She walked outside, continuing a little way down the road. The harsh sun hurt her eyes. There was no one outside, and the nearby houses, which yesterday had been teeming with people, seemed deserted. Otherwise, the day seemed perfect, no sign of conflict anywhere.

“I’m here,” she told Harker.

“What’s going on with Mao Man?” he asked.

“We have him tracked to a house on the northeastern side of town.”

“What about the UAV?”

“We think it’s nearby.”

“Think?”

“We’re not entirely sure.” His abrupt tone pissed her off. Try doing this yourself, she thought.

“When will you be sure?”

“I don’t know. There’s a Russian who’s trying to buy it—”

“Do not let the Russian get it.”

“No shit.”

“Mao Man has to be terminated. Take down the Russian, too. Take down the whole damn village—what the hell are you waiting for?”

“Reg—”

“I’m serious, Melissa. Why do you think I sent you there? What the hell did we invest in your training for?”

“I have no idea,” she told him stonily.

“Don’t let these Whiplash people run the show. They have their own agenda. Tell them to stop pussyfooting around and get the damn thing done.”

“Fuck yourself,” she said. But he’d already hung up.

Melissa pushed the phone back into the pocket of her baggy pants. She was so angry she didn’t want to go back into the clinic; she needed to walk off some of her emotion. She clenched her hands into fists and began to walk.

She’d gone only fifty yards or so when she heard trucks in the distance. The sound was faint, the vehicles far off, but instinctively she knew it was trouble.

Chapter 6

Washington, D.C.

Zen sat in the hospital waiting area, tapping his fingers against the arms of his wheelchair. Not since he ran for the Senate had he felt such a combination of anticipation and anxiety. Not that he’d cared about the outcome—he would have been just as content retiring from politics as a two-term congressman and getting a job in the private sector. In some ways he’d have been happier, since few jobs had such a demand on anyone’s time.

The door opened. Dr. Esrang walked in, alone.

“Doc, how are we doin’?” asked Zen.

“Hard to say,” said Esrang. “Brain activity is normal. For him. Physically, no problems. Mood—well, that’s always the question, isn’t it?”

“Once around the block and back inside,” said Zen.

“You’re not actually—”

“Figure of speech, Doc,” said Zen.

“Yes, of course. All right. We’re ready.”

“I think it’s going to work,” said Zen.

Esrang started for the door, then stopped. “Jeff, let me say something, if you don’t mind.”

“Shoot.”

“There may be setbacks.”

“I understand.”

“If you’re serious, we have to keep at it. If this doesn’t go well, then we try something else. All right?”

“Absolutely,” said Zen.

“We keep at it.” Esrang went in then. Pep talks were out of character for the doctor; maybe it was a good omen.

Stoner emerged a few minutes later, flanked by a female nurse who was nearly as big and broad-shouldered as the two male attendants/bodyguards waiting for him. Esrang trailed them, a concerned expression on his face.

Just a damn walk in the sunshine, Zen thought. But it was the first time Stoner would be allowed into the unfenced public area outside.

A baby step, but an important one.

“Hey, Mark,” said Zen. “I was thinking we’d get outside a bit today and walk around. I’m feeling a bit frisky. What do you say?”

Stoner turned toward him but said nothing. His face was blank.

“Good,” said Zen, as enthusiastic as if Stoner had agreed. “Let’s go.”

He began wheeling toward the exit. Stoner and the nurse followed. Dr. Esrang stayed back.

“Did you catch the game last night?” Zen asked. “Nationals took the Mets with a homer in the bottom of the ninth.”

“Good.”

It wasn’t much of a response, but Zen felt vindicated. He rolled slowly down the corridor, pacing himself just ahead of his companion. Jason Black, his aide, was standing there waiting. Jason pushed open the door and held it as the small entourage exited the building. Zen took the lead, rolling along the cement path toward a small picnic area.

“Good view, huh?” Zen wheeled to a stop.

“Of garbage cans,” said Stoner.

It seemed like a non sequitur, just a random comment. Then Zen realized Stoner was looking at the back of a building some hundred yards away.

“Can you see them?” he asked. “How many?”

“Eighteen.”

“What about the flowers?” asked Zen, pointing to the nearby flower bed.

Stoner looked, then turned to him. “Yeah?”

“Bree likes flowers,” said Zen, searching for something to say. “Teri, too. My daughter. Teri. You have to meet her.”

Stoner didn’t reply.

“Good day for baseball,” said Zen.

Stoner remained silent. Zen tried to get a conversation going, talking about baseball and football, and even the cute nurse who passed on an adjacent path. Stoner had apparently decided he wasn’t going to talk anymore, and said nothing else. After they’d been out for about fifteen minutes, Dr. Esrang came over, looking at his watch.

“I’m afraid it’s time for Mr. Stoner’s physical therapy,” he said loudly. “If that’s OK, Senator.”

“It’s OK with me,” said Zen. “Assuming Mark feels like sweating a bit.”

Stoner turned toward the building and began walking. Zen wheeled himself forward to catch up with him.

“Maybe we’ll take in some baseball, huh?” he asked. “If you’re up to it.”

Stoner stopped. “Baseball would be good.”

“Even if it’s the Nats?” joked Zen.

Stoner stared at him.

“Their record is—well, they are in last place,” admitted Zen. “So, it may be a tough game to sit through.”

“Baseball is good,” said Stoner.

“That went very well,” Esrang told Zen after Stoner had returned inside. “Very well.”

“You think so?”

“He talked to you. He said a lot more to you than he’s said to anyone.”

“He said three or four sentences. Then he just shut down.”

“It’s what he didn’t do that’s important,” said Esrang. “No rage, no attempt to run away. I think he’s slowly coming back to his old self.”

“Maybe.”

“I would say he might be able to go to a ball game, as long you’re under escort,” said Esrang.

Zen was surprised, but he wasn’t about to disagree. “I’ll set something up. You coming?”

“Absolutely . . . The Nationals will win, right?”

Zen laughed. He’d started to wheel into the building when he heard Jason Black clearing his throat behind him.

“Excuse me, Doc. We’ll find our own way out.” Zen turned back to his aide. “What’s up?”

“Steph needs to talk to you,” said Jason. “Like as soon as you can.”

Zen pulled his BlackBerry from his pocket. There were half a dozen text messages, including two from Stephanie Delanie—Steph—his chief legislative aide. The Senate Intelligence Committee had scheduled an emergency session for eleven o’clock—they’d just make it if they left right now.

“Grab the van, Jay,” said Zen. “I’ll meet you out front.”

“What’s up?”

“Just the usual Senate bs,” said Zen.

Chapter 7

Southern Sudan

Twice Amara came to checkpoints manned by government soldiers, and twice he drove through them, slowing then gunning the engine, keeping his head down. He’d learned long ago that most times the soldiers wouldn’t risk trying to actually stop a pickup, knowing they faced the worst consequences if they succeeded in killing the driver: whatever band he belonged to would seek vengeance immediately. The Brothers were especially vicious, killing not only the soldiers but any relatives they could find. It was an effective policy.