Ever so gently, he touched the grounded tip of the soldering iron to the mechanical joint on the single-pole switch. In its final state, the two-wire annunciator cable would form a parallel circuit. It would be necessary to check the current moving over each detonator, because he knew that a single cap would require between 2 and 10 amperes to function correctly. The voltage would not be a concern, as that was the only common parameter in the circuit he had devised. He had decided on four detonators; only one cap was actually required, but he would not risk the chance of a misfire.
He worked into the early-morning hours, his hands moving steadily, the device taking shape. Six months ago, it was a dream. Four months ago, the glimmer of an idea. Two months, a working plan. Now it was a certainty. The wire was warm beneath his fingers, running in its predetermined path until Vanderveen decided otherwise. It was his creation, and he had little doubt that it would function as intended. Still, there were days to go, and no limit to what might go wrong.
North was the first to leave the parking lot, his mud-spattered 4Runner bouncing out onto Mill Road, followed soon thereafter by a spirited squeal of rubber as he took the sharp right turn onto Eisenhower Avenue. Ryan turned the key in the ignition as soon as Naomi clambered into the passenger seat. Then they were pulling out of the lot in another squeal of tires, Ryan making full use of the car’s six gears as the engine roared in approval. First he headed south, navigating his way down Huntington until it merged with Route 1. Then he pushed the vehicle back up to the Jefferson Davis Memorial Highway, which he followed for several miles as he threaded his way back into Washington.
“What the hell was that all about, Ryan?” She was turned in her seat to face him, the anger glowing in her eyes and cheeks.
“We needed results, Naomi. The way you had it planned wasn’t going to work-”
“How would you know that?” she asked, her voice rising again. “You didn’t give my way a chance, did you?”
“He gave it to me, Naomi. Elgin gave me the name. He took the waybill from the terminal because he wanted something to deal with later, just in case. He didn’t know at the time how big this was going to get. The name was insurance, that’s it.”
“How did you get him to tell you?”
“That’s not important. The second person on that missing waybill was George Saraf. Judging by the surname, I think you’ll find it’s another identity for Michael Shakib. Not as good as a direct line to Vanderveen, but it’s still something.”
“How did you get the name, Ryan?”
A light drizzle had returned to the city, the gentle touch of a storm system that was lingering over central Virginia. There were very few other cars on the highway, and he was glad of the open road as the distinctive white markers of Arlington National Cemetery flashed by in the dark.
Ryan turned to look at her, knowing that she wouldn’t stop until he said the words. She would know soon enough anyway. “I beat it out of him, Naomi.”
Her eyes widened, perhaps a millimeter or two, but she did not respond. It was what she had expected to hear.
A lengthy silence ensued. She settled back in her seat, glad of the truth, thinking that the explanation was over. She was startled when he continued speaking, almost as though he hadn’t stopped in the first place.
“But he still wouldn’t talk, you know? When it’s a piece of shit like Elgin, you think it’ll be easy, but sometimes they surprise you. Sometimes they surprise themselves…” Ryan told himself to let it go, to spare her the details, but the words kept coming, seemingly of their own accord. “I only had a few minutes, Naomi. We were at a standstill. You know it, and I know it. I have piles of paper at Langley, you have even more, but sitting behind a desk isn’t going to get us any closer to Vanderveen.”
There was an edge to his voice. She turned to stare out the window, but he wasn’t done. His left hand dug down between his back and the warm leather seat. She didn’t see what he was doing until the knife was extended at arm’s length, handle first. “You wanted to know, right? You asked the question… This is how, Naomi. This is how I got him to talk.”
She recoiled at first from the proffered weapon, but a strange curiosity took over as she watched her own hand reach out to accept it. She could see that Ryan had dismantled the wooden grip, presumably because the rivets would have set off the metal detectors inside the building. To make it a usable weapon, he had wrapped electrical tape around the exposed handle. The slick black surface was still shiny and damp with sweat.
Turning it over in her hand, the light from the streetlamps caught and illuminated the blade.
She saw a streak of red on her palm.
The knife fell out of her hand and away from her body, the light weapon bouncing once before coming to rest on the floorboard at her feet.
“I had to convince him, Naomi. I had to show him I was serious. It was the only way. Naomi?”
“Take me home, Ryan.” The words were small and pitiful. She felt small and pitiful. The blood was sticky and wet on her hand, and she was looking around desperately, but there was nothing in reach with which to remove it.
He couldn’t see her hand, or her face in the shadows. He hesitated, unsure of her reaction. “I need you to follow up on this. I’ll probably be out of the loop when Harper-”
“I know.” The words were almost inaudible. She was kicking at the weapon with her heel, pushing it back under the seat and out of her sight. “Just take me home.”
She lived on a crowded row of town houses on M Street, uninspiring structures with crumbling brick facades and weathered Georgian detail. When the heavy sedan glided up to the curb, she pushed the door open quickly without saying a word. Ryan watched her run through the gentle mist of rain and disappear into the house as a number of emotions fought for room on his face.
Ryan believed that he had shown her something new, and he was not proud of it. It might make her stronger, smarter in the end, but there was a price to be paid for the experience: despite what she knew of his past, she would never again look at him in the same way. Knowing that he was now less in her eyes irritated him, rubbed at his emotions like sandpaper on sunburnt skin, and he wondered why that should be when they had known each other for less than a month.
The anger was a slow burn as he turned the BMW back into the heart of the city. He picked up the cell phone lying on the passenger seat and tapped out a number from memory. Katie answered on the first ring.
“Hello?” For some reason, they did not often use their cell phones to keep in touch. He was not surprised that she didn’t recognize his number.
“Katie, it’s Ryan.”
“Hey! God, I’ve been so worried! When are you coming back? I’m starving, so I thought we might-”
“Listen, I need you to get your stuff together and check out of the hotel right now.” The urgency in his voice was hard to miss, but she asked it anyway.
“Why? I have to-”
“Don’t ask questions, Katie! I’ll tell you later. Just get your stuff and go, okay? It’s important.”
There was a long silence. When she finally spoke again, the words carried a toneless resignation. “Where will you meet me?”
“I can’t stop in front of the hotel. Turn left out of the front doors and walk three blocks. Only take what you can carry. I’ll replace whatever you leave behind.”
“I don’t want you to replace my things, Ryan. I want you to tell me what’s going on. I’ve been waiting here all day, and now you just-”
“I’ll explain it to you later, I promise. Fifteen minutes, okay?”
He absently snapped the phone shut without waiting for her response, and then cursed under his breath when he realized that he had hung up on her.
Ryan didn’t know how bad it would get. The room at the Hay-Adams was reserved under his name, and he knew that once the story got out, reporters would be cold-calling the local hotels to get a sound bite and video for the morning news. He didn’t want his name in print or his face on television, and he didn’t want Katie to suffer those indignities either. Refuge might still be found at Langley, but he wasn’t yet ready to face Harper or the man’s recriminations. Kealey needed time to frame his words, time to shape an adequate explanation as to why he had nearly killed a prisoner in Federal custody.
