Kincaid has chosen a nondescript restaurant a few towns over, one—she senses—that isn’t frequented by Agency employees. He doesn’t want them to be seen together, and while that’s fine with her, it also raises a faint alarm. He’s trying to hide what they’re doing. Why?
He hasn’t arrived yet, so she waits at the bar with a glass of wine, again fighting her desire to leave. A sinister air seems to hang overhead: nothing good can come of this evening. It’s like she’s deliberating courting disaster but can’t stop herself.
Finally, Kincaid shows up. He’s changed into a sports jacket and open-collared shirt. He seems more nervous than when she last saw him.
He compliments her on her appearance, even though she made sure to dress conservatively: a high neckline, low hem. He asks the maître d’ for a table in the back. Theresa doesn’t like it—it implies a certain intimacy—but she figures he wants it for privacy. She slides into the banquette, giving herself the best view of the restaurant. In case she needs to make a hasty exit.
“Let me get you another wine,” he says, lifting his hand for a waiter.
“I’m fine,” she says coolly, but his grin is cocky.
“Oh, you’re going to want another drink,” he assures her. And then he tells her about his conversation with Lyndsey. “She came to see me. Asking questions.” Kincaid has a whole new tone now. More confident. Mean, like a schoolyard bully’s voice. He slides closer, just a degree, but deliberately. He is trying to intimidate her. “It means you’re in trouble. The investigation.”
She wouldn’t think Kincaid capable of putting it together. He seems the kind of guy who needs problems explained to him by the smarter guys, the ones who figured it all out. She wonders, for a few fleeting seconds, how much he really knows. If there’s a way out of this.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, her face frozen.
“I don’t believe that for a minute.” He toys with a tumbler of Scotch. “I didn’t tell her about you. I gave her another name. But I could always tell her I was mistaken. That I got confused.”
Cold sweat starts to trickle down her sides. She can’t ask him what he wants: it would be an admission of guilt. And she doesn’t doubt for a minute that he’d take it to Lyndsey, like he threatened. He’d like to be the hero.
How ridiculous is it that—of all the brilliant minds at CIA—she was caught by Kyle Kincaid? There must be a way to discourage him from making good on his threat. She racks her brain, trying to think how.
Meanwhile, Kincaid is still talking. “Look, I don’t know why you did it and I don’t care. That’s your business. But if you don’t want to go to jail, you’ve got to give me something. You got money—everybody knows it. That sports car, the house in McLean. So, you’re going to pay me to keep my mouth shut.” He smiles so broadly his face might crack. He puffs out his chest and leans back, arms over the banquette like a mobster. She’d like to pick up that slender, sturdy fork and drive the tines right in his chest.
He has no idea what she’s thinking. He looks at her like she’s a Popsicle and his eyes are licking her up and down. Revolting. He ducks his head close so he can whisper in her ear. “And there’s one more thing you’re going to give me. You’re coming with me to a hotel. Tonight.” His hand hovers close to her breast. “You’re a widow, right? Been alone for a while now? So, this will be as much a treat for you as it is for me. It’s a shame a pretty thing like you has been sitting on a shelf. What you been saving it for?”
He’s just been upgraded to the dinner knife. She’d plunge its dull blade deep into his heart and not feel the slightest glimmer of regret. It’s all she can do to keep her hands in her lap, to keep from reaching for it.
Oblivious, he takes a lock of her hair, fiddles it between his fingers, savoring the silkiness. “Ready to ditch this place?” he asks.
Somehow, she doesn’t scream. She manages to maintain control. Gives him a tight, icy smile. Smooths the hair he’s just mussed so not a strand is out of place. “Sure. Just give me a minute to get ready.” She rises from the banquette and walks deliberately to the restroom, feeling his eyes on her ass.
Thankfully, it’s empty. She staggers to the granite counter, which she hangs on to like a life preserver, and avoids looking into the mirror. She doesn’t want to see the face of defeat.
No, not defeat. Not by the likes of Kyle Kincaid, not when she’s come so far.
She reaches for her purse on the counter. She digs through it, looking for something buried beneath the tissues and loose breath mints and package of crushed Oreos that she carries for Brian. Considering what it is, she really should keep better track of it. It’s not the kind of thing you want to fall into the wrong hands…
Yes, it’s still there, a small battered Altoids tin (“curiously strong”) held closed with a rubber band doubled, tripled over. She opens it with trembling hands. There it is, one lone pill, large, white, chalky to the touch. A present from her Russian handler, totally unrequested. You’ll never need this, Kanareyka—but just in case. For your peace of mind. For their peace of mind, she’s no fool. They’d rather not have any loose ends if things go south, would rather not leave behind a CIA officer capable of telling them things. An officer with names, places, tradecraft.
She rolls the pill between her fingers. Not for herself, of course—she has Brian to think about. She’s not going to leave her son on his own, not when they’re so close to being a family again.
It’s for Kyle Kincaid. She can hardly believe her thoughts, they’re so hard, so calculating. But she can be hard because he’s a solitary man, with no one dependent on him. No one would miss him if something happened to him.
She looks down at the pilclass="underline" how would she give it to him? It’s not like he’s going to take it voluntarily. He’s just threatened her: he’ll be on his guard. He won’t take a drink from her that he hasn’t watched her mix himself. And how else could she give it to him?
Her mind blanks, then blurs. It’s impossible. It can’t be done.
Impossible is not the answer. She’ll have to find a way.
She puts the pill back in the tin. She doesn’t know what’s in it, but you have to respect a Russian poison pill. Those Russians know their stuff. She rinses her hands, just in case.
For every second she’s away, Kincaid will grow more anxious. She doesn’t have all the time in the world. She doesn’t want to give him too much time to think. She dries her hands, reapplies her lipstick, and goes to face the music.
The hotel Kincaid has picked is not stylish, but neither is it a flea-ridden dump. It’s merely suburban and nondescript, stucco walls and garish, multicolored carpeting in the lobby to hide wear and tear. The clerk at the desk doesn’t raise an eyebrow as they wait without luggage, Kincaid tapping his credit card against the counter as the clerk works the keyboard. Theresa keeps her eyes trained on that horrible carpet, wishing she could disappear.
The room itself is smallish. She slips off her coat and sits on the bed, fighting claustrophobia. She insisted they pick up a bottle of whiskey on the way and he didn’t argue, sensing perhaps that she’ll need to get good and drunk to go through with what he wants. He pours shots into two thick, ugly hotel glasses.
She takes a sip, savoring the burn, before heading to the bathroom. It smells of cleanser in there, though not enough to mask the mildew. She runs the taps to cover noise as she takes the Altoids tin from her purse. She snaps the big, awkward pill in half and then, feeling a pang of conscience, breaks off a little more. The crumbs she brushes into the sink, letting the running water wash them away. She doesn’t want to kill Kyle Kincaid, she just wants to send him a message. Don’t mess with me. All she needs is to make him hesitate; it won’t be long before the Russians help her leave the country.