Kosinsky shrugged.
“It’s consistent with the amount of money involved and with the CIA’s claim that they’d frozen the Wahaddi Brotherhood’s accounts.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s consistent with targeting an Arab peace activist, and it’s consistent with framing someone else for the theft and murder.”
Kosinsky sat forward and put his chin on his hands. “The Christian Coalition is gonna want you burned at the stake.”
Maggie said nothing.
“I should turn you in,” Kosinsky muttered. “I should have turned you in ten minutes ago.”
“That’s your call.” She handed him a copy of the memo she’d sent to Jenkins two days earlier. “I tried to push this upstairs, but I’ve heard nothing.”
Kosinsky read it and shook his head. “Nobody’s gonna pursue this Biddle guy until the bombs go off.”
“Probably true.”
“If I keep my mouth shut I’m risking my career for a guy I don’t know and a woman who won’t date me.”
“That sounds about right.”
He gave her a humorless smile. “Damned if I’m not a self-destructive fool.”
FIFTY-ONE
MORRISTOWN, NJ, JULY 1
BRENT DROPPED THE LAST ITEM in the canvas bag he’d found in Maggie’s closet. It was a meager collection, but it contained everything he’d been able to find that looked potentially usefuclass="underline" a flashlight, crowbar, wire cutters, and several rusty screwdrivers. He had no plan for sneaking past Biddle’s security guards and minimal expectations for what he could accomplish even if he succeeded. But if Maggie’s theory was right and Biddle’s allies were anything like the people who killed Harry and took the down the Trade Centers, he had to try.
He put the bag on the kitchen table, then pulled up his shirt and checked the pistol stuffed in his waistband, ensuring yet again that the safety was on. He smiled bitterly, thinking his precautions would at least prevent him from shooting off his own balls. He’d leave that task to someone else.
He took a last look around. It was late afternoon, when weekend traffic would be building on the main roads and the best time to make his move. His hair was scruffy, and he now had the better part of a beard, so he no longer looked like his pictures. His first stop would be a nearby shopping center where he hoped to switch the Volvo’s New York plates with a pair snatched off a New Jersey car. It should allow him to make it to Long Island.
Last night, making love to Maggie and then holding her in his arms had changed everything. He understood the risks of what he was about to attempt, but also that he had no other choice. Ever since he’d awakened this morning he’d had the renewed sense of time running out, the last grains of sand dropping through the neck of the hourglass. Maggie had called twice to tell him she was working on things and not to lose hope, but he’d heard the increasing hollowness in her voice. Her superiors would never agree to go after Biddle, and that meant it was up to him.
The morning papers reported that Biddle had cut short his vacation and returned to the United States, and that meant he was within reach. Brent had visited Biddle’s estate, so he had at least minimal knowledge of the layout. Also, in spite of the psychiatrist’s report that called him, “very competitive, resourceful, highly intelligent, unusually devoted to principle but perhaps with insufficient impulse control,” he thought no one would expect a lone fugitive to attack. His goal was utterly simplistic: grab Biddle and force a confession. It was a desperate move, but the only chance he had.
He had the Volvo keys in his pocket and his hand on the doorknob when a sound came from the driveway. He froze. A car door opened and thumped closed. Sun flooded through the closed curtains of Maggie’s little kitchen, and he watched a man’s silhouette move past the side windows toward the back door.
He tiptoed out of the room, his heart hammering. If it was the police, he had no chance. But what if it was someone Biddle had sent to kill him? He slid the pistol from his waistband.
The latch turned, and the door rattled against the lock. A knock followed. Brent tensed and waited for a boot to kick in the door, but after a few seconds he heard a loud whisper, “Goddammit, open the door!”
His uncle! Brent felt a wild blast of relief. He rushed into the kitchen, jerked open the door, and saw the familiar scowl. “Are you alone?”
“No, I brought the FBI,” Fred Lucas shot back as he stepped quickly inside. He went to the side window, pulled the curtain aside and glanced at the neighbor’s house. “The damn FBI will be here if people saw me creeping around the back door,” he snapped.
His uncle’s cantankerousness was a balm, and for a second Brent actually smiled. “What are you doing here?”
His uncle had a big paper shopping bag in one hand, and he hoisted it onto the kitchen table. “Maggie told me to keep an eye on you. She said you’re about to do something stupid.” He spotted the canvas bag beside the door then tipped it and examined the contents. “Looks like she’s got your number.”
“I’m getting out of here,” Brent said.
Fred Lucas leaned back against the door. “To do what?” His uncle shook his head. “These guys already tagged you for stealing the money and set you up for murder. Whoever they are, they ain’t stupid. You try something by yourself, they’re gonna plaster your ass on a wall.”
“There’s no other option,” Brent said, reaching around Fred for the doorknob.
His uncle didn’t move. “What do I do with the spade?”
Brent blinked. “The what?”
“You heard me—the giant kid. DeLeyon f-ing Jones.”
Brent stepped back at hearing the name. “He’s my Little Brother. Why?”
“Well, he ain’t little, and he’s got his black ass sitting in my buddy’s car right now.” His uncle hooked his thumb at the driveway. “He’s my lookout.” He smirked. “You know they’ve had these assholes sitting outside my house—well I know you know cause you had Maggie bring me that note.”
“It was her idea.”
“Figures.”
“Back this up a little,” Brent said. “How did DeLeyon get into your buddy’s car?”
“Why don’t you ask me first how the hell he got to Morristown?”
“Okay, how?”
“He took a bus.”
“From New York?”
“No, from Poland.”
Brent waved a hand in surrender. “Okay, he took a bus. How‘d he find you?”
“Went to the fire station and asked. They called me up from there. He came cause he wants to save your miserable ass. He’s apparently one of about three people in the entire United States who give a crap.”
Brent shook his head. “He’s a sixteen year old kid. You’ve got to send him home.”
“Pardon me, but Baby Huey’s eight feet tall. I can’t make him go anywhere.”
“Well, get him out of here. He can’t have anything to do with me.”
“Well, smart guy, that was my first thought, but since he’s come down here to hunt you up and since he knows Maggie’s name, this was gonna be his next stop. You think an old white man might draw some questions creeping around a young woman’s back door, what about your buddy DeLeyon?”
“Where’s your car?”
Fred shook his head. “My buddy’s car. I’m not as dumb as the later generation of my family. I got followed to the fire station.”
“You went out the back and took someone else’s car?”
“Bingo. Hopefully my tails are still watching the fire station.”
Brent sighed. “Well, you can’t just leave him out there.”
Fred scowled as he turned and went out the back door. “Finally a right answer! Anybody in your shoes better take all the help they can get!”