Mortal Fear

thinking. “We just got a tip about a rogue FBI operation in D.C. It might even involve the ATF. How does that sound?”

“Like another bad movie.”

He laughs. “This is great, man. Within two hours we’ll have real-time coverage of Lenz’s little trap, right through your telephone. Just like two tin cans on a thousand-mile string.”

“What if my phone’s really tapped?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, his brow furrowing. “Well… I’ll just have to figure something out.”

The bang of the front door catapults Miles out of his seat and to the nearest window. “Go check!” he commands.

“Harper, it’s me.”

“Drewe,” I reassure him. “It’s just Drewe.”

He steps away from the window and leans against the wall, one hand over his heart. “This is major stress, man. What did I do to deserve this?”

“I won’t answer that.” I start toward the door. “I’d better fix us some supper.”

The office door opens before I reach it.

Drewe stands in the hall holding a large brown paper bag. She is smiling, and her radiance gives me an unexpected lift. Yet it is plain that she does not intend to cross the threshold. Instead, she reaches into the bag and pulls out a paper box printed with red curlicues and an alarmingly orange fluid dribbling down its side.

“Chinese,” she says. “I figured we were due for a change.”

“You are a goddess, ” Miles says with genuine reverence. “I shall kiss your feet and worship forever at the altar of your infinite kindness.”

Drewe laughs. “Just chew with your mouth closed, and I’ll be satisfied.”

As she walks away, Miles sits back down at the Gateway.

“You coming?” I ask.

He waves one hand. “Just let me post this message. Be right there.”

As I pass through the door, I hear him say, “This is going to be better than sex.” This from a man who has seen, heard, and perhaps participated in just about every carnal activity the human mind can imagine. I turn and look back. It is the new sight for this century, I think, a man in digital bliss. And yet it is as old as the first hominid who stared mesmerized into a campfire.

We are fascinated by that which can destroy us.

CHAPTER 30

Miles beat his own prediction by over an hour. By the time we finished supper, three ham radio operators in the Washington, D.C. area expressed interest in helping us monitor the communications of the FBI (in the interest of the public’s hallowed right to know, of course). One of these-an ex-marine named Sid Moroney-admitted that he often monitored CIA training exercises on the streets of Washington and its suburbs, and boasted that he maintained a notebook containing the frequencies most commonly used by the government’s more aggressive acronymic agencies. This resource put him over the top, and Miles told him we would e-mail our requirements to him ASAP.

We spent fifteen minutes arguing about the best way for Moroney to relay what he overheard to us. We wanted it in real time, but we also knew my phones might be tapped. We decided I would stay linked to Sid Moroney via CompuServe on the Gateway, while Miles monitored the EROS computer for any “Lilith”-“Maxwell” activity. Sid could update me on the stakeout by tapping messages into a private room on a CompuServe chat channel. If anything radical started to happen, he was to call my office number and press the mouthpiece of his telephone to his radio receiver, so that we could hear the traffic ourselves. This was a risk, but Miles figured anything serious enough to warrant a call would probably be the climax of the manhunt-which would exonerate us both.

So far the wait has been anything but climactic. Moroney has intercepted communications indicating a stakeout in progress in the vicinity of the McLean safe house. So far I’ve received six reports from him via CompuServe, transcribing such bloodcurdling radio traffic as: “Alpha? Red here. Kensington quiet.” “Ten four, Red. Yellow? You there?” “Affirmative, Alpha. Wimbledon clear. Tomorrow must be garbage pickup, everybody’s coming out in their robes to put out the cans.” “Button it, Yellow. Out.” And so on for the past three and a half hours. The use of “Alpha” reminds me of Daniel Baxter in the trailer at Quantico, but since I can’t hear the voice, there’s no way to tell.

This time I let Drewe in on what we were doing, since clearing our names seemed possible. But when eleven p.m. came and went, she raised a white flag and retired to the bedroom. I worried that Moroney would get bored and do the same, but after a few queries I found out he keeps a cot in his radio room and, like a good marine, has developed the capacity to detect significant radio traffic even while sleeping.

I am half asleep myself when the balloon goes up.

Miles, sitting six feet behind me at the EROS computer, says, “Hello.” As I turn in my seat before the Gateway, he raises his hand, forbidding any interruption.

“Brahma just logged on,” he says in a monotone. “He’s using ‘Maxwell.’ ”

“What’s he doing?” I ask, rubbing my eyes and straightening up in my chair.

“Looking for ‘Lilith.’ ”

“Where?”

His shoulders stiffen. “Lenz is there now. They’re going into a private room. I’m turning up the sound.”

Brahma’s digital baritone fills the office with an almost calming cadence.

“What about his error rate?” I ask.

“I’m looking. Three typos already. He’s definitely not using his voice-rec unit.”

Miles adjusts the speakers, then looks over at me. Already this conversation seems different from the ones we’ve become used to. This time Brahma is taking the lead.

“Is Lenz showing a little restraint at last?” I ask.

“Looks like it. I guess we wait now.”

We don’t wait long. In less than five minutes, a message from Sid Moroney flashes onto the screen of the Gateway.

Just heard some fast chatter. “This is Alpha. All units be advised we have a cellular trace on the UNSUB. He’s definitely in the Washington metro area. He’s using a rented phone. We’re holding off on a pinpoint trace, but UNSUB is close by. Look sharp.”

“Miles, the FBI is trying to trace him now.”

When he doesn’t respond, I turn. He’s listening closely to Lenz and Brahma. “Baxter was supposed to give Lenz a week without trying to trace Brahma,” I remind him. “Why do it now and risk blowing the whole operation?”

“Momentum,” Miles replies, not bothering to turn. “This is like any big business deal. At first everybody’s lovey-dovey. But when closing time comes, major egos are involved. The FBI knows Brahma is close. They’ve got the capability to trace him, therefore they trace him. It’s not even a question.”

“Moroney says they’re holding off on a pinpoint trace, whatever that means.”

“Brahma’s probably moving between cells, and they don’t want to put out scanning vehicles for fear of spooking him.”

“But why not just stop his car and arrest him, if they can find him?”

At last Miles turns to me, his look contemptuous. “Arrest him for what? Riding around with a laptop computer and a cell phone and typing sex talk?”

“Couldn’t they backtrack over his movements, compare them to the murder dates, stuff like that? Why risk him getting away?”

“There’s no reason to think he’ll try. He’s following an established pattern. He’ll shadow the decoy agent for two or three days, then make his move on the house.”

“Right,” I say, unconvinced.