Dare was a tall woman with a face as lined as a wind fallen apple. Her black wool dress could have graced a Shaker; her smooth gray hair resembled Joan of Arc's.
Her heels were never more than two inches high. She fairly screamed a capable practicality; in another century, she would have commanded a boarding school for young ladies, or ruled a kingdom through the convenience of a husband. The DCI permitted herself two luxuries: a wardrobe of brilliantly colored Hermes scarves purchased through the years in Paris, and a deep topaz stone, cut in a cabochon, that she wore on her middle finger. They seemed revelations of an interior life far richer than her appearance inferred.
Like Caroline, Dare was born an analyst. She, too, was a High Priestess of Reason. Caroline realized she was depending upon that fact this November morning. Dare would find a way out of Eric's labyrinth. It was just a question of time.
“It's three o'clock in the afternoon in Central Europe,” Dare said to the rain beyond her window.
“Berlin was hit at twelve. They've had three hours to get out of the country.”
“In a helicopter,” Cuddy Wilmot amended.
“That means they could be anywhere.”
“If they're intelligent, they'll have ditched the chopper within minutes and switched to cars.” Scottie's voice was dismissive; they all knew that Eric was intelligent.
“They'll assume a few hours' lead time while the dust settles and we're confused about the Vice President's whereabouts. But at this point, the chopper's a dead end.”
“Assume they're in a car, then,” Dare said impatiently.
“Headed where? Toward Switzerland or Poland?”
She was looking now at Scottie, her back to the streaming trees, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Rage, still, in every line of her body; rage completely contained. Toward Eric? The situation? Or Caroline?
“They could've gone to ground in Germany,” Scottie told her.
“Even in Berlin, there are a thousand places they might be hidden.”
“Not with the entire Voekl security force on the loose.” The impatience was scathing now, a personal slap. Dare despised easy answers.
“You've seen CNN. The men in black are turning Berlin upside-down.”
“If I'd gone to the trouble to stage that medevac rescue,” Caroline said, “it'd be for one reason — to divert attention, and buy time. Then I'd get the hell out of Dodge before the borders closed.”
“So you're betting on Eastern Europe.” Dare could have added,
“We have no way of knowing where they've gone,” Scottie objected, “until we know who they are.”
“Then let's hear an educated guess,” the Director snapped.
“It's what we're paid for.”
“The German police are claiming that the bomb was set by gastarbeiters,” Cuddy said tentatively, “the legal aliens Chancellor Voekl wants to send back to Turkey.”
“I've seen that report. It's bullshit.” Dare gripped the edge of her desk and eyed the three of them.
“Sophie Payne was not kidnapped by a bunch of disaffected gastarbeiters. At this point, the U.S. is the only friend those people have. They'd be mad to strike against us.”
“The Turks make a convenient scapegoat for the Voekl regime,” Caroline pointed out.
“So convenient, I'd almost believe Fritz Voekl ordered the hit himself.”
“Then he should have done it before Payne opened her mouth.” Scottie frowned.
“That speech can only have been an embarrassment to him.”
“Incitement to riot, in fact,” Dare agreed.
“Next, the Germans will say the Veep brought this whole mess on herself. Then they'll send us a bill for the Brandenburg.” She twisted the topaz on her finger.
“So what are we left with?”
“A presumed-dead case officer on the wrong side of the law.” Scottie, Caroline noticed, was avoiding her eye. The man possessed depths of sensitivity long untapped.
“And with whom is the case officer cavorting?” Dare asked.
“Any ideas, Caroline?”
“Eric worked a number of terrorist targets over the years,” she told Dare.
“The PFLP-GC. Abu Nidal. And right at the end, Bin Laden. But he was obsessed with only one — the 30 April Organization.”
“Thirty April.” The DCI traced an intricate pattern on her dark green blotter.
“An East European terrorist group with acknowledged hostilities toward the United States. Neo-fascists, reactionary extremists, the type who hate to see women in power.”
“Sophie Payne and her liberal agenda would push all their buttons.”
“Not my first choice for the Vice President, Caroline.” Dare's voice was harsh.
“They're certifiable.”
“And perfectly capable of pulling off this morning's hit. Ever since the NATO intervention in Kosovo, they've been looking for a way to hurt us.”
“Scottie, what account was Eric working in Budapest?” Dare asked.
“At the time of his death — or what we thought was his death — he was Chief of Station.”
“In other words,” Caroline said, “he wasn't supposed to be working anything.”
“Serving more in the role of grand coordinator of everyone else's targeting, is that it?”
“Eric never really took to management,” Scottie admitted apologetically.
“He couldn't give up the field, Dare. He thought 30 April was too difficult a target for junior CO's. So he tried to recruit within the organization himself.”
“And did he succeed?”
The Counterterrorism chief hesitated.
“I believe he was closer to penetrating them than we'd ever been before.”
Dare took a turn around the room, thinking it through.
“Thirty April bombed a plane that Eric Carmichael was supposed to be on. Is that why the plane went down? Because Eric was on the passenger list? It seems a bit excessive, killing two hundred and fifty — plus people in order to get one man — but we know that Krucevic's boys are a law unto themselves.”
“Or .. .” Scottie said delicately.
“Or Eric Carmichael was working with 30 April well before MedAir 901, and got the bomb on that plane himself. Again, a bit over the top as a means of declaring oneself dead — but who's to argue with the irrational?”
Involuntarily, Caroline shook her head.
“You don't think so?” the DCI challenged.
“How much did you know about your husband's work in Budapest, Carrie?”
“Very little,” she replied evenly. “Eric was always discreet about operational matters.”
“Even with his wife?” The DCI was incredulous.
It was what they all expected, Caroline thought, this collusion of marriage. No possible way to excuse her ignorance. She watched them thinking:
Dare snorted.
“Risk! You knew what you were getting into when you married him, Carrie. There were always several Eric Carmichaels. It was a crap shoot which would surface on any given day.”
“Of course.” Caroline bit down on the edge of anger, managed to suggest calm.
