tables pressed against the side of the unit. She pulls two radios from their chargers.
“We need another vehicle,” she says.
Sergeant Lopez looks to one of the soldiers, who immediately nods and heads out of the unit.
“My understanding is that we’re to render all aid to you for this operation,” Lopez says.
“That is correct.”
Nessuno whistles, and Bell turns to her, catches the radio she’s tossing his way just in time in one hand.
“I want everything light on the house until we’re in position,” Bell says. “He moves at all, you let us know.”
“Understood.”
Bell checks the radio, takes the earpiece that Nessuno is offering him, fits it into place. It’s uncomfortable; unlike the ones he uses in the field with his team, this one is generic and hasn’t been fitted for his ear. The soldier who was sent for the car returns, holds out a clipboard in one hand and a set of keys in the other. Nessuno takes the keys and ignores the clipboard, and Bell follows her out of the unit. A navy blue Prius, almost black in the shadows cast by the units, is parked five meters away.
“I’ll follow you,” Nessuno says.
There’s been no change by the time they reach the residence. Bell parks around the corner, with an eye on the house; Nessuno continues another two blocks along before pulling over.
“Kill the engine,” she says. “Don’t show him exhaust.”
“Already done.”
She laughs, the sound soft in his ear. He hasn’t heard her do that enough. “Of course.”
Bell checks in with Lopez and orders the surveillance withdrawn even farther. He wants them as backup if things go south. The beauty of having resources is that they’re fully staffed. The downside is the coordination, and the dangers of miscommunication, and Bell tells
Lopez he wants confirmations across the board. Within three minutes, he has them, and settles in to wait.
The sun comes up, and the neighborhood stirs, and with it the exhaustion Bell’s been fighting finds his seams, begins to sink toward bone. His ankle throbs, and the stitches, cuts, and scrapes on his hand and arm itch. He’s tired, and feeling it, tries to remember how long it’s been since he’s had a full night’s rest, how long it’s been since he’s had a chance to heal. Too long, he thinks, and it makes him feel old, and he acknowledges that he’s been feeling that way a lot lately.
Sleep tries to catch him, and Bell pushes it away again. He shifts in the seat, tries to make himself uncomfortable. It helps, but not enough.
He thinks of Petra, of Elisabetta, of Blackfriars, two blocks away, waiting in her Prius, that she’s at least ten years younger than he is. He hopes he’s wrong about that, that their ages aren’t so disparate. He’s only ever been in love the once, with Amy, and he’s suspicious of what he feels for CW2 Petra Nessuno, wary of making it more than it is, wondering if that isn’t just what he’s doing because that’s what he wants. What the fuck is he doing, thinking like that? he wonders. He doesn’t know her. There are times she has seemed to not even know herself.
Yet thinking that, he knows he’s trying to retreat, and he thinks that cowardice. He’s been afraid too many times in his life to count, but he’s refused to ever let it rule him. He refuses to let it happen here. Turn and face it. She’s tearing herself up over Provo, but the fact is she was there, she took his back. The fact is he liked her hand in his. The fact is that whatever began with mutual attraction and a mutual need, with them trying to unpack their varied baggage, it’s become something else.
It’s getting harder and harder to stay focused, to stay awake. The sunlight brings pleasant warmth, and it’s seductive. He blinks, blinks, blinks, and then he’s seeing Emmet Brock’s car backing out of the driveway, and he swears.
“He’s moving,” Bell says to his radio. He clears his throat. “Heading east.”
“I’ll pick him up,” Nessuno says. “Hang back.”
“Confirmed.”
Bell watches the car finish its reverse, the white lights flashing off, then it’s pulling away from him. It makes the turn north at the opposite end of the block just as the Prius passes him, and Bell waits a fifteen count before starting his own engine and following. Nessuno is giving updates, calling out the turns as she follows onto Woodbine Street, now west onto Leland; he’s at the speed limit.
Bell follows the turns, can see the Prius ahead of him.
“Break,” he tells her.
Brock’s car continues through an intersection, and the Prius makes a left and Bell maintains the distance, and now it’s his turn to give the play-by-play. He varies his speed, risks putting more cars between his and Brock’s, until he sees him make the right onto Blackthorn, then into the heavier four-lane traffic, heading north. He closes the distance, has a moment of alarm when Brock hits his brakes, wondering if it’s not an attempt to flush the tail. Then Brock turns across traffic, pulls up at a Starbucks, and Bell continues north another two blocks before taking the turn to bring himself back.
“I have eyes on,” Nessuno says. “He’s parked, heading inside.”
Bell pulls into the lot north of the shop, facing south. He checks left, sees that the Prius is similarly parked across the street, opposite the store, positioned to head north.
“I have eyes,” Bell says.
“He’s inside,” Nessuno says over the radio. “No, coming out.”
“Guess he didn’t want coffee.”
“You see her?” Nessuno says.
“Oh, yes,” Bell says.
“We have a vehicle, Volkswagen Jetta, black. D.C. plates, can’t make them out.”
“I’ve got them,” Bell says, and he gives the string over the radio. For the first time since the tail began, Lopez’s voice comes on, repeating the sequence.
“Running it,” Lopez says. “Registered to Webber-Hayden, Jordan; we’ve got a D.C. address.”
“Subject two is female, Caucasian,” Nessuno says. “Five eight, maybe five nine, brown hair, shoulder. Wearing a summer dress, white, with black and gold print.”
“We have a D.C. driver’s license for Jordan Webber-Hayden,” Lopez says. “Address matching vehicle registration. Fits your description, brown hair, eyes hazel, five foot nine, weight one thirty-two.”
“My ass,” Nessuno says.
Bell grins.
“Warlock.” Nessuno’s tone has changed. “She’s the cutout.”
“Maybe his mistress?”
“Maybe both. Look at the body language.”
“What am I seeing?”
“You’re seeing him being played.”
Bell watches the woman and Brock.
“Designating subject two as Hardball,” Lopez says.
“I’ll take her,” Nessuno says. “Warlock, you keep the primary.”
“Got it. Command, you still have teams in the area?”
“I have teams at standoff,” Lopez says.
“One for Blackfriars, one for me,” Bell says.
Lopez confirms, and there’s a crackle, then the odd, dead sound of a muted line in Bell’s ear. The woman is getting into the car, but Brock won’t let her close the door. From where Bell’s looking, he can’t make out expressions, can’t tell if it’s a fight or something else. Then Brock steps back and the door closes and the Jetta pulls out, turns, and Nessuno is rolling after her.
Brock just stands in the lot, his hands at his sides, his head down, his chin to his chest. Then he squares his shoulders and returns to his car, starting it immediately and quickly pulling out, heading north.
Bell spins his wheel and moves to follow.
It’s forty-five minutes of tag, with Bell swapping positions with the CI team that’s come in to back him up. Most of it is on I-95, and after half an hour, Bell is certain Brock is heading for the airport, that he’s going to rabbit. He’s fallen back, letting the other team hold position, and is reaching for his phone to call Brickyard and seek permission to detain Brock.
“He’s exiting onto Aviation,” the CI team says. “We stay on him, he’ll make us.”
“Roll,” Bell says. “I’ll take him.”
He makes the off-ramp just in time to see Brock heading east on Aviation Boulevard, makes the turn to follow. Another turn, this one a sharp left, and there’s no traffic to speak of. Bell feels horribly exposed as he follows suit. Hotels are springing up like weeds, suddenly, and Brock makes a right onto West Nursery Road and now they’re passing the National Electronics Museum, aerials and radar dish installations out front, crimson awning over its entrance. Bell finds himself marveling at the fact that such a place even exists.
There’s more traffic now, and Bell watches as Brock turns a last right into the Hilton parking lot. Bell goes left, into the lot of the Marriott opposite, parks, and leaves his car. A jet thunders overhead, taking off from the airport, and Bell jogs across the street in time to see Brock heading into the hotel ahead of him, his hands free.
“I’m at the Hilton on Nursery,” Bell says. “He’s gone inside, hands are free. No bags, no plan to stay, might be a meet. Question is with who.”
“I’ve got a good idea,” Nessuno says.
The second team comes in five minutes after Bell, and then a third, which gives Bell four soldiers to play with, all of them in plainclothes and most of them wearing it well. The ones who haven’t quite shed their soldier bearing he posts outside the Hilton, covering the exits, leaving him with two, one male and one female, that he sends into the lobby.
Bell returns to his car, gets on the phone with Brickyard.
“I need a go order,” Bell says. “I need to know if I can take him.”
“Blackfriars is still on Hardball?” Ruiz asks.
“She is. Hardball has moves.”
“So I heard. It confirms she’s the cutout.”
“Bla
ckfriars believes Hardball is en route. We can get them together.”
“We need her alive,” Ruiz says.
“That’s understood.”
“You think it’s a quickie?”
“I think there are easier places they could’ve gone to get laid.”
“So what is it?”
“I eyeballed his vehicle,” Bell says. “No bags visible, but I didn’t pop the trunk.”
“So possible rabbit.”
“Possible, but if Hardball is coming here, does that mean he’s saying good-bye or he’s taking her with him?”
There’s a brief pause, then Ruiz says, “You are authorized to arrest as acting CI. Get them together and take them down.”
“Roger that.”
Bell kills the connection, stows his phone, thinking about just who has the power to grant the authorization required to take down a brigadier general.
Bell waits until Jordan Webber-Hayden is in the lobby before moving to join Nessuno. She’s switched cars, coming out from behind the wheel of a white Subaru.
“She’s at the desk,” Bell says.
Nessuno slips her arm around his waist. They start for the doors.
“Talk dirty to me,” she says.
“Seriously?”
“Honest autonomic reaction.” She nudges him with her hip, and her smile is dazzling. He flashes back to the woman he met in Tashkent, the dark eyes and pride, and thinking then that she must’ve been very good at her job. He’s seeing that now. She is relaxed and self-assured, but more, she is happy. Flushed with the chase and confident in her skill and as sure as any door kicker he has ever known.
“I want you,” Bell says.
“I want you, too. But you have to do better than that.”
“No.” He brings his mouth to her ear. Everything they’re saying, it’s on the net, he knows, it’s being recorded for posterity. “I want to be inside you again, I want to hear your joy again. I want to feel your hands and your breath and your body, and I want to make you shake and make you know how stunning you are, how rare, how precious. I want to make love to you and make you forget everyone and everything until it’s just us, to do it for hours, and days, and weeks, and as long as you’ll have me.”
