sidewalk admiring his home. He privately thought of it as a cottage – loved his small patch of lawn, the ivy crawling up the chimney, the daisies that grew near the door – and he didn’t care one whit that his white picket fence was considered by some a cliché.
He unlocked his front door, dropped his suitcase in the foyer, and silenced the alarm. It was so, so good to be home. His only disappointment was that Mabel wasn’t there. But he’d pick her up from the kennel later, and then he and his cat would spend the next week reading, relaxing, and cooking – and thinking about how they’d spend the money in the envelope. Maybe they’d take a trip to Martha’s Vineyard; they hadn’t been there in years.
He walked into the living room. The first thing he thought when he saw the woman sitting on the loveseat holding a silenced automatic in her hand was not How did she get in without setting off the alarm? No, his mind leaped right past that question.
His first thought – and his last thought – was that the person Mr Lincoln had sent to kill him was very beautiful.
8
DeMarco figured the best way to get in to see the secretary of Homeland Security was to get up at 4:45 A.M . and be waiting outside the man’s office at 5:30.
DeMarco was not a willing early riser. Regardless of what time he went to bed the night before, he found that if he woke up any time before 7 A.M . his head felt as if it were stuffed with barley. His brain didn’t work; his fingers couldn’t button his shirt; he couldn’t find his wallet or watch or keys or anything else that he needed. And his stomach just recoiled at the thought of food.
But rise he did. He knew that General Andrew Banks, secretary of Homeland Security, arrived at work early, usually before 6 A.M ., and once at work the man’s calendar would be completely full. DeMarco also knew he would never get an appointment to see Banks unless Mahoney made the appointment for him, and Mahoney had made it clear that he didn’t want to be connected with this assignment.
So DeMarco drove to Banks’s office and convinced the security guards that he was a messenger from Congress. He showed them his congressional ID, looked humble and messenger-like, and held up a manila envelope on which he’d written in Magic Marker: GENERAL BANKS, EYES ONLY . He had underlined eyes only. The guards made him walk through the metal detectors, copied down the information on his ID, and then allowed him to stand outside Banks’s office door.
At five-forty-five, DeMarco saw Banks striding down the hall like a man who could hardly wait to get to work and start kicking ass. He had a gray crew cut, a prominent nose, and wore wire-rimmed glasses over a pair of hostile gray eyes. He was tall and, though in his sixties, his stomach was still hard and flat. DeMarco suspected the maniac rose every morning at daybreak and performed those same masochistic exercises that he had once done as a midshipman at Annapolis. His first words of cheery greeting to DeMarco were, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Banks wasn’t particularly fond of DeMarco, although DeMarco wasn’t sure why. It may have been because Banks was an ex-marine, a retired three-star general, and considered that DeMarco would never have met the marines’ few-good-men standard. Or it could have been because DeMarco had once done some work for Banks. The case had been a complicated one involving an assassination attempt on the president in which the Secret Service had been involved, and it had concluded with Banks, Mahoney, and DeMarco knowing a secret they should not have kept from the public but which they did. This, DeMarco figured, gave him a certain amount of leverage over the general, which was why he had decided to talk to him instead of to the FBI. He knew the FBI wouldn’t tell him anything unless Mahoney made them, but because the Zarif incident was terrorist-related, he figured Homeland Security would know almost as much
He unlocked his front door, dropped his suitcase in the foyer, and silenced the alarm. It was so, so good to be home. His only disappointment was that Mabel wasn’t there. But he’d pick her up from the kennel later, and then he and his cat would spend the next week reading, relaxing, and cooking – and thinking about how they’d spend the money in the envelope. Maybe they’d take a trip to Martha’s Vineyard; they hadn’t been there in years.
He walked into the living room. The first thing he thought when he saw the woman sitting on the loveseat holding a silenced automatic in her hand was not How did she get in without setting off the alarm? No, his mind leaped right past that question.
His first thought – and his last thought – was that the person Mr Lincoln had sent to kill him was very beautiful.
8
DeMarco figured the best way to get in to see the secretary of Homeland Security was to get up at 4:45 A.M . and be waiting outside the man’s office at 5:30.
DeMarco was not a willing early riser. Regardless of what time he went to bed the night before, he found that if he woke up any time before 7 A.M . his head felt as if it were stuffed with barley. His brain didn’t work; his fingers couldn’t button his shirt; he couldn’t find his wallet or watch or keys or anything else that he needed. And his stomach just recoiled at the thought of food.
But rise he did. He knew that General Andrew Banks, secretary of Homeland Security, arrived at work early, usually before 6 A.M ., and once at work the man’s calendar would be completely full. DeMarco also knew he would never get an appointment to see Banks unless Mahoney made the appointment for him, and Mahoney had made it clear that he didn’t want to be connected with this assignment.
So DeMarco drove to Banks’s office and convinced the security guards that he was a messenger from Congress. He showed them his congressional ID, looked humble and messenger-like, and held up a manila envelope on which he’d written in Magic Marker: GENERAL BANKS, EYES ONLY . He had underlined eyes only. The guards made him walk through the metal detectors, copied down the information on his ID, and then allowed him to stand outside Banks’s office door.
At five-forty-five, DeMarco saw Banks striding down the hall like a man who could hardly wait to get to work and start kicking ass. He had a gray crew cut, a prominent nose, and wore wire-rimmed glasses over a pair of hostile gray eyes. He was tall and, though in his sixties, his stomach was still hard and flat. DeMarco suspected the maniac rose every morning at daybreak and performed those same masochistic exercises that he had once done as a midshipman at Annapolis. His first words of cheery greeting to DeMarco were, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Banks wasn’t particularly fond of DeMarco, although DeMarco wasn’t sure why. It may have been because Banks was an ex-marine, a retired three-star general, and considered that DeMarco would never have met the marines’ few-good-men standard. Or it could have been because DeMarco had once done some work for Banks. The case had been a complicated one involving an assassination attempt on the president in which the Secret Service had been involved, and it had concluded with Banks, Mahoney, and DeMarco knowing a secret they should not have kept from the public but which they did. This, DeMarco figured, gave him a certain amount of leverage over the general, which was why he had decided to talk to him instead of to the FBI. He knew the FBI wouldn’t tell him anything unless Mahoney made them, but because the Zarif incident was terrorist-related, he figured Homeland Security would know almost as much
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