Her first impulse was to resist, but she felt fully depleted after last night’s lousy sleep. Then, of course, she thought of Emma and the National Cathedral and knew where she was headed. But would it be fair to show up when her daughter would be meeting Don, for the first time?
Of course it would. Do you trust him with her?
The answer was a resounding no, and why should she? Delaying no longer, she headed for the District, fighting traffic all the way. She would not make a scene with Donald, but she would keep a keen, if discreet, eye on the federal prisoner in his ankle monitor.
The neo-Gothic cathedral was lit up, brilliantly displayed against the night sky as she walked toward it. Lana heard the choir even before she entered, and as she passed under the exquisite stone carving of the Last Supper over the entrance, she saw that the church was packed.
She felt fortunate to find a seat in the last pew, barely able to pick out her daughter in the broad display of blue satin up on the wide altar.
A violin solo rose to the side of the choir as she settled in. Lana hadn’t realized that they would have a full orchestra to accompany them, but she’d been playing catch-up on choral music since Tanesa had led Emma down this artistic path.
Tanesa’s solo came first, and Lana caught herself digging for tissues and dabbing tears as the girl’s voice filled the cathedral. Tanesa sounded pure and flawless to Lana’s admittedly unpracticed ear, but she looked around and saw many people nodding approvingly.
She knew little more about St Matthew’s Passion than the name itself suggested: a demonstration of Bach’s fealty for his faith. Lana lacked great devotion to any religion, but did have tremendous admiration for the art inspired by fervent spiritual belief.
That thought was interrupted when Emma began to sing her solo. Lana did not recognize her daughter’s voice right away, but glimpsed enough of her to be sure that Emma was now the focus of audience admiration wherever she glanced. Her daughter had a lovely soprano voice and handled the German with aplomb.
How does this happen? she asked herself. Your child leaps from gangly childhood to exhibitions of skill and beauty that you could never have anticipated a year ago. Lana had to dig for her tissues once more.
After the choir bowed to sustained applause, Lana edged along the side of the cathedral, moving past stately stone columns, hoping to watch Emma meet her father for the first time. Mostly, she wished that she could have rushed to Emma to congratulate her right then. But she had to grant her daughter — and Emma’s father, Damn him! — their first meeting. One more reason to resent Donald Fedder.
She caught the moment seconds later. Donald, blue suited with a crimson striped tie — looking anything but a convict — shook Emma’s hand. At least he hadn’t presumed to have earned a hug by showing up. Lana had to concede that much.
For her part, Emma looked curious, pleased, but also tentative as she chatted with him.
Don gestured to a pew, away from others still congregating near the altar, including the musicians packing up their instruments.
Lana checked her watch; Don was to have fifteen minutes max. She needn’t have bothered; a woman from the Bureau of Prisons — that was Lana’s bet, in any case — had apparently been dispatched to monitor the pair, which she did from a few rows back. Lana could pick out a spy even in a cathedral. And then she realized, naturally, that she herself was spying, which formed the first direct parallel she could think of between her professional and personal life.
The watch checking proved unnecessary, in any event; after fifteen minutes Don stood. So did Emma. He reached to shake her hand again, but Emma deftly moved it aside and took her father in her arms instead. It was such a smooth adult move that Lana choked up.
But Lana also felt a distinct pang of jealousy, followed quickly by a wholly unexpected pulse of happiness on Emma’s behalf: she had found her father, and he had accorded his child the dignity she so richly deserved.
Lana slipped away quietly, knowing that Tanesa’s parents would bring Emma home.
As soon as she exited the cathedral, she checked for messages. There were several, but the one from Holmes, presumably sent from the Oval Office, drew her instant attention. It provided a link to the inevitable threat from the hacker-hijackers.
Finally, she thought grimly.
Her fierce desire for them to come forward with their “or else” had been satisfied.
Standing in light bleeding from the front of the cathedral, Lana read the threat twice. It was so unthinkably dangerous to the entire world — and yet so obvious — that she knew the likelihood of an actual missile attack had escalated from the unthinkable to the probable.
And it would be far more devastating than anyone, including herself, could possibly have imagined.
CHAPTER 6
Oleg was so frustrated he pounded the trident symbol in the middle of the Maserati’s steering wheel to sound the horn. That earned him the temper of the long-haired blonde in front of him, who made an obscene gesture and honked her own horn. So Oleg roared past her lousy little Lada, gave her another blast, and the same gesture. Wanted to run her off the road.
Okay, so bad mood, Oleg. Get a grip. Don’t abuse such a beautiful car.
Why was he in such a bad mood? All he’d wanted when he stopped by to see Galina was a simple apology: “I’m sorry, Oleg, for working for Papa Plutocrat and Dmitri.” That was all she had to say — and then some make up sex to show that she was really sincere.
Not kiddie cancer. Who wanted to hear about that?
Secret for girlfriend success: Apology + Sex = NO BIG DEAL.
And then you’re forgiven. Jesus.
But she got pissed off.
Go figure.
Bigger sturgeon to fry now. Oleg had used his own hacked channels to the White House to let them know about the threat hanging over their heads — and the rest of the world’s — so it was time to make sure Numero Uno hacker, the Ukrainian, was fully in the loop, too.
Uno was a smart boy, so it was very possible that he’d identified the target all on his own. If not, though, Oleg needed to inform him straightaway because Uno had hacked the sub’s communications and — with some valuable help aboard — would be aiming the Trident IIs. “Like very exciting video game,” Uno had told him.
The target was not going to be Washington, much as Oleg hated that place, or New York, much as he loved it, or Paris, London, Hong Kong, Beijing, or Flint, Michigan, a shitty city Oleg personally would have been happy to blow up with a thermonuclear device. He had been carjacked there by big black men on a hot summer night when he was just passing through minding his own business and thought it would be a nice boost for the local economy if he bought some excellent crack cocaine for a special friend whose acquaintance he’d made on a street corner a few blocks away. Those American blacks were ingrates. They threatened to tear out his lungs for bringing his “ofay self” into their hood, which had enough problems without “fucking ofays” like him.
Ofay? Ofay? That’s the best they can do when it comes to name-calling?
Maybe hard to believe, but the real target was even better than Flint. He smiled just thinking about it, so pleased at finally knowing that he could tell Uno where to aim those nuclear missiles. He was speeding home, prepared to bribe stupid Muscovite cops if he had to. Ripping along at one hundred fifty kilometers an hour, he checked out his mug in the rearview mirror—What was that thump? Potato-faced peasant? — pleased to see the handsome look of the man staring back at him. Who really needed multiple warheads when the target he’d picked out would be like hitting hundreds of cities all at once?