the sidewalks bore some pedestrian traffic, no one showed any lingering interest in her.
Jason took the time for admiration. She had a figure Hollywood would envy, honed, no doubt, by scurrying in and out of volcanic craters. The olive skin framed by crow-wing black hair she had let loose around her shoulders. He shook his head. The object of the exercise was to get her safely to Adrian's for a few days before she returned to her life.
He was in no hurry for that.
Periodic checks of reflections in shop windows confirmed that she was following him to the car at a casual pace. He had to fight the temptation to hurry, to rush to the moment he could take her in his arms.
He turned a final corner, waiting to see her follow.
Chapter Fifty-two
Hillwood
4155 Linnean Avenue
Washington, D.C.
0746 EDT, the next morning
Shirlee hadn't minded comin' to work half an hour early, not at all. Wasn't ever'body, 'ticularly ever'body in her 'hood, was gonna see the president up close 'n' personal.
For the tenth time in as many minutes, she looked out the windows beside the front door, searching the driveway for that procession of long black cars she'd always seen on TV. For the tenth time in as many minutes, she smoothed her uniform, making sure no wrinkles marred its appearance. Shouldn't be none. She done took it home and washed and ironed it herse'f. For the tenth time in as many minutes, she walked back into the kitchen, making sure the big coffee urn was turned on and the doughnuts and other breakfast pastries were in neat rows on the trays that Mr. Jimson used for special events. This time, though, granola bars, high-fiber cereal, and fresh fruit occupied equal space on those things Mr. Jimson used to call salvers.
Why he'd call a silver tray spit was beyond Shirlee.
Mr. Jimson… Wouldn't he proud, he be 'live? Havin' the president hisse'f come to Hillwood?
The thought was interrupted by two men in dark suits entering the kitchen. Both in their mid-thirties, both with athletic builds. Both with small tubes in their ears and murmuring into the little mikes pinned to their lapels. 'Bout the fifth time one of 'em had come through here, lookin' into the oven and microwave like they thought mebbe Shirlee done put a bomb in there.
Them mens were 'bout the politest Shirlee ever seen. Always a smile that look like it be stuck on with glue, always, 'Yes, Ms. Atkins, No, Ms. Atkins,' when she axed questions. But they be so serious, they scary. But nowhere near as scary as them other fellas, the Russians, the ones that wore what looked like pajamas belted at the waist stuffed into knee boots. They really scary, lookin' around with angry expressions like they done eat a mess o' collards somebody done put too much pepper sauce on. They didn' much care 'bout the house like the mens in suits. 'Stead, they kept lookin' at them whitish-colored rocks and scrawny little bushes right outside the French doors in the dinin' room, doors Shirlee been tolt to open so the room wouldn't get all stuffy during the meetin'. What them Russians think, like mebbe them stones an' plants gonna disappear somehow? An' they didn' care much for women, either, least not Shirlee and Cornicha, the other custodian work there. Ever' time either Shirlee or Cornicha speak to 'em, even a 'good mornin'' or somethin', them mens just glare like they angry.
The sound of sirens made her forget the two types of men. She rushed to the front door. Must be the president come a little early.
Chapter Fifty-three
Between Cagliari and Silanus, Sardinia
1340, the same day
As the only one who knew the way, Adrian drove. At a place that qualified as a town only because it had a small piazza, he parked just outside the square.
'Victuals,' he explained before either Jason or Maria asked. 'Before we left the house, I tossed whatever was perishable.' There was no mistaking his remorse for the waste. 'The haggis we didn't eat, everything. Y' recall the last thing I did was switch off the ginny motor. No sense wastin' fuel, but no ginny, no electricity an' no refrigeration.' He got out of the car. 'Also, this is the only place I know of around here that sells dry ice.'
'Dry ice?' Jason asked.
'Dry ice. Y' know, carbon dioxide in frozen, solid form. It'll take a bit for the fridge to cool down once it's restarted. Th' dry ice'll preserve what needs to be refrigerated.'
Minutes later, all three emerged from the store laden with eggplant that seemed too purple to be real, tomatoes the size of softballs, peppers almost as large as the tomatoes, bread, cheese, and sliced sausage meats. Jason carried a carton of bottled water. When it was all loaded, they set out for Adrian's home, a journey of only a half an hour.
Adrian pulled up in front of the house. Taking the empty pipe out of his mouth, he got out of the car and whistled.
No response.
'Jock! Jock!' he called.
The hills gave him back a faint echo, but there was no sign of the dog.
'You think it was okay to leave him?' Maria asked.
Adrian filled the pipe as his eyes looked around. 'Aye. He's not your city-dwelling lapdog. Plenty smart enough to seek sustenance from the neighbors. They'd feed'm, f' sure.'
'Maybe they fed him too well,' Jason suggested, lifting the carton of water from the trunk. 'He's decided to take up with them.'
''Tis possible,' Adrian admitted, the levity of the words not matching the. serious scan he was giving the surrounding countryside, 'but a dog's not like a person. Y' canna buy his loyalty.'
Jason was certain Jock was not what was on Adrian's mind at the moment. He was about to ask what the Scot sensed when he heard grunts from behind the house.
'Jock may be taking time off, but your pigs sound hungry.'
'Always are. That's why they're pigs. May have to turn 'em loose to forage f themselves if we canna find slop for 'em.
Adrian's eyes were fixed on the house.
'You're not thinking about the dog or the pigs,' Jason said.
'There's somethin' not quite cricket here. I'm tryin' to figger out what.'*
In small, highly mobile strike groups like Delta Force or SAS, instincts were sharpened to the level of a sixth sense: a sudden quiet in the clamor of a jungle night, a pebble recently knocked loose from a mountain footpath, an old and battered automobile in a wealthy residential neighborhood. More than once, Jason had saved his own life as well as those of his men by noticing some almost imperceptible incongruity.
He put the carton of water down, freeing a hand to go to the weapon in the small of his back.
'What is the matter?' Maria asked.
Adrian shook his head. 'Naught, lassie, jus' an old man's years of paranoia.'
Perhaps, but Jason noted that the Sten gun under the seat was the first thing his friend removed from the Peugeot.
Each of the three loaded what they could carry. Adrian used a foot to open the door.
'Unlocked?' Jason asked.
'Aye. Someone come by to be a-borrowin' somethin' an' find th' door locked, I'd be regarded as an inhospitable sod, or, worse, one who dinna trust his neighbors. 'Sides, I dinna recall th' las' time I even saw th' bloody key.'
