As Herbert was talking with McCaskey, he got an instant message on his borrowed laptop.
Viens 1: We have your car. It is just crossing the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge headed west.
'Darrell, we've got your perp,' Herbert said. 'She's on 95 crossing the river. She could be headed to the airport.' The irony of Lucy O'Connor being on a bridge named W. Wilson was not lost on him.
'We're on 395 east now,' McCaskey said. 'I'll turn and go for an intercept. Can Viens stay with her?'
Herbert forwarded the question to Viens, who wrote back that the NRO's Homeland Security liaison, Lauren Tartags, said he could take the time, barring a crisis. Herbert told Viens to thank Ms. Tartags for her generosity. Op-Center's imaging expert wrote back:
Viens 1: It's not kindness. She says she has no choice.
That was odd, but Herbert did not worry about it now. The intelligence chief told McCaskey to remain on the line. He said he would forward any new information immediately.
Through the open line Herbert could hear McCaskey and his wife conferring. The mutual respect he heard in the exchange made him smile. Maria was a tough, swashbuckling, headstrong, old-school law officer. She was the kind of cop who did not knock on doors but kicked them in. She was a perfect counterbalance to the more meticulous McCaskey.
He was happy for them. And he envied them.
Despite receiving data from the new satellite, Herbert felt as if he were back in the technological Stone Age. Before the electromagnetic blast, he would have been sitting in his office looking at the images being forwarded directly from the DSP. He could do that in the Tank, but that would mean hanging with Paul Hood. That was something he did not want to do right now.
Especially when he could still do his work out here and let the mechanized odor of the parking lot transport him to another time and place. To a point in his life when he had the best team a man could have, a wife who was his devoted personal and professional partner.
Maybe that was why Paul Hood did not understand the bad judgment call he had made. He never had an Yvonne in his life. He did not understand the meaning of partnership. Maybe that was why Herbert had judged Hood so harshly. Because he did have that perspective.
And here, in the breezy quiet, where memories took form in the dark shadows beside the buildings, he had her still.
FORTY-NINE
Washington, D.C. Wednesday, 6:06 p.m.
Darrell McCaskey never thought he would be grateful for rush hour.
The highway was clogged in both directions as he picked his way through the slow-moving traffic. Herbert kept him posted on Lucy's progress.
The two cars were converging, albeit slowly. As a precaution, McCaskey called Detective Howell to have someone go to Lucy's apartment. He wanted to make certain she was not there, that the person in the car was not a decoy. Howell dispatched a squad car without comment. His emotional neutrality was not surprising. It would not have served his cause to challenge the request or to attach it to demands or guarantees. The detective was still a professional.
As McCaskey got onto 95 heading east, he was informed that Lucy's apartment was empty. She was almost certainly in the car. A minute later, Herbert came back on the line.
'You're about two klicks shy of her position,' he said. 'If I can make a suggestion, she has no more exits between where she is and your current position. You can get out of the car and cross the guardrail north of Springfield '
'I know the place,' McCaskey said. 'I can see it ahead.'
The car was moving a little less than twenty-five miles an hour. He looked into the oncoming traffic as he hooked the phone on his belt. He left the line open.
'Maria, I'm going to intercept Ms. O'Connor and get her to pull over,'
McCaskey said. 'We'll wait for you on the shoulder. I need you to get off at the next exit and swing around.'
