“Long time,” she said.
“It never feels like you think it will,” said Fisk. “Does it?”
“No.”
Her eyes dampened, and Fisk grew concerned. This was not like the Ice Queen at all. She had won. She had protected her president and triumphed over this killer without a face, this agent of terror.
Garza turned away, aware that Fisk was watching her eyes.
“Hey,” said Fisk. “Don’t make me worry about you, now. Take some time to process this.”
And then he realized what it must be. He was shocked he hadn’t thought of it before.
“The girls,” he said. “The kidnapped girls. You saw them?”
Garza nodded. “I saw them.”
“I understand. You’re thinking of your mother and your sister.”
She was still turned away from him. Fisk watched her hands ball into fists . . . and then release.
When she turned to him, he expected to see tears—but there were none.
“What was it you were telling me last night?” she asked. “At the hotel lounge. About catching Magnus Jenssen?”
Fisk swallowed, not expecting to go there. “I think I said that it is never the victory you think it will be.”
Garza nodded. “We have to be better than those we hunt. That’s what you said. That this is what defines us. People like you and me.”
Fisk nodded.
She went on. “You said that this cycle of murder and retribution, of terror and fighting terror . . . it sickens us all. Like radiation poisoning, just being near evil.”
Fisk nodded again. The last thing he had expected was to hear his wine-soaked words read back to him. He had a very bad taste in his mouth, and it was not from the painkillers.
“Time,” he said. “That is all you can hope for. That in time everything will be clear to you, and you can move on.”
“I have given it time,” she said. “So much time.”
Fisk was about to correct her, in that it had only been a few hours. But in the next moment he had forgotten all about that, as Garza leaned down and kissed him on the lips, softly but lingeringly, her hand caressing the side of his face.
She pulled away, their faces parting. Fisk was smiling, but in her eyes was a less certain expression. He waited for her to speak, but she never did. Abruptly she turned and pushed through the bay curtain, walking away.
CHAPTER 73
Intel chief Barry Dubin poked his bald head inside the curtain, eyes widening in relief. “Just walked in on some old woman by mistake.”
Fisk said, “What’s in the bag?”
Dubin was carrying a paper bag in the same hand that held his iPad. Dubin unfurled the top of the bag and reached inside. “Nicole said I should bring one of these for you.”
It was a sandwich inside a clear plastic triangle from the vending machine in the Intel break room. “Chicken salad.”
Fisk closed his eyes drowsily. “You’re taking that with you when you leave.”
Dubin dropped the gag sandwich back in the bag. “How’s the wing?”
“I’m going to make a full recovery.”
“Good. You want to sleep?”
“No.” Fisk opened his eyes.
“Hey, I’m glad you’re okay.”
Fisk said, “That’s not an apology.”
Dubin smiled, his gray goatee smiling with him. “Let’s see how all the evidence shakes out before we see who needs to apologize to whom.”
Fisk remembered something. “My phone. Lost it at the scene. Can you get someone to get it?”
“Sure. How many painkillers did they give you?”
“Not nearly enough,” said Fisk.
“I have some photos from the warehouse. From Chupa . . . the Hummingbird, however you pronounce it. His workshop apartment there. You want to see them, or wait?”
“Gimme.”
Dubin flipped open his iPad cover and turned it over to Fisk. “There’s a couple of short videos and high-resolution photos.”
Fisk looked at the oysters taken from their cartons, the hidden gun pieces. “Oysters, huh?”
“And guess what?” said Dubin. “The Mexican president has a shellfish allergy.”
Fisk looked at images of the two corpses, Chuparosa and the other man. Then the bloodied wall and floor, the site of the decapitations.
“I don’t get it,” said Fisk.
“What?” said Dubin.
“This plan was destined to fail. Assembling a gun inside the perimeter? Okay, points for that. Assuming he got it inside past the Secret Service’s millimeter wave scanner. But those agents around the president—either president—would have seen a gunman coming from twenty feet away.”
Dubin stroked his goatee. “You’re not wrong.”
Fisk shook his head, his mind a little muddled from the medication. “He was too smart for that. Unless there’s something else we’re missing.”
Dubin’s hand came away from his beard, his finger swiping the screen back to the thumbnails. “The guy made a video. Like a suicide bomber, I guess. To be viewed after he died.”
Fisk was surprised. “Really? Anything to it?”
“It’s tough to watch. He recorded it during the beheadings.”
Fisk hissed out a breath between his numb teeth. “Jesus. What’s he say?”
Dubin said, “No idea. It’s in Spanish.”
Fisk looked at Dubin, a former spy. “No Spanish?”
Dubin shook his head. “Korean and Thai. A little German.”
Fisk sniffed. This didn’t seem the time to brag about his five languages. “At least you can order takeout well.”
Dubin frowned. “I like you better sober.”
Fisk looked at the video icon, debating. Some things you cannot un-see. That, in essence, was his job.
“Did Garza see this?”
“I’m sure she did.”
Fisk nodded. “Fine,” he said, and tapped the icon, and the video began.
CHAPTER 74
The Mexican consulate was swept by security again just before seven thirty. Garza left the inspection halfway through, finding a ladies’ room to throw up in.
She hit the handle and let the roar of the flush drown out her gasping. She went to the sink and splashed cold water on her face, wiped off her lips, then looked at herself in the mirror with one hand pressed against her forehead.
She was hyperventilating. She gripped the edge of the vanity, clamping her eyes shut and willing herself to relax.
“Everything all right, Comandante?” asked the second security officer as she rejoined the inspection.
“Please proceed,” she said, ignoring the taste of vomit in her mouth.
SHE HAD EARLIER WALKED through each and every room of the building herself, checking doors and windows. None of it mattered much to her now, but she went through the motions. She listened to the head of consulate security, a tall, soft-spoken, competent man.
Which rooms were the safest, which doors were blast-proof, which hallways contained cameras and which ones did not. She had been through it all before . . . but she wanted to have the entire building in her head, clear as a bell.
They completed the final security tour of the consulate building just as the food arrived under guard from Ocampo. A skeleton crew of chefs and servers were put through a rigorous security check, including both pat-downs and a trip through the airport-style millimeter wave scanner. The entire security procedure would be thorough and slow. Garza felt her belly start to roil again and excused herself, retreating to a small room of video monitors on the fourth floor of the consulate.
She breathed slowly through her nose, watching as a viola player and a cellist were submitted to rigorous frisking, their instruments examined and reexamined. Nothing like a near miss to remind people of the importance of preventive security.