“This is Tarid…I—I did not believe I was to call until I was ready for the meeting. And, given the hour of my arrival…Yes, sir.”

“So he has a meeting,” said Hera, watching the video. “That was already obvious.”

“He’s scared of whoever he’s talking to,” said Flash. “Look at his face. He’s worried he’s going to be shot or something.”

Danny Freah dropped down to one knee, studying the image.

“Flash is right. Remember how defiant he looked when we rescued him? Whoever he’s meeting is a hell of a lot scarier than bullets.”

“So how does it help us?” said Hera.

“Man, you are Ms. Contrary tonight,” said Flash. He laughed.

Hera reddened, and swore to herself that she wouldn’t say anything else.

Nuri replayed the conversation again. Aside from the fact that the meeting must be imminent, there was no other useful information in the words. Meanwhile, the signal from the biomarker was deteriorating rapidly. They had to get him first thing in the morning.

“We’re going to have to line up some vehicles,” he told Danny. “Two at least.”

“You think we’re going to be able to follow him in cars?”

“If he’s in a vehicle, we need to be in a vehicle. We need to rent them.”

The problem with renting a car was timing; the agencies wouldn’t open until nine-thirty, which in practice would mean close to ten. By then Tarid could be well on his way to the meeting, or perhaps even done with it.

“We won’t need to be that close as long as we tag him in the morning,” said Danny. “Let’s concentrate on doing that well so we don’t have to worry.”

“Yeah, but if we’re close, we may be able to bug the meeting place,” said Nuri. “We really want to be inside there. Look at how valuable this was, and it’s only a little snippet from the distance.”

Hera didn’t think it was all that valuable. But she remembered her resolve and said nothing.

“We may not be able to get that close,” said Danny. “I’d suspect we won’t.”

“Why don’t we just bug him?” asked Flash.

“How?” asked Danny.

“Paste something onto his shoe?”

The others laughed, but the suggestion gave Nuri an idea. He went over to the closet where he’d put his jacket. He took it out, then unscrewed the top button, revealing the bug hidden there.

“This would work,” he said.

“You going to make him wear your coat?” said Danny.

Nuri went back to the laptop they were using as a video screen and called up an image showing Tarid’s clothes. He wore a jacket that featured large buttons. Nuri zeroed in on one and magnified it.

“You see anything unusual about these buttons?” he asked Hera.

“No. They’re black. They have four holes.”

“Right. Do we have anything like them?”

Though the button was a simple, basic design, it didn’t match anything anyone was wearing.

Hera waited until no one else said anything.

“We can get one from the bazaar in the morning,” she suggested. “The stalls for women, the practical ones, will be open very early, right after morning prayers.”

“How do you get the bug into the button?” asked Danny.

“Look how thin this is,” said Nuri, showing it to him. “It sits on the other side, like a holder—you see? The computer figures out how to focus through the holes in the material and the plastic.”

“I think it could work,” said Hera. “But how do we get his jacket?”

“That’s easy,” said Nuri. “The problem is getting the button on real fast. How well do you sew?”

“Terribly.”

“I can sew,” said Danny. “What did you have in mind?”

48

Washington suburbs

GREASY HANDS PARSONS WAS ABOUT TO GRAB HIMSELF A beer when the phone rang. He debated whether to answer it. Generally, the only people who called at this hour were trying to sell something he didn’t want. But he was one of those people who could never stand to let a phone go unanswered, and so he detoured from the refrigerator to the phone.

“Parsons,” he said, his answer conditioned by years in the military.

“Greasy Hands—I wonder if you’d like to start work a few days early,” said Breanna Stockard.

“Hey, boss. Sure. When?”

“Tonight. We have a C-17 coming into Andrews that has to go right out. I was wondering if you could take a look at it.”

“I’m sure those boys will do a fine job for you, Bree.” The Air Force base’s many assignments including caring for Air Force One, and the crews there were second to none, including Dreamland. “But I’d be happy to shoot over for you—”

“Good,” said Breanna. “And just out of curiosity…what are you doing for the next few days? Anything pressing?”

“Pressing?”

“Could you take a trip?”

Greasy Hands mentally reviewed his commitments over the next few days: He had to do laundry, he ought to overhaul the lawn mower, and sooner or later he was going to have to get his car inspected.

And then there was the dentist and the dreaded biannual teeth cleaning.

“Slate is totally free,” he said. “Where are we going?”

“Let’s just say you won’t need your thermal underwear.”

“I’ll be there inside an hour.”

BREANNA WAS CONFUSED WHEN SHE PULLED INTO THE driveway and saw that none of the lights were on inside her house. Then she remembered Teri’s recital.

She buried her face in her hands.

“Oh God,” she said, slamming the wheel. Her hand hit the horn by mistake. The sharp blast echoed around the quiet suburban street, jolting a pair of robins that were nesting in the tree in the front yard, as well as the neighbor’s cat.

She leapt out of the car, jogging inside to get her things. Maybe, she thought, there would be time to stop by the school and hear her daughter play for a few minutes. But a glance at the clock in the kitchen told her that was a pipe dream; she was already running late.

There was a note for her on the kitchen table. Hey? was all it said.

“I know, I know,” she muttered, running to the bedroom. She grabbed her overnight bag from the closet, threw a change of clothes inside, then stepped into the bathroom for her toothbrush. She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror—it was the face of a woman she only vaguely recognized: a harried, overtired soccer mom.

Not a combat pilot.

Breanna slid some toothpaste, an extra bar of soap, and some toilet paper—you could never be too sure—into her bag. Then she went down the hall to Zen’s office, grabbed a pad from his desk, and went into Teri’s room to write her daughter a note.

“‘Honey,’” she started, speaking aloud as she wrote, “‘something came up—’”

Oh crap, that sounds terrible, Breanna thought, wadding the paper up.

Ter—I’m sorry I couldn’t make it tonight. I’m flying to Africa. Someone died and I’m responsible—

Garbage. And she shouldn’t write Africa. It would sound too dangerous.

She ripped that note up, too.

Honey, I love you, and I’m sorry I couldn’t be there tonight. I’ll explain when I get home in a few days.

That wasn’t much better than the others, but she decided it would have to do. She left it on Teri’s bed and ran back outside, nearly forgetting her keys in the house.

She was about ten minutes from the airport when Zen called her on the cell phone.

“Hey, there, Mrs. Stockard, should we save this front row seat for you or what?”

“Zen—God. I can’t—I’m flying to Ethiopia.”

“What?”

“It’s a long story. I can’t explain right now—it’s classified.”

“Bree, you better explain a little.”

“We have a problem in Sudan. It’s under control, but one of our people died. I have to make sure his body gets back. And I have to get the people he was with out.”