Surprise a carnivore in tall grass, you’d get the same reaction.
The eyes reminded her of something. The image of Solaris came into Dasha’s mind-Solaris and the newly hatched snake that killed him.
A death adder.
A reptile that, from birth, knew instinctively to wait, calculate, before striking.
Efficient. That was another way of saying it.
Ford’s eyes were similar. Vague and dusty. Something dark inside there coiled.
In Vegas, when Mr. Earl had interviewed her, there’d been all those Soldier of Fortune types strutting around. Fakes, skinheads, Hollywood dreamers. Out of all those pretenders, she’d seen two, maybe three people who’d earned the look. People who’d been places; done some jobs.
If you serve in the Russian military, the Chechen border, hustling both sides, you learned to recognize the real ones at a glance. Or died.
He used a ski ramp to attack. At night. While taking fire.
Marion D. Ford, Ph. D.
Looking at the man’s photo, Dasha felt a stimulating awareness, the preface to fury, but also the preface to arousal. In her, the two emotions were nearly the same.
Biologist, my ass.
The woman still had connections in Russia; former KGB people, black ops specialists. She looked at her watch-a little after 8:00 A.M. in Moscow. Just for the hell of it, she wrote an e-mail asking if anyone had additional information on Ford. She sent it to several addresses, not expecting much.
Surprise.
An hour later, after showering yet again, Dasha checked her e-mail before heading for bed in the guest room. She’d already received three responses.
Two wrote that there was no data available-“suggestive,” one noted, in a typically understated Russian way.
The third reply was written in Chechen. Excellent intel; better than she’d hoped.
… only match for Marion D. Ford is from compromised Mossad files, data not verifiable. Tropics; Biologist; Born South Florida-suspected nightshift operator, never confirmed. Assets: Unknown. Affiliated agency: Unknown; possibly illegal deep-cover black ops group. Designation: W.
MDF’s geo-transects are too numerous to be coincidental with the deaths or disappearances listed here in reverse order: Islamic cleric Hada Salharra, Detroit; Ricardo Palmera (aka Simon Trinidad), FARC leader, Colombia; Omar Muhammad, head of Abul Nidal…
Dasha was smiling, energized. The targets, the organizations-in the world of covert operations, this was big-time. It took the breath out of her. She had Ford’s photo enlarged on the screen as she skipped ahead; she wanted to see how the man got started.
… while in secondary school, MDF was suspect in the disappearance and presumed murder of a man rumored to have had an affair with subject’s mother just prior to her own death. According to sealed records, a juvenile court judge (and friend of subject’s Masonic uncle) strongly suggested MDF leave Florida and enlist in the military…
The final paragraph read:
… subject was employed by a CIA front corporation, Air America, during operations Phoenix and Blue Light. MDF is also suspected of infiltrating political activist organizations on U.S. college campuses, Colorado, Wisconsin, Berkeley, and Harvard, in operations called Purple Haze and Bad Moon Rising. Several deaths and disappearances associated with same…
“Nightshift.” KGB slang.
This man was a professional, like herself. An operator.
With someone like this, she’d have to be very, very careful.
The woman was imagining various scenarios. Letting it play out in her head.
Her guess was right: A killer.
A man like Ford she might be able to use…
29
The phone message Jason Reynolds left on my cell phone bothered me, set off warning gongs.
“Dr. Ford, it might be smart if you drive back to the canal, win yourself some points. The cops can’t find the damn phone for some reason, and they’re sorta freaked-out suspicious. Either way, give me a call from the hospital, and tell me how our friend’s doing.”
I saved the message as I stepped through the whoosh of automatic doors, into the hospital.
His voice sounded strained, the sentences rehearsed. Too many oddities.
I checked my watch again: 7:31 P.M.
If the sheriff’s department couldn’t find the phone, why hadn’t they contacted me? The detective from the special crimes division had my number. He had already threatened to come looking for me if I’d given him bad info.
Instead, I hear it first from some imitation hipster?
Something else: There were only two plausible reasons why they hadn’t found the phone. They were searching the wrong place, or someone had removed it before they got there.
… drive back to the canal, win some points…
A deserted road. Only one way in or out. A perfect little ambush point if someone wanted to get me alone and ask about Applebee’s computer files-files that several people now knew I possessed.
My boat shoes squeaked on sterile hallway floors, medical staff in scrubs streaming past, as I listened to the message a second time.
… give me a call from the hospital…
How did Reynolds know we were still at the hospital?
He was either guessing, or someone was doing drive-bys, keeping an eye on the Magic Bus, which I’d parked in the rear lot, near the ER entrance.
The waiting room was separated from the main hall by hydraulic double doors, shatterproof glass. Lake was inside with a magazine-it looked like Scientific American-slumped in the plastic chair, bored but dealing with it. I stood and stared for a moment, feeling pleasure in the shape of his face, wanting the image to stick with me, enjoying an awareness of heritable bonds.
When I stepped through the doorway, he looked up, grinned, raised an index finger-his characteristic greeting.
“Any word on Tomlinson?”
“Naw. Doctor said it’d be about an hour. She’s funny. I like her. We had a pretty good talk.”
“In her business, I guess a sense of humor’s required.”
I noticed that when the boy grinned, his eyes glittered, familiar as my own. “Know what she told me? She said, ‘When adults tell you that adolescence is the best time of your life, they’re full of shit.’” He lost it for a moment, chest bouncing as he laughed. Hilarious. “Said she didn’t really start feeling comfortable, having fun, until she was in her late twenties. Hated her teens.”
“A smart woman; she’s right. I was a little older. Early thirties.”
“No shit?” Lake had been experimenting with profanity. I had to force myself not to smile.
“I shit you not. Early thirties.”
There was something else on his mind. A sly look. He was about to share a secret. “Dr. Shepherd told me she’s single, made a point of it. The only reason I can think of, she wants you to know.”
I said, “Really? I must have missed something.”
My son said, “I’m the same way with girls. I can’t ever tell, either. She asked me some questions about you, then told me she’d lived alone since doing her residency. I think she’s really pretty for a woman her age.”
“Very attractive. She’s got character-it’s in her eyes.” A passing observation said without real interest. The conversation with Dewey had congealed as a knot in my chest. I felt it there now; pain that would last.
The leather-bound log book Lake had given me was on the table next to his backpack-he carried the thing everywhere-and near to the keys to the van.
I sat, opened the log, noted date and time, as I told my son where I was going and why. I added, “I don’t have a choice,” as I wrote:
Tomlinson, I’m driving your van to the canal where you found Frieda’s phone. If I’m not back by morning, call a guy named Hal Harrington at the number below. Tell him to have your new pal, Jason Reynolds, questioned. Here are other names he should check…