“What?” he said.

Then her face solidified again and she shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, and walked away.

He watched her heading toward the Metro. He was having trouble believing she could just walk away to write a report while he delivered the diamonds to Larison. Well, she didn’t have much choice. Still, if the shoe had been on the other foot, he would have been humiliated, furious. Maybe that’s what was bugging her.

His phone buzzed. Hort.

“Yeah.”

“Are you still at National?”

“Yeah, we just landed.”

“Lanier?”

He watched. “She’s gone.”

“Good. Larison just called in. He’s moved up the delivery. Told us to have a jet ready to leave from National at 1800.”

“Where did the call come from?”

“We can’t pinpoint these satellite phone calls because from geosynchronous orbit, the footprint is too big. It could have come from Costa Rica. Or the southeastern United States. Or anywhere in between.”

“You think he’d have the diamonds delivered in Costa Rica?”

“I don’t know. Before, I would have said not a chance, but now that Nico’s known, maybe he thinks it doesn’t make a difference.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Larison has the number of the phone I gave you. He’s going to call you at 1800 with instructions on where you’ll be flying. We’re refueling and servicing the jet you just came in on and it’ll be ready.”

“What does he know about me?”

“Not a single thing outside you’re a guy delivering a package. From his standpoint, you might as well be a pizza delivery man.”

“Hell of a pizza.”

“Yeah. I’ll meet you on the Crystal City Metro platform in one hour with the diamonds. Yellow Line, in the direction of Huntington.”

Ben wondered if Hort was choosing such a public location to reassure him again. It wasn’t really necessary. If Hort had wanted to set him up, there had been plenty of opportunities already. Or he could have just left him in the Manila city jail.

“I’ll be there,” Ben said.

An hour later, on the Crystal City platform, amid bored, oblivious commuters walking and waiting beneath the science fiction hush of the vaulted cement ceilings, Ben spotted Hort coming toward him in civilian clothes, a backpack over his shoulders. He saw Ben and walked over.

They shook hands. Ben eyed the backpack. “Is there really a hundred million dollars in there?” he said.

“There is. Twenty-three pounds, in case you’re curious. Don’t lose it.” He slipped the pack off and handed it to Ben.

“Don’t I have to sign for this?”

“Are you kidding? We give out bricks of hundred-dollar bills in Iraq and Afghanistan like we’re handing out lollipops and solicit work through no-bid contracts and there’s that three-trillion-dollar stimulus… at this point, a hundred million in the black ops budget is nothing but a damn rounding error. The only thing unusual is that we’re using diamonds instead of cash.”

A train pulled in with a hiss of pneumatic brakes and a recorded announcement of its arrival at the station. Ben watched commuters flowing on and off like zombies in a horror movie.

“The Fed had a hundred million worth of diamonds just lying around?”

“No, what you have in that bag is another triumph of government-private sector cooperation. Someone at the CIA had the admittedly excellent idea of engaging Ronald Winston.”

“Winston?”

“Son of the late Harry Winston. World’s premier diamond expert. We needed someone with deep contacts in the markets in Africa, Amsterdam, Tel Aviv, New York, someone who could cajole a few Saudi princes. And also someone monumentally discreet. Apparently there’s only one man who fit the bill, and that’s Winston. He personally certified every stone in this bag and I took possession directly from him.”

“What was Winston’s cut?”

“I’m sure he was well compensated. Being indispensable, and discreet on top of it, puts a man in a position to charge a premium.”

“I guess that’s true.”

“Now, listen. It’s just you on this. There’s no one else. So if anyone tries to interfere with you, you stop him. Any way you have to. Remember, you’re carrying a hundred million in there in untraceable, easily convertible stones. Plenty of people would like to get their hands on that, never mind the tapes.”

“Roger that.”

“You’re armed?”

Ben nodded. “Same Glock you set me up with when I was Dan Froomkin, FBI. It was on the jet where I left it.”

“Good. We can’t have Larison thinking we’re fucking with him again. The connection you uncovered in Costa Rica gives us a lot of leverage, and that’s important, that’s our insurance that if we let him walk away happy, he won’t release the tapes. But no sense antagonizing him, either. If another team from Blackwater shows up and tries to take him again, he might just decide the hell with it, we’re never going to give him what he wants, he might as well just release the tapes and the hell with the rest. We don’t want him in that frame of mind.”

His phone buzzed. He glanced down, saw the caller’s number was blocked. He looked at Hort.

Hort said, “Anyone else have this number?”

“No. Just you, as far as I know.”

“It’s him, then. Calling early again to keep us jumping. Go ahead.”

Ben accepted the call. “Hello.”

“Is this the courier?”

The same low, raspy voice Ben had heard on the conference call. The same confident tone. It was him. Larison.

Ben looked at Hort and nodded. “Yes.” After all the circling around, the listening in on other people’s calls, it was strangely satisfying to be engaging Larison directly.

“You’re going to start off by driving.”

“I thought I was flying somewhere.”

“Maybe you are. But first, you’re going to drive. Do you have a navigation system?”

“On my phone.”

“Good. Head west on Interstate 66. I’ll call you again in a little while and tell you what to do next. Now, listen. I’m going to be watching you. I might be tailing you, I might be having you drive past static checkpoints. I might have video installed on the route to monitor you that way. If you’re being followed, if you’re not alone, I’ll put a bullet in your brain and pick up the diamonds that way. Understood?”

The threat made Ben want to answer in kind, but he caught the reaction and suppressed it. “Understood.”

The line went dead. Ben repeated the conversation for Hort.

“Shit,” Hort said. “Should have seen that coming. We don’t have a car ready. All right, take mine. The driver’s outside.”

They left the station and walked over to a dark gray Crown Victoria parked at the curb. Hort told the driver, a crew-cut Asian too young to be part of the unit, that they’d be taking the Metro. The guy got out and Ben got in. He put the backpack on the floor of the passenger side and made sure the door was locked.

Hort held open the driver-side door and leaned in. “Remember,” he said. “It’s just you. And be damned careful with Larison. He killed twelve operators in Costa Rica. One more isn’t going to make a difference to him.”