“Why? To increase the toxicity of the smoke or special effects?”
“That’s Spencer’s take. There are a number of ways in which a pall of darkness can be spun into a political or religious statement. And it may tie in with what Dr. Sanchez learned at Graterford. That’s a good topic to run by Dr. O’Tree.”
He disconnected.
I CHEWED ON that for the rest of the flight to Heathrow. Gus Dietrich had arranged for an aide to be there with my suitcases. I ducked into a bathroom and changed out of the BDUs and into a light traveling suit.
Ghost, looking like a tortured martyr, went into the cargo hold in a big box. Even when I gave him his favorite toy—a well-chewed stuffed cat with DR. HU stitched on its chest—from the looks Ghost threw me you’d have thought I’d just whipped him with a chain.
Did I feel guilty as I kicked off my shoes and stretched out my legs in first class? Could I imagine his piteous whines as I sipped my first glass of Jameson?
Yeah, but I dealt with it manfully. I finished the drink in two wheezing gulps, ordered a second and took a slug, then rested the glass on my thigh. My eyes started drifting closed and I didn’t fight it.
“Captain Ledger—?”
I fought the urge to heave out a frustrated sigh as I cranked open one eye. “Yes?”
A woman set a briefcase down on the adjoining seat. She was very likely the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in real life.
“Mr. Church told me that you’d be aboard this flight,” she said. “I’m Dr. Circe O’Tree.”
I stared up at her and for a moment I forgot all about death and destruction. I also forgot that I’d buckled my seat belt, so when I tried to stand and shake her hand I jerked to a halt and spilled my whiskey all over my crotch.
Smooth.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Over the Atlantic
December 18, 10:43 P.M. GMT
We both looked at the dark stain spreading on the front of my trousers.
“Well,” I said, “I guess there’s no way I’m going to make a bigger jackass of myself than that, so we can go on the assumption that everything else will be less of a disappointment.”
Circe O’Tree arched an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t know. We have a long flight ahead of us.”
Damn.
She was average height, but beyond that all other uses of the word “average” went right out the window. Circe had a heart-shaped face framed by intensely black hair that fell in wild curls to her shoulders. She had full lips, high cheekbones that a model would have sold her own offspring for, and a set of heart-stopping curves. The brown of her eyes was so dark that the irises looked black. I figured her for Black Irish with a dash of Greek. She wore a tailored tweed skirt and jacket over a sheer white blouse. She wasn’t dressed to show off, and there wasn’t a hint of flirtation in her smile, so this was all on me. I could blame it on being caught off-guard. Sure, that sounds good.
“Mind if I sit?” she asked.
“Please,” I said, fumbling for what few manners I had left.
She sat and laid her briefcase on her thighs and tried not to smile at the whiskey spill. When the cabin attendant saw the mess and—God help me—tried to dab at it with a cloth, Circe turned aside and bit her thumb to keep from laughing.
I yanked out the tails of my shirt to hide the damage. The attendant, red faced and flustered, brought fresh drinks, a new whiskey for me and a Coke Zero for Circe.
“So,” I said, “want to start this over again? ’Cause really I’m not as much of an imbecile as evidence might suggest.”
“I try not to hold first impressions against people.”
“Thank god for that. Can we try those introductions again? You are—?”
“Do you want the full name or the one that fits my driver’s license?”
“Give me the whole enchilada. I’ve got time.”
“Circe Diana Ekklesia Magdalena O’Tree.”
“Yikes.”
“I have a complicated family history.”
“No kidding.”
“‘Circe’s’ easier.” She held out a hand. She wore rings on most of her fingers and a silver band of Celtic knots around her thumb. Her grip was strong, the way a woman’s is, without affected delicacy or an attempt to prove herself by trying to crush my bones. I noticed that there was a line of callus running from her index finger to her thumb. Shooters get calluses like that. Her trigger finger was the only one without a ring. File that away.
“Captain Joseph Edwin Ledger,” I said. “Joe to my friends.”
“Nice to meet you, Joe.”
“You hold any rank?” I asked.
She shook her dark hair. “Just the degrees. M.D., couple of Ph.D.’s, bunch of master’s. I was a world-class nerd.”
“What fields?”
“It’s a mix. Archaeology, anthropology, physics, psychology, and medicine with a specialty in infectious diseases.”
I whistled. “Weird mix.”
“Less weird than it appears. I’ve always known that I wanted to work in the threat assessment field. Counterterrorism and antiterrorism. The physics and medicine help me understand the specific nature of the WMDs we might face; the archaeology and anthropology give me a lot of cultural perspective. And the psychology allows me to crawl inside the heads of freedom fighters and political extremists.”
“Makes sense, but you must have started collecting degrees in grade school.”
Her smile abruptly dropped about twenty degrees. “Are you going to tell me that I look too young to be so smart?”
“Uh … no. My comment was meant to convey appreciation of your accomplishments, not to condescend.”
Circe said nothing. Insecure and a bit touchy. File that away, too.
“Church said you were in London for the Sea of Hope thing. I just got the skinny on that yesterday.”
“And—?”
“And what?”
“Most of you people seem to think that it’s an extraordinary waste of security resources and probably an overall waste of time.”
“‘You people’? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Military types. Covert-ops types.”
“Ah. You mean male types. Sorry, Doc, but I wasn’t going in that direction. If you want to hear what I actually think, try asking it without the challenge.”
She sat back and appraised me for a moment, but it was hard to tell what conclusions she was drawing. She said, “Okay, so what do you think of Generation Hope?”
“No bullshit?”
“No bullshit.”
“I think it’s long past due, and I’m encouraged to know that the project was conceived by the next generation. The current generation in power—on both sides of the aisle—spend too much time with their heads up their asses playing partisan politics and not enough time planning for the future. I don’t like the grasshopper viewpoint when it comes to issues that affect the whole world. That said, I think the Sea of Hope is about the best target I could think of for a terrorist attack, so providing top-of-the-line security for it makes a lot of sense.”
Another long moment while she fixed those dark, calculating eyes on me.
“Okay,” she said. “Points for that.”
“Gosh, thanks.”
Circe gave me a charming smile. “We’re not going to get along well, are we?”
I laughed. “Actually, I kind of hope we are. I’ll behave if you will.”
She shrugged. “It’s worth a try.”
That bought us a few seconds of awkward silence. I waited for her to fill it. She didn’t, so I caved and asked, “You’ve worked with Church before?”