Jeffery Deaver - Edge

“Where is he headed?”

“North. Inner loop of the Beltway.”

“Was anybody with him? Even a shadow?” I asked.

“You mean Loving?”

“I mean was anybody with him, even a shadow.”

“Feisty as ever, Corte.”

“Freddy.”

“No, he was all by his little old lonesome. So what do you think? It’s your call.”

I’d been considering my strategy all along. I said quickly, “Continue the surveillance and let me know the minute he changes direction. I’ll be on the road in three minutes.”

WHAT WOULD MY opponent do here?

I wasn’t thinking of Henry Loving at the moment, but of his primary, Aslan Zagaev. He’d collected weapons. He’d made this unexpected and purposeful drive after a call from Loving. What did that mean, what did he have in mind?

I was on Route 7, moving south, aiming for the same residential and commercial cluster-Tysons Corner-that Zagaev seemed to be driving toward from the opposite direction.

My opponent… what is he going to do?

In game theory analysis the followers of eighteenth-century statistician Thomas Bayes hold that the world is made up of constantly changing knowledge, and in determining the probability of an event-what Zagaev was planning, in this case-you have to continually readjust your predictions as you learn new bits of information. The odds that he’ll play rock, as opposed to paper or scissors, change from 33 1/ 3percent, for instance, if you learn that your opponent has a muscle problem that makes it painful for him to form a fist.

But with Zagaev, there was very little information at all to narrow my predictions of what he was doing and to come up with a rational strategy on how to deal with him. He’d have the answers to what Joanne Kessler knew, the identities of other primaries, if he wasn’t working alone. And, of course, he’d know where Henry Loving was or how to find him.

Should we continue to follow, should we arrest him, should we set up surveillance on his employees?

I blew through a red light, grateful the county police were busy elsewhere. I plugged in the earbud and called Freddy.

“Yeah? Corte? Yeah?”

“Where is he?”

“Route Seven, heading north. About five minutes from Tysons.”

I was on Route 7, heading south. And about five minutes from Tysons.

Freddy added, “We’re a half mile behind him. He’s being a good citizen. Stopping for yellows, yielding to pedestrians.”

So being inconspicuous was more important to the Chechnyan than getting wherever he was going quickly with his weapons. This was more information but it wasn’t particularly helpful.

“Teams?” I asked.

“Two. We’re keeping back. Relying on GPS.”

“Zagaev make any calls?”

“We haven’t picked up anything since he hung up with Loving forty minutes ago.”

“You’re scanning all his employees’ phones and their relatives?”

“Hey, Corte, guess what? We’ve done this before.”

I didn’t remind him that nobody at Williams’s organization or the Bureau thought to consider employees’ family members until I suggested doing so.

“Okay,” Freddy said. “He’s still moving steady. Taking us right into Loving’s arms.”

Was he?

Imperfect information…

“Something’s bothering me,” I said.

“You’d be a bad person to go to a ball game with, Corte. You’re so negative. You ever been to a ball game?”

“I don’t think he’s going to Loving.”

“Why not?”

“Most primaries want to keep some distance from their lifters. Safer for them.”

“He’s delivering the guns.”

I pointed out, “Loving doesn’t need armament from a primary. He’s got plenty of his own. His partner certainly does.”

“So what’re you saying?”

I made a decision. “I want to take Zagaev, not tail him.”

“Why?”

Bayesian game theory analysis wasn’t much help. I didn’t have any information, perfect or otherwise. I told him the truth. “A hunch.”

There was silence for a moment.

Freddy said, “But if we don’t stop him fast, he’ll call or text Loving and any other primaries. They’ll vanish. We stink of federal cars. He’ll see us coming.”

He was right.

I asked, “What’s Zagaev’s vehicle?”

“Silver BMW seven-forty.” He gave me the tag numbers.

“And his location now?”

“Just getting to Tysons. He’s bypassing the business district, turning onto Holly Lane. I think he’s making for the tollway.”

“If he gets on that, there’s no way you can take him before he gets a message to Loving. He’ll see you coming.”

I was now at Tysons myself. I sped up and turned onto a road that crossed over Holly. I skidded to a stop, climbed out and pretended to look over a roadside produce stand as I scanned the road that Zagaev would be approaching on.

“I’ll call you back, Freddy.”

In a moment I saw a silver Beemer heading toward me. In about two minutes he’d pass underneath and make the turn that would put him on the Dulles Tollway. I squinted and checked the tag number-Virginia conveniently includes both rear and front plates. I caught a fast glimpse of Zagaev’s bearded, unsmiling face. I confirmed it was he; Freddie had uploaded a picture to my mobile. There seemed to be nobody else in the car.

I’m not known for making spontaneous, let alone rash decisions. But a game player recognizes that sometimes a bold choice is necessary. I turned and began to sprint.

“A PUMPKIN BOMB, Corte. You do have a sense of humor. Despite what everybody says.” Freddy kicked at a piece of slimy vegetable. “You just express it different than most people.”

There were two FBI cars in the underpass, bracketing Zagaev’s yellow-and-orange-smeared vehicle, the windshield messy but intact; the folks in Munich make a solid machine.

Since a traditional takedown wasn’t an option-because Zagaev could warn Loving-I’d decided to stop him myself as he cruised under the overpass I was parked near. I’d bought a ripe pumpkin from the produce stand beside the road and, when Zagaev sped underneath me, I dropped it into the middle of his windshield. I then slid down the incline, gun drawn, and got him out of the car. He was stunned but unhurt. A fast check of the phone revealed he’d placed no calls or sent any texts in the past five minutes.

I was pretty sure that neither Loving nor the partner would be present, but not positive, so I asked Freddy, “Your people notice anybody peel off when he didn’t make the turn on the tollway?”

“‘Peel.’ That’s funny. Like with fruits and vegetables. But I don’t suppose you meant it that way.”

I lifted an impatient eyebrow.

“No. He was alone.”

In a faintly accented voice, Zagaev muttered, “Who are you? Why you did this to me? Look at my car! It’s ruined.”

I wasn’t interested in his complaints. I was sore from my jog along the shoulder of the road with my ripe, twenty-five-pound projectile.

Another agent had gone through the BMW’s trunk and had assessed the arms haul. He reported, “Nothing spectacular. M-four rip-offs from Russia, with magical disappearing serial numbers. And a couple of Beretta nine mils, with numbers. They’re stolen, surprise, surprise. Lot of bullets. Nothing that goes bang in the night.” He transferred the lot of it into the trunk of Freddy’s car.

“I want my lawyer.”

Ignoring him still, I said to Freddy, “What’s around here for a chat?”

The Washington, D.C., area is home to dozens of police and national security organizations, some as public and visible as the CIA, some of them sort of anonymous, like ours, others so anonymous they don’t exist. Like Williams’s. But one thing they all have in common: They need facilities-buildings to operate from, just like insurance companies or computer software start-ups. Many of even the most secret take space in high- and low-rises in and around Tysons, where we were now. It’s plenty overbuilt-so the general service managers can get good bargains. Saving us taxpayer dollars.