“This way,” said Ken after relocking and bolting the door behind them.

“You have cat eyes,” said Amara, trying to follow in the pitch-black.

“Don’t trip,” said Ken.

Amara managed to follow him across the darkened room to a set of stairs leading up. If there was a light, Ken didn’t bother using it, leading him up to the first floor of the house, where once more they went through the ritual of locks.

“The bathroom’s in the back,” said Ken, leading him into the apartment. “Go through the kitchen, take a right. You can put your things in the bedroom on the left. Don’t touch anything.”

Amara took his things into the room, then went to the bathroom, keeping the laptop bag with him. The room was small and narrow, and smelled of ammonia. The overhead light was extremely bright, and the porcelain, though old, glistened. The taps worked separately; it took a bit of juggling to get his hands washed at a comfortable temperature.

Ken was waiting for him in the kitchen. He had a metal pot on the stove for coffee.

“So you’re the help they sent,” said Ken skeptically. “What’s your specialty?”

“I don’t have a specialty.”

Ken frowned. “What did they tell you?”

“Nothing. I brought a program that will help you.”

“In the bag? Let’s see it?”

Amara removed the computer from the backpack and turned it on. Ken turned his attention to the old-fashioned coffee percolator he’d put on the stove. Brown water blipped up into a tiny glass dome at the top. He adjusted the flame, bending down so close to it that Amara thought he would burn his nose if not his entire face. The pot vibrated on the stove, the liquid percolating inside.

“The people who sent you are ignorant,” said Ken. He practically spat. “They’re all idiots. They’re not much better than the ones we’re fighting against. In some ways, they’re worse. Do you even pray?”

The question caught Amara by surprise.

“I pray,” he said.

Ken pulled the percolator off the stove and poured a bit of coffee into a white mug sitting on the sink counter. Satisfied after examining it, he filled the cup, got another from the washboard, and filled that. He returned the pot to the stove. Only then did he turn off the gas. The flame descended back into the burner with a loud pouff.

The entire kitchen smelled like coffee. Amara felt his senses sharpening.

“Here,” said Ken roughly, setting down the cup. “You’ll probably want sugar.” He pointed to a small covered bowl in the middle of the table. “The spoons are in the drawer behind you.”

Amara tried two spoonfuls of sugar, then added a third and finally a fourth. Ken drank his plain.

“Let me see the computer,” said Ken.

Amara pushed it over. The control program had started on its own, columns of figures filling the screen.

“This is supposed to help me?” said Ken. “How?”

“It’s a control unit,” snapped Amara, no longer able to hide his resentment at being treated like a fool. “It controlled an American UAV. Target data is entered on the screen, and then the aircraft knew what to do.”

“Useless,” said Ken. He pushed the keys, paging the screen up and down. “I asked them for a Predator control unit. I was ready to adapt that. I was assured that it could be obtained from the Sudan. And yet this is what they give me? I can’t use this to fly a plane. Where are the controls? Why are we even working with Africans? They are imbeciles.”

“The man who examined this was Chinese,” said Amara. “He was a genius. He said it controlled an aircraft more powerful than a Predator. He knew what he was talking about.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s dead,” said Amara. Then he added, with a touch of cruelty that he hoped would set Ken back a notch, “I killed him.”

“Then he couldn’t have been much of a genius,” answered Ken, not intimidated.

Chapter 11

Washington, D.C. suburbs

Breanna felt a pang of anxiety as she pulled into her driveway and saw Zen’s van. She hadn’t seen her husband since their meeting at the airport the day before. She’d managed to get home after him the night before, and leave before he got up—not that she’d been avoiding him exactly, but the timing was extremely convenient. They hadn’t even texted during the day.

Breanna took her keys from the ignition, opened her pocketbook, then decided that her lipstick needed to be fixed.

That done, she got out of the car, walking slowly to the door. Her daughter Teri met her there, practically tackling her.

“We’re glad your home,” said the third-grader after accepting two kisses, one for each cheek. “Dad and I cooked!”

“He did?”

Zen’s culinary prowess consisted of speed dialing the local pizza joint and hitting the button to talk at the McDonald’s drive-in.

“Lasagna,” said Zen from inside. “And it’s just ready.”

“Eating early?” said Breanna.

“Baseball game.”

“Oh.”

“Problem?” asked Zen.

“I have a meeting tonight.”

“I thought you might. Caroline is in the den, doing her homework.”

“She gave us some hints on cooking,” whispered Teri.

“You weren’t going to tell,” said Zen, mock scolding his daughter. He pretended to chase after her as she ran off laughing.

“She’s in a good mood,” said Breanna.

“Glad to see you home. As am I.”

Zen spun around and went back to the kitchen. Their stove was regular height, which limited his access to the front burners only. He had a small pot of sauce there; to check it, he removed it from the burner and held it over his lap to stir. It wasn’t the safest arrangement, but Breanna had learned long ago not to say anything.

He put it back and opened the oven.

“Mmmm-mmmm. I think it’s ready,” he said, wheeling around to the refrigerator.

“Jeff, about yesterday . . .”

“Apologizing for not playing hooky?”

“I shouldn’t have run out like that. I know.”

“That’s OK. It at least got me prepared for your stonewalling the committee.”

“Excuse me?”

“Word is, my favorite President told the CIA director to inspect military bases in Alaska for the next three weeks. His schedule is full.”

“I doubt anything like that happened.”

“It’s all right. At least I know where to deliver your subpoena.”

“Jeff, you’re not going to subpoena me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have no involvement—”

She stopped short. She meant that she had no involvement in the original Raven program, not in recovering it. But she realized now that she looked foolish—and like a liar.

“I was joking,” he said, though his voice was suddenly very serious.

“I know.”

“Don’t forget who you are,” he added.

“I do know who I am.”

“Yeah. So do I.”

“What’s that mean?” She pressed her lips together, angry—not at him, but at herself for lying.

“Dinner’s ready,” said Zen loudly. He took a thick towel from the center island and put it on his lap, then pulled the lasagna from the oven. “Come and get it!” he yelled, wheeling himself toward the table.

Zen ate quickly. He was running a little late; ordinarily he would have caught something at the park, but he’d wanted to make sure he stayed and talked to Breanna.

It hadn’t gone quite as well as he planned, but at least the ice had been broken. Somewhat.

Hopefully this was just bs and would blow over quickly.

In the meantime, he was looking forward to the game. He drove over to his district office and picked up a friend, Simeon Bautista, a former SEAL who occasionally did some bodyguard work for him. Then he went over to the hospital, where Stoner and Dr. Esrang were waiting inside the lobby.