“I wish Brian didn’t have to be there,” Theresa says, fist pressed against her mouth. Rouge Rebelle smears across one knuckle.
Herbert gives her a tense smile. “Don’t worry—my agents know his safety is our number one priority.”
It’s six o’clock, and they’re in a van parked just outside Theresa’s immediate neighborhood. She is ostensibly getting dinner and must rush back to her son so the sitter can leave. A bag of Chinese food, picked up earlier by one of the FBI agents, sits at her feet. It fills the van with spicy and savory aromas. Lyndsey’s stomach growls to remind her that she hasn’t eaten all day.
Theresa sighs. “At one point, months ago, I almost told Brian he was going to see his father again. I’m glad I didn’t.”
That must be the hardest part of what she is doing: knowing that Richard is alive but accepting that she is never going to see him again. In agreeing to take the safe course, she has chosen her son over her husband. Would she ever forgive herself for it?
She picks up the white plastic bag, the weight of the containers within shifting. It crinkles softly in her hands. “I’d better get home. Brian will be waiting.”
Lyndsey will spend the hours leading up to the event with Herbert and her agents. She and Herbert sit with another agent in the command post, made to look like a delivery van on the outside but fitted with equipment inside. An agent with headphones sits at a station next to her, listening to what comes in from the microphones in Theresa’s house. He also listens to a police scanner. Herbert is at a monitor, tapping away at emails. Lyndsey feels out of her element. She’s not given anything to do and listens to bursts of chatter between the FBI teams, reporting potential activity, picking out recurring vehicles and pedestrians lingering in improbable spots, probable Russian surveillance. The good news is that there doesn’t seem to be too many, about four total units spotted so far.
Somewhere, not far away, Eric’s team is setting up. As decided in advance with Lyndsey, Herbert’s team told Eric they’d intercepted a call that gave the final date and time, setting the trap. Lyndsey tries to picture what Eric will do—this is his big night, after all. The payoff for all his cunning. How many officers and contractors has he got on his team? He told Lyndsey, in passing, that he will lead them himself. She’d assumed he wouldn’t let someone else steal the limelight. He will want to nab his prize.
So many teams converging on one target in such a confined, busy area, it’s a miracle they haven’t tripped over each other yet. In a more well-coordinated operation, Herbert explains to Lyndsey, CIA would let FBI handle it or a few officers would be invited to participate as part of the team. The fact that there are two separate teams should’ve tipped Eric that something unusual is going on—but he was so close to his prize, perhaps he decided not to fight it.
At one point, there’s a crackle over the radio and one of the FBI units says they believe they’ve spotted the CIA team in a large SUV parked down the street. It has a clear line-of-sight to Theresa’s house. Thinking of all these agents, armed and converging on the small Cape Cod, worries Lyndsey. Maybe Theresa was right, maybe this is too dangerous for Brian to be there. But it would’ve been risky to sneak him out. Someone might have seen him leave. Anyway, it’s too late to change the plan now.
“If things go well, we’ll catch our Russian handler. We’ll also take Newman into custody. And Cassidy, for questioning. Your Agency hasn’t turned over the contract yet, so we don’t know if Newman’s signature is on it,” Herbert says, a little coolly on the last part. There’s a rivalry between the agencies, and for some people, their natural instinct isn’t to be cooperative, no matter what the orders say. One more thing to follow up on later, Lyndsey notes, maybe with Patrick Pfeifer.
It’s right around ten o’clock. Outside the van, there’s still traffic, car and foot. This part of the neighborhood is commercial, with small restaurants and coffee shops, a gift store, and a dentist’s office. One block away, it all becomes residential, a mix of the original small houses and McMansions sprouted up from teardowns. It’s a densely settled neighborhood and to think of the activity that will go down before long… It would be easy for a civilian to be hurt. Too, she thinks of Theresa, not far away, and how she must feel, alone in her house with her son, knowing that all hell is about to break loose. Earlier, they overheard a conversation picked up by the microphone, a disagreement between mother and son over bedtime. Theresa had ended up snapping at Brian in a way that made him burst into tears, which probably hurt Theresa to the quick. She couldn’t explain why it was so important tonight, of all nights, that he listen to his mother.
The radio crackles to life behind her. “Black Escalade approaching target. Slowing down.”
“We saw that car earlier,” another unit chimes in. “Circled the block fifteen minutes ago. Same license plate.”
“Just the one car?” Herbert asks into a microphone. “No tails?”
“None spotted—yet.”
“Three inside. Possibly more—it’s hard to tell with tinted windows.”
“They’re stopping. They’ve pulled into the target’s driveway.”
Lyndsey checks her watch. It’s five minutes after ten.
“Two men have exited the vehicle. They’re approaching the front door.” Pause. “They’ve gone inside.”
Herbert nods to the other agent, who gets up and heads to the driver’s seat. “We’re getting into position,” she says into the microphone. The engine roars to life and the vehicle lurches out into traffic. It only takes a minute to swing around the corner and slide into an empty spot in front of a neighbor’s house, just out of sight from the driveway.
They can see Theresa’s house, albeit not completely. Shadows move on the curtains in the front room but rapidly disappear. Lyndsey remembers the layout of the house: they’re going toward the back, to the family room and kitchen.
“Thomas, cover the man in the SUV,” Herbert says in the microphone as she draws her weapon and heads for the van door. “Let’s move on my mark—”
But they’re interrupted by the appearance of black figures approaching Theresa’s house. Bulky shadows suddenly glide between the trees like phantoms. They move down the street, past the FBI van, cross to Theresa’s side of the street, and then, with raptor-like swiftness, fall on the SUV in the driveway.
“What the hell?” Herbert mutters into the mic.
Five, no, six. Six men move toward Theresa’s house.
“That’s got to be Newman’s team. What the hell—Move, move!” Herbert says as she bursts out of the van.
Lyndsey sprints after her. She knows she’s supposed to stay in the van until the site has been secured but she can’t help it. Surely the Russian driver has seen the CIA team and notified his people inside. Theresa and her son could be in danger. At that moment, FBI agent Thomas drags the driver out of the van and presses him up against the vehicle, cheek ground into the glass window. But if the driver was quick and attentive, it could be too late.
Lyndsey holds her breath. Gunfire should break out at any moment. How could it not when the FBI teams explode out of nowhere, descending on the CIA team? It’s going to be a debacle, a clusterfuck, as the two teams engage each other. Lyndsey can picture the seventh floor’s reaction. But Herbert is holding up her credentials for the nearest member of the CIA team to see and gestures broadly for silence, so that no one mistakes the other team for Russian. It settles as quickly as it started, nearly noiselessly. Thank goodness Theresa and the two Russians are deep in the back of the house, away from all this.