ideas occurred to Rubens as he took a drink from the tray.
“Congressman Greene is here,” said Greta, probably hoping to break his stare as the girl walked away.
“How very nice,” murmured Rubens.
“He’s over by the pool, getting ready to take a dip. You should talk to him later — he’s running for senator.”
“He is?” said Rubens, feigning not to know much about him. “Greene is from Kentucky, right?”
“He’s on the Defense Appropriations Committee,” said Greta. “You didn’t know?”
“I can’t keep track. Honestly.”
Greta nodded. She knew that her cousin worked for the NSA, though they never discussed it. He doubted she knew what he did. More than likely she thought him a career paper-pusher, an image Rubens did his best to reinforce. He even doubted she knew Desk Three existed, though it was possible she had caught references to the supporting infrastructure through her work.
“Maybe I’ll say hello to the congressman,” said Rubens. “After I mingle.”
“Good.” Greta gave him a peck on the cheek and slipped away, leaving him with a perfect view of the waitress, who was now serving drinks to a cluster of leering white-haired business associates of Greta’s husband. Rubens sidled into a position to watch her pass back to the bar, feigning interest in the band. He tilted his glass up in her direction as she went by as a signal that he wanted more. She nodded; it seemed a professional nod, however, and after smiling in response he turned to look at the stage, determined to be discreet in his ogling.
Which meant he had a perfect view a moment later when the lead guitarist did a full-gainer off the stage into the nearby pool, guitar and all.
Unfortunately, the guitar was still plugged into its amp and power source. Even more unfortunately, Congressman Greene had just gone in the pool himself. The enormously loud pop and the massive blue spark that enveloped the stage appeared to some in the audience as just another part of the band’s act, but the odor of ozone and fried gristle that followed permitted no such delusion.
6
The first flight on the board at Gate Two proved to be a flight to Rzeszow, a city in southeastern Poland. Dean dutifully bought his ticket, though he had begun to have his doubts about both the woman from the rest room and the mission itself. Hadash had said it would be easy; Dean had doubted that, but he had at least thought it would be straightforward. So far it had been anything but.
Looking at the plane did nothing to assure him. The aircraft could be charitably described as a torpedo- shaped screen door with propellers attached. In fairness, the Ilyushin IL-14 had been a serviceable transport in its day; unfortunately, its day had come and gone fifty years before.
As Dean strapped himself into the thinly padded seat, two Polish nuns took the row in front of him. Undoubtedly their presence was beneficial, because the plane made it to Rze-szow in one piece.
Dean followed the others out the cabin door, down the stairway to the tarmac, lit in the darkness by a pair of distant lights. The passengers had to retrieve their own bags; Dean hesitated for a moment before grabbing the blue-and-brown suitcase he had been given back in the States. He snapped out the handle and began pulling the suitcase behind him toward the nearby terminal building. He had taken only a few steps when a Polish customs agent materialized from the shadows, demanding in good but brusque English that he follow him back to his office. Dean’s muscles tensed and his eyes narrowed into wary slits as he studied the shadows for the most likely ambush spots. But rather than shanghaiing him in the customs office, the Polish officer led Dean through a narrow corridor at the side of the terminal to an outside door. He grinned and held it open.
A wave of paranoia flushed through Dean, but there was nothing to do but go through the door. For a moment he feared that the man’s coffee-stained teeth would be his last memory of the world.
They weren’t. A car waited a short distance away. In the driver’s seat was the woman he had seen in Heathrow.
“In,” she said.
“You want to pop the trunk so I can put my suitcase in?”
“Leave it,” she said. “It’s junk. Same with the carry-on. Clothes probably don’t fit anyway.”
Dean hauled the suitcase around to the other side of the car anyway. He might have thrown the bags in the back, except that the woman pressed the accelerator as he opened the door. He barely got inside in one piece.
“Did I do something to you, or have you been a bitch all your life?” asked Dean.
“Listen, Chuck, there’s one thing we have to get straight,” she started.
She didn’t finish, because Dean had his hands around her throat.
“Enough is enough,” he told her, nudging his right hand against her neck. His fingers held a small, very sharp blade made of a carbon-resin fiber he’d smuggled aboard the plane in the back of his belt. The material was only 90 percent as strong as the steel used in the best class of assault knives, but 90 percent was more than enough to slit a throat, even a pretty one.
“Your call,” said the woman, whose foot remained on the gas.
“Pull off the road gradually,” said Dean.
“I don’t think so. We’re being followed.”
Dean pushed the knife blade ever so gently against her neck, tickling her common carotid artery. It wasn’t the best placement, but it was adequate.
“Have it your way, Chucky boy.”
“Hit the brakes and you’ll bleed to death in thirty seconds,” he warned.
“Don’t be so dramatic.” She eased off her speed and pulled to the right, driving past a row of trucks. “It would take two minutes for me to die, if not three or four.”
A blue light began flashing behind them.
“See what I was saying?” said the woman.
Dean nudged her throat one last time as a warning, then slid his hand down to the back of the seat rest as she stopped the car. A pair of policemen approached with flashlights. Dean noticed that she not only kept the car running but also had her foot hovering over the gas pedal.
He also noticed that she had changed her miniskirt for a pair of multipocketed cargo pants, which seemed a bit of a shame.
The woman waited until the policeman was at the side of the car before rolling down the window. When she did, the policeman said something in Polish; the woman answered with a laugh and the policeman laughed, too. Then the man became very serious, apparently asking for her papers. She dug into her jacket for them. It occurred to Dean that the policeman’s angle gave him a pretty fair peek at her breasts, a view that she did nothing to discourage. Finally she handed over a thickly folded set of papers. The policeman frowned some more, took something from the middle, then gave them back. He and his comrade retreated to their car. When they were inside, she started forward slowly.
“What did you say?” Dean asked.
“That we’re American spies and would kick his butt if he interfered with us.”
“Seriously.”
“I am serious.”
“What did you really say?”
“He
“Who are you talking to?” said Dean.
“Voices. I hear voices. I’m Joan of Arc. Didn’t they tell you that, Chuck?”
Dean grabbed her neck again. “Never, ever call me Chuck, Chucky, or Chuck-bob.”
“Chuck-bob?” She started laughing uncontrollably, and didn’t even stop when he pressed the knife harder against her flesh. “Chuck-bob?”
“Explain what’s going on.”
“Hang on. I have another bribe to pay.” She pulled over to the side of the road, which had narrowed
