Jeffery Deaver - Edge

She said, “The forgery case? The guy works for Defense. That can be tricky. Sometimes you’re dealing with military, sometimes civilian government, sometimes private contractors. If there’s one thing they don’t like to do, it’s talk to outsiders. Even inside outsiders like us. Do you have any contacts there?”

“No,” I told her.

She was silent a moment. One of her habits was tucking and retucking her brunette hair behind her ears. I pictured her doing this now. It never stayed in place but then neither did she. “I know somebody who dated a friend of mine. He was wacky. Played games a lot. Not your kind of games. And not boyfriend or husband games. I mean he’d run scenarios for the Pentagon and CIA. Like World War Three scenarios. And World War Four scenarios. There really is such a thing. Now, that’s pretty scary, don’t you think? I always wondered if there was a Five. Anyway, I’ll call him. And I’ll get on the Ponzi scheme too. I myself don’t invest. I like the mattress theory.”

As we disconnected I heard a jangle I was sure came from her bracelet.

I knew that if there was any connection, however slim, between Ryan’s cases and Henry Loving’s primary, duBois would find it. Despite her youth, she was better than I at the investigation side of our job-tracking down leads. She didn’t have a game player’s mind, which I seem to have been born with, so the deadly chess match between me and lifters and hitters didn’t come naturally to her. But she was persistent as a terrier, sharp and wily when the script called for it. Because of her frenetic nature and dancing mind, she chatted up a storm with the subjects she interviewed, who ended up overwhelmed or intimidated. Or captivated. (She’d actually gotten a marriage proposal from a principal we’d protected about a year ago, after she’d spent some hours interviewing him. Since he was a former organized crime enforcer, duBois had declared him “not prime dating material.”)

About a year ago Barbara, the personal assistant I share with another shepherd at the office, caught me gazing at duBois with what was apparently a smile, an uncharacteristic expression for me. It was only a look of admiration after the woman had poured out a flood of helpful details she’d unearthed about a potential primary. That smile, though, was enough for Barbara, a single mother of fifty and a regular in the online dating world. She assumed my gaze was romantic and had later asked why I’d never asked duBois out. (She mentioned something about “May-September,” which seemed to me a little harsh for a mere twelve-year difference.)

In any case, of course, I deflected the suggestion. But my professional enthusiasm for my protégée was unrelenting and I didn’t pull back from expressing it, though admittedly in my typically subdued way.

I now typed my own notes into my laptop, encrypted the file and saved it.

Maree joined us; for some reason she’d changed clothes and renewed her makeup. A flowery scent of perfume surrounded her. She seemed even more attractive than earlier. Interestingly, though she and her sister resembled each other in many ways, only Maree was what I’d call sexy, and this had nothing to do with the age difference. She walked to the coffee station and poured some. She then set the cup down, cocked her head as she looked at an arrangement of flowers on the dresser. Lifting her camera, she shot a dozen or so fast pictures. I made a mental note to review all the photos she’d taken since the family had come under my care; I’d make sure she deleted any that depicted me or anyone else on the team.

Then she returned to the coffee, glanced my way and refilled my cup.

“Thanks.”

“Anything in it?”

“No, this is fine.”

She looked at me as if she wanted to say something else but kept silent.

I received a text message, read it and then sent a reply. I turned to my principals. “The new SUV’s here. We’ll be leaving soon.”

Ryan joked, “Just about to take my shoes off and put the game on.” His attitude was completely different from when we’d first met. The mission I’d given him and the liquor helped, I assessed.

I rose. “Stay here.” I looked at Ryan. “Don’t open the door for anybody but me.”

He nodded and adjusted his holster.

I stepped outside and circled our wing to the parking lot behind the motel. A dark green GMC Yukon pulled up, trailed by a Ford Taurus. I gave a wave and the two vehicles stopped nearby. Two men emerged from the SUV.

A young officer in my organization, Lyle Ahmad, was a solid, olive-skinned former marine with a trim crew cut. He was a clone, a close protection officer. I had met Ahmad when he was a marine guarding the U.S. embassy in Warsaw and I was an agent with the State Department’s protection and investigation arm, Diplomatic Security, where I worked before joining my present outfit.

He was quiet and sharp and boasted impressive multiple-language skills. He was a rising star in our organization.

Driving the SUV was our transport man, Billy. The gangly man, whose age I couldn’t begin to guess, had shaggy hair and a crooked incisor you had to force yourself not to look at. He absolutely loved cars, trucks, motorcycles, anything that moved by what he called “dead dinosaur”-gas or diesel fuel. He not only maintained the fleet but he would play Rubik’s Cube with the three or four dozen vehicles we use-swapping them and shuttling personnel and principals around the area. We had quite a collection-after salary and safe houses, transportation was the biggest item on our budget. Vehicles are like fingerprints. Along with cell phones and credit cards, there’s probably no better way to trace somebody than through his car. So we made sure to swap vehicles often.

Billy nodded at the Nissan. “She ready to go?”

“Yep.” We swapped keys and he drove off.

The man who had emerged from the Taurus was Rudy Garcia, the young FBI agent Freddy had brought with him to the Kesslers’ house.

I shook his hand and introduced him to Ahmad and we started back to the motel room.

I introduced the new arrival to the Kesslers and Maree, who whispered to her sister, “He’s cute,” drawing a blush-but no other reaction-from the unmarried Ahmad. I noted dismay behind the nod Ryan gave, as if the presence of other guards might rob the D.C. cop of his chance to see some action as my wingman in the operation to take down Loving.

It was then that my phone rang. The caller ID was from my organization but I wasn’t expecting this particular individual.

“Hermes,” I said. That was the real name-pronounced without the H -of our technical director, the man in charge of surveillance devices, computers and communication systems.

“Corte,” he said urgently, his voice tinted with an indiscernible accent. “Believe it or not, we got a hit on the squawk box, the one connected to the Armada. Then fifteen minutes ago somebody made a call to the North East D.C. trap.”

I felt my heart begin to thud quickly.

“All right, thanks, Hermes.”

I disconnected. I thought for a moment. Yes? No?

Then I told my principals, Garcia and Ahmad that there was a slight change in plans.

“You’ll be staying here a few hours longer. If you want some food, Lyle or Rudy can order room service. Nobody leave the room. I won’t be long.”

Ryan asked, “Corte, what’s this all about?”

I gave what I thought was a nonchalant shrug. “I have a meeting with somebody about the job.”

I headed out the door fast, not explaining that that somebody happened to be Henry Loving himself.

THERE’S SOME DEBATE about exactly what the role of a shepherd should be in personal security work.