“What’s your story going to say about the Rio connection to Corley?”
“What do you think?”
Lancer parked at the entrance of Gannon’s hotel, the Orange Tree, shut off the motor and turned to Gannon.
“Cards on the table, Gannon?”
“Fine.”
“Corley was going to help me on an investigation. Listen, it’s too soon for a story. Give me your word you’ll wait until we’ve got this thing nailed, and I’ll give you mine that you will have the full story. I’ll help you.”
“What’s the full story?”
“We’ve got raw intelligence of a planned attack.”
“Where, when? What kind of attack?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“On what scale, how big?”
“Don’t know that, either. That’s why any premature revelations would jeopardize our investigation. A lot of people are working on this. Corley was a source and he had a thread of something with African links.”
Gannon thought.
“Jack, we know you were in Rio de Janeiro and London.”
“Figures. What do you know about Drake Stinson with the Rio law firm, Worldwide Rio Advogados?”
“We know that his firm is involved. That was emerging through Corley’s reports and his sources in Brazil. At one time Stinson worked for the Central Intelligence Agency. We think the Rio firm and the cafe bombing might, stress might, have an African connection. Corley uncovered more about it recently.”
“That’s all you know?”
“It’s all I can tell you.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Not important.”
“I want to keep in touch.”
“I have your word you’ll hold off?”
“I have yours you’ll help me?”
“You have it.”
“And no other press are sniffing at this?”
“Is that your biggest worry?”
“No other press?”
“Just you.”
“I want some ID.”
The man pulled out his wallet, produced a blank card and wrote on it.
“Here’s my protected number. It’s good for anywhere, anytime.”
“There’s no name. Who are you?”
“We’ll keep in touch.”
“You better hope so.” Gannon got out of the car.
“Jack, I’m sorry about what you went through. It was out of our control.”
Gannon nodded, waved, then entered the hotel’s lobby. He went to the front desk to check for messages. The clerk kept his eyes on the computer monitor and nodded. Gannon had something.
“Excuse me, sir, I’ll retrieve it from storage.”
Probably something from New York or London, Gannon thought. As he waited he reviewed a mental to-do list. He’d have to arrange a flight to New York, then he’d have to give Melody an update.
Should I tell her about my abduction and torture?
The clerk returned with a small brown package.
“This came for you while you were out, sir. A messenger boy brought it around the time you left the hotel.”
The package bore a handwritten note.
To: Guest J. Gannon c/o the Orange Tree.
From: Adam Corley.
41
Over Africa
A lightning bolt of pain tore into Dr. Sutsoff’s skull as her Alitalia airbus climbed over the Mediterranean.
Her condition had triggered an attack.
It was brought on by the throngs of passengers queued in the security lines at Tripoli International Airport where she’d boarded her connection.
People everywhere-nudging her, bumping her, intruding into her space, looking at her, talking to her, breathing on her, their skin touching hers.
She wanted to scream.
Her mouth had dried, her heartbeat soared, cutting her breath short. Talons of pain clawed down her spine to her toes, forcing her to clench her jaw, mash her knees together and grip her armrests.
She didn’t need this now.
Not when she was about to commence the decisive phase of her work.
She reached for her pills, put two in her palm, swallowed them and set her head into her headrest, thankful no one was beside her. She always paid for the seat next to her, to keep anyone from getting too close.
As the plane leveled her discomfort ebbed.
Agoraphobia. Demophobia. Enochlophobia. Ochlophobia.
She knew the terms but refused to label her condition a phobia. Her fear and loathing of crowds was not irrational. It was grounded in reality, in the old horror that was reaching for her…pulling her back…
“Gretchen! Help me! Gretchen!”
She shut her eyes, gained control of her breathing and directed her thoughts back to the time of joy in her life.
She was a happy little girl again flying above old London at night.
Flying like Peter Pan and Wendy, and dreaming of living in London with her mother, her father and little brother, Will.
But her family had to leave England. It broke her heart. Of all the cities in the world that they’d lived in, Gretchen had loved London best. On the day they packed, she cried. Her father crouched beside her and dried her tears.
“In a few years when my work is finished, we’ll come back to London and we’ll live here,” he said.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He’d told her that they would live in Kensington, her favorite part of the city, and later that night Gretchen had dreamed she was flying over it with her little brother.
“We’re going to live here forever, Willy.”
But her dream died.
Gretchen Rosamunde Sutsoff was born in Virginia where her father, Cornelius, was a scientist who’d become an American diplomat. He was a science attache who worked with U.S. military and intelligence officials at U.S. embassies. His job meant they’d moved around the world. Every two years it seemed. They’d lived in Moscow, Tokyo, Cairo, Buenos Aires, Nairobi, London, Panama and Vridekistan.
Gretchen’s mother, Katherine, was a pianist who gave lessons to students who would come to their home. “Music is the universal language. It makes words unnecessary,” her mother liked to say.
Gretchen’s parents loved her and Will, but they were self-absorbed precise people whose displays of affection toward them were as rare as falling stars. The family’s constant moving meant they were continually severing ties
