Deep Black

“How long before this comes out?” she asked.

“There are FBI agents en route to search your house, though I doubt they’ll find anything,” said Rubens. “They’ll question Jack, of course. He should be in custody by now.”

“The media?”

“I couldn’t say. I thought you’d want to be informed.”

“I appreciate it,” she said, smiling as if it might actually be true. “Where are you taking me?”

“Wherever you want.”

Rubens felt an impulse to say something encouraging. Assuming Jack kept his mouth shut, prosecuting the case would be difficult at best, even with all the pressure from Congress. As yet, there was only circumstantial evidence that the guitar had been tampered with. Acting on Rubens’ hunch, however, the FBI had uncovered travel records showing that Jack had been in New York at least once when the band was. They were interviewing possible witnesses there, as well as rein-terviewing people who had been at the party.

The FBI agents had also realized — and Rubens had known, though not made the connection — that the CEO had started his life’s work as an electrical engineer.

An honorable profession, surely, one that supplied much useful knowledge about how to cause freak accidents.

A coincidence, no doubt.

It had taken the coup for Rubens to see it all, though it had happened right in front of him. The misdirection play, the obvious pattern overlooked — intelligence was more a matter of imagination than data. If you couldn’t imagine something happening, you couldn’t understand what you were looking at.

“Maybe you should drop me off back at the office,” said Greta. “I’m going to resign this afternoon. Go out on a high note. Faithful wife, all that.”

And strongly imply that he was guilty. A perfect outcome, surely.

Rubens buzzed the driver, who took a turn back toward the government buildings.

“Did you know about it in advance?” Rubens asked his cousin as they drove.

“You think I’d tell you if I did?”

He smiled. “If I wanted to, I could find out.”

“I bet you could.”

85

“Is there anyone here for Flight 102? Flight 102 for New York?”

The flight number didn’t register until the woman added the destination. Dean put up his right arm sheepishly, wincing not from shyness but from the stiffness in his arm. His whole body still hurt, unused to the workout of the past several days, and stiff from a succession of puddle-jumpers whose seats were little more than folding chairs with seat belts. He’d arrived at Heathrow Three after eighteen hours of airplane flights. Ostensibly the tangled course he’d followed from Moscow had sanitized his trail, though Dean strongly suspected the convoluted track — he’d been in Poland, the Czech Republic, Austria, and Norway — represented some sort of bargain fare bonanza for the NSA.

But at least for the flight across the Atlantic he was taking a real airline.

“Your flight is boarding now, sir,” said the attendant with an English accent. “Could you step this way?”

Dean shambled over to the ticket counter with the cover luggage he’d been given and told the clerk his name. The man had a bit of trouble with it at first; Dean spelled it twice.

“Oh, excuse me, Mr. Dean — here you are. Sorry, sir, quite sorry — Catherine, could you please escort Mr. Dean to the gate upstairs? I’ll make sure they know you’re coming.”

An attractive young woman appeared at Dean’s right. With a deferential smile she led him toward the escalator up to the gate level. Dean followed along through a side door of the security checkpoint, over to his own personal detector. He gave the woman and two guards a bemused smile as he emptied his change into a small Tupperware container, then stepped through the boxy gate. The attendant beamed back at him every few feet as she treaded him through the crowded duty-free shopping area. Finally they made it to the moving walkway, a long hall with windows looking out at the airplanes.

“Thanks. I would’ve gotten lost back there,” he told the woman as she stepped onto the walkway ahead of him. She just smiled. “I think I can find my way from here,” he added when she didn’t get the hint.

“Oh, not to worry, sir,” she said indulgently. “We’re almost there.”

She was short, but she had a quick pace and he had to push his stiff legs to keep up as they dodged more leisurely travelers. He’d slept for nearly twenty-four hours in Moscow at the end of the operation, but he still felt exhausted.

He also felt very, very old.

They hadn’t said good-bye. Lia and Karr and Fashona were gone from the safe house when he woke. In their place a dour-faced CIA agent took him to breakfast at McDonald’s, then drove him to the airport after supplying him with baggage, a proper passport, and travel documents, along with a list of his flights. The man hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself.

He hadn’t known where the others were and, in fact, didn’t seem to know who they were, or at least didn’t admit knowing. When Dean asked what had happened to them the CIA agent merely shrugged. “Assignment, probably,” was all he said.

Dean would have liked to say good-bye. He’d come to like Karr — hell, it was hard to dislike Karr, even though his goofy smile could get on your nerves sometimes.

And Lia — Lia he liked a lot, though not necessarily for her personality.

Actually, her personality was attractive, underneath the tough-girl thing she did. But she probably had to play it that way or she wouldn’t survive. She was a good kid.

A good woman.

Dean’s mind wandered as they made it to the end of the walkway. His guide picked up her pace, strolling down the long hallway toward the departure gate. She had nice legs and beautiful hips — but she wasn’t as pretty as Lia.

“Here you go,” she said, sweeping her hand out as they reached the gate area, a separate waiting room off the passage. “Have a nice flight.”

“Thanks,” said Dean.

The last of the passengers were just getting past a final security check at the far end of the room as he entered. A familiar voice seemed to hit him on the side of the head as he came in the room.

“Just turn the damn thing on, for christsakes. You never heard of an on-off switch?”

Lia DeFrancesca was standing to one side of the door leading to the boarding tunnel, shaking her head as a ham-fisted guard tried to turn her handheld on to make sure it was really a computer.

“Here,” she said, grabbing the computer from the guard. “God. On. Off. On, off.”

“She’s always cranky in the morning,” said Dean, walking up. “And in the afternoon. Pretty much around the clock.”

Surprise flickered across her face when she turned her head to him, but only for a second.

“Stuff it, Charlie Dean.” She turned back and disappeared down the runway.

“Lovely personality,” Dean said to the attendant.

The airline employee nodded, then took Dean’s boarding pass.

“Oh, yes, sir,” he said, his voice gaining a little snap. “You’ll want to get aboard right away, sir.”

Dean took the ticket back. At the door to the airplane, the attendant took the pass, smiled, then led him inside.

“Champagne, sir?” she said, standing to one side at the head of the first-class section.

“Uh, champagne, sure,” said Dean. He started toward the back of the plane.

“Your seat’s right there, sir,” said the attendant. She smiled and pointed toward a wide, thick, soft first-class seat.

“Really?” said Dean. He hadn’t bothered looking at the pass downstairs.