Try about a hundred ideas, Russell thought. Her field activities had been varied and dangerous, but most had been wrapped up cleanly. The only possible exception would be Africa.
“Has to be from the last mission. I’ll keep an eye out and if it happens again I’ll let Cromwell know they’ve found me. We’ll have to make alternate arrangements. I’ll probably sleep at a hotel tonight.”
“Fair enough. Watch your back.” Harcourt rang off.
Russell sighed. She really didn’t want to sleep in a hotel that night. Instead, she took a winding route to her rented house located thirty minutes from Langley, keeping a sharp eye on the road behind her. The house sat in a quiet, prosperous suburb, where trees lined the curving streets and large homes dominated three-quarter-acre lots. Once there she pulled into the attached garage and waited for the door to close behind her before exiting. She armed the house’s perimeter the minute she entered, using a keypad located on the wall next to the side entrance. Still, she held her gun while she did a quiet, thorough reconnaissance of each room. She checked in closets, under beds, and inside the master bedroom’s shower stall. Once she was satisfied, she returned to the keypad, disarmed, cleared the old code, created a new one, and rearmed. An hour later she was asleep.
It wasn’t a sound that woke her, it was the absence of any. The humidifier in her bedroom had shut off. It no longer made the soft whirring white noise that helped her fall asleep each night. She opened her eyes and glanced over at it. Not only was the humidifier silent, but the clock radio was dark as well. The electricity was down.
She sat up and reached for her gun, which she kept under the pillow next to the one she slept on. The heavy black around her felt ominous, and she slid out of bed and over to the alarm keypad on the wall. The green LED display blinked “Power Failure” in five-second intervals. The battery backup would keep the system functioning, and the phone line connection would allow for a direct call to the local police, assuming that the line was still operative. Russell moved back to the bedside table, where the only electricity-free phone sat. She picked up the receiver and heard nothing. The landline had been cut. Her cell phone was attached to a charging station on a credenza by the front door.
She went to the corner of her window, aligned herself with the wall, and pushed aside the curtain an inch to peer at the backyard. Beyond a brick-paved patio area was a lawn dotted with oaks that were just sprouting leaves after the long winter. The shapes of their branches were black forms in the night, and Russell could hear them shifting and clattering together in the wind. The alarm keypad beeped three times and Russell froze. Someone had disarmed the system. Now even the siren wouldn’t blare, but Russell considered that to be of minimal use since the house sat far from any neighbors. She didn’t want an amateur stumbling into the situation in any event. What concerned her most was the fact that the intruder was able to disarm a brand new code. These were professionals.
Russell responded the way she always did when in the game, her senses focused, her hand gripping her gun tightly. Her heart beat faster as she headed back to the display. The chime feature would respond each time a sensor was activated, and there were trigger points in each room and one on the stairwell to the second-floor bedrooms. Russell waited to see what location they used to breach the perimeter.
The keypad beeped and the words “front door” ran across the display. Pretty bold, walking right in the front door, she thought. She removed the safety on her gun and settled in with her shoulder against the wall, facing the bedroom door. Whoever was in the house was after her. She expected they’d make their way to her room. The words “living room sensor” came next. In her mind’s eye, Russell traced the path they were taking through the house. The alarm chimed again. This time the word “kitchen” lit the device. Russell strained to catch any sound. She heard a rattle of glass bottles: the same sound she always heard when the refrigerator door opened.
What, do they need a beer? Russell thought. The bottles rattled again as the door was closed. Another beep. “Living room” marched across the keypad. One more beep and “front door” appeared.
She heard it close.
She slid into the opening leading to the master bath, keeping back. The walls blocked her view of the hall leading to the bedroom’s entrance and, on the opposite side, the window, but kept her safe in case multiple attackers converged on her from both sides. But if the alarm system was correct and if they were once again outside, they’d come through the window.
The small battery-operated clock on the bathroom counter glowed, revealing that it was 3:02 in the morning. Then 3:03. Still silence. She waited until the clock glowed 3:18 before risking a move to peer past the doorway. The alarm pad emitted a loud clicking and the humidifier kicked back on. The electricity was restored.
She crept out into the hallway, tiptoeing quickly down the stairs to the kitchen. The refrigerator door was closed, but she wasn’t fool enough to open it. She moved across through the living room to the front door. She wasn’t fool enough to step outside and become a target dummy, either. She threw the deadbolt before picking up her cell phone. She dialed Langley, requested assistance, and settled down behind the arm of the living room couch to wait, hoping that the refrigerator’s walls would contain enough of the force of any explosion so that she would survive.
Within thirty minutes a large delivery truck pulled into the driveway. The words “Washburn Heating and Cooling” were lettered on the side. The truck idled there, not moving. Russell’s phone started ringing.
She answered and a man’s voice said, “We’ve canvassed the area and found no one lurking in the trees. Are you clear in there?”
“Yes. I’ll let you in.” Two men in coveralls fell out of the doors, keeping behind them while they stared at the front of the house. Russell threw open the door, letting in a gust of cold air that smelled like spring. They walked toward her. Both wore knit caps, and one was Nicholas Jordan, the new hire. The other was a black man in his forties, with hair graying at the temples and a cautious manner. He stuck his hand out.
“Ben Washington. Explosives expert. Should we be standing here discussing the weather when you think there’s a bomb?”
Oh boy, I like this one. All business, Russell thought. “I think it’s in the refrigerator,” she said.
Washington snorted. “So either timer activated or wired to blow when you open the door.”
“Or a dirty bomb,” Russell said.
Washington shook his head. “Nope, already checked for that. The truck is equipped with some of NASA’s spare parts and a jerry-rigged telescope that can scan an area for traces of high-energy radioactive isotopes. A dirty bomb would have left a trail of them in the air. You’re clear.” He gave her an assessing look. “You sat in that house all that time with a possible dirty bomb? That’s either a lot of guts or a lot of stupidity.”
Russell shrugged. “I was just playing the odds. Dirty bomb: rare. Attacker with bullets: common. I figured I was safer in the house with the bomb than outside with a sniper in the trees.”
She looked at Jordan. “On your basic explosives rotation?” The CIA’s training schedule required that each agent learn hand-to-hand combat, basic bomb creation, and disarmament and weapons instruction.
Jordan smiled. “I love this round.”
Washington snorted again. “All you young officers want to do is blow things up.” He looked at Russell. “Too many video games.” He clapped his hands together. “All right, let’s figure out if the bad guys put something in the fridge.”
Washington sauntered over to the back of the truck and reached in. He removed a metal bomb mask, a Kevlar jumpsuit, a coiled length of rope on a rolling reel, and a white plastic baby monitor. Russell watched with interest.