Anonymous Sources (41 page)

“So do we have a last name on this C.J. guy from CIA? Can we quote his stuff on the record?” Hyde was asking.

“I have no idea at this point what's on the record and what's not. There hasn't exactly been a lot of spare time today to ponder journalism ethics, Hyde.”

“Well, quite, but—”

“Also, I think I need to see a doctor at some point. And first, I need a drink.”

“Sure. Grab yourself a bottle of water and then—”

“No. I mean a
drink
.”

“Oh, no, young lady. What you need is to get yourself back to the bureau and write this story. Elias and I will take a first whack based on what you've just given me, but this is your baby. Don't worry. We'll sort you out with some guava brandy in good time.”

But I was no longer listening. “I'll be there in thirty minutes.”

“Ms. James!” he yelled, his voice turning sharp. “I insist. In fact, I am ordering you—”

“Hyde, we can't get scooped, don't worry. No one knows the stuff I know. And I can barely think straight. I think I've earned a quick one en route.”

I was already walking, the tourist whose phone I'd purloined trotting anxiously alongside.

“No. What you've earned is a chance to get your butt back here and write the story of your life. Also, the police want to speak with you. Something about the minor matter of your having shot and killed a man
in Elias's flat this morning. And I know you. You don't stop at one drink. I need you sober.”

I grinned, despite myself. “Actually, I have to tell you I'm leaning pretty heavily in favor of the pursuit of nonsobriety.”

“Alex!”

“Half an hour, Hyde.”

I handed the tourist back his phone. “Thanks for that. Any chance you could point me toward the nearest bar?”

    

    

F
ifty yards away, Tusk stood watching her.

He had a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, but this was a largely unnecessary precaution: Tusk had a gift for not standing out in a crowd. His colorless hair clung damply to his head, and a ring of sweat was widening above his waistband. Every few minutes he reached up to wipe away the humidity condensing on his glasses. But the main thing anyone looking at him would have noticed was that he was shaking, literally vibrating with rage.

She
had ruined everything.
She
, that woman, Alexandra James.

His shot at the final $8.33 million installment was gone. Nothing he could do about that. But the clinching blow was that he would now face a
life on the run. Had things gone to plan, no one would have looked for him. He would have been presumed dead in the nuclear explosion. That was why he'd made a point of shoving his electronic ID down a potted plant in the West Wing. So there would be no record of his leaving. So he would be able to vanish without a trace. He would always have had to be careful, sure, but now . . . Christ. Once those bozos at FBI put two and two together, they would be racing to paste his picture onto their Most Wanted list. Not to mention the UTN network, looking for a refund on their $16.66 million down payment. Not to mention US military intelligence. The National Security Agency. The CIA itself. They would all be chasing him. It would make the manhunt for bin Laden look like a Boy Scout treasure hunt.

Tusk's brain churned. Wasn't there still a way to contain the damage? At this point, really, wasn't it his word against hers? Nadeem Siddiqui was helpfully dead, the only positive development of this appalling day. The car . . . well, the car was a problem. But plenty of people had access to those Agency SUVs. Lots of people signed them out; other people's prints would be all over it. No one could prove he'd
known
there was a bomb in the backseat. As for other inconvenient details, he could handle them. He had already remotely wiped the phones: the phone Alex had taken off Nadeem this morning, the temporary mobile she had apparently borrowed from her office, Tusk's own devices. He had erased his last mobile just minutes ago. Crushed the chip and then dropped it and the actual phone into two separate trash cans.

The only serious obstacle now was the girl. That notebook she scribbled in was a liability. Her word against his.

He watched as she strode down the block, a cell phone pressed against her ear. Who was she talking to? And where had she gotten yet another phone? He could just keep her in sight as she ducked left and disappeared inside a hotel. Tusk surveyed the building. The number of floors, the location of doors leading in and out. Old habit from the field.

Alexandra James must be eliminated.

This time he would take care of it himself.

    

    

T
he nearest bar turned out to be a swanky joint on the roof of the Hotel Washington.

The bouncer did not initially look inclined to let me in. My usual tactic when faced with a surly bouncer is to smile and bat my eyelashes, but this is harder to pull off when your eye is swollen shut. Instead I slipped him a few folded bills. He lifted the velvet rope and let me pass.

The place was packed. We were on an open-air terrace that ran the full length of the hotel. With the nuclear doomsday rumors that must be flying, you would think people would be stampeding to get out of Washington. But, no, several hundred people were jammed in here. Some
looked like tourists, some as if they'd walked over from nearby law firms and think tanks. The place was oddly quiet. No music, no Friday happy-hour vibe. Aside from a small knot around the bar, most people were piled four- and five-deep at the railing, clicking pictures on their cell phones and ogling the action below. The view was gorgeous, out across the Potomac River and the city's stately monuments. And the White House. We were close, so close it was surprising the terrace hadn't been evacuated. But then, we were a block outside the security perimeter, and the police presumably had enough to keep them busy today without forcing tipsy customers from hotel bars out onto the streets.

I got my bearings and headed first for the ladies' room. Inside I opened the tap at the sink and used my hands to scoop up great gulps of cool water. I drank and drank. Water trickled down my arms and stung when it reached my elbows, the red scratch marks where I had clawed myself. I stared down. Had that really been just this morning? I splashed more water on my face, rinsing off layers of dried sweat and blood. It was agony. In the mirror I inspected myself. Better, though still not a pretty sight.

On my way back to the bar I swiped a pair of sunglasses off a table. They were too big—probably a man's—but I hoped they would hide the worst of my wound.

Apparently not.

“Honey, you all right?” The lady bartender let out a low whistle. “You look like you seen the wrong end of a hockey stick.”

“I'm fine. Two large G and T's, please. Hendrick's, if you've got it.”

“We got it. And no bar brawls on my shift, okay, hon? We got enough going on down there as it is.” She motioned toward the White House.

I smiled to be polite, paid, and picked up the drinks.

At the far end of the terrace, I elbowed my way in to claim a space at the railing. People pressed against me on both sides. The first drink went down in one long swallow. The bartender had made it strong, and the gin froze my throat. I felt better almost instantly. Hyde was right.
I don't generally stop at one, or at two for that matter. But today I would. I would savor the second one, maybe even order something to eat, then go to the bureau to write my story. Everything would be all right.

I sipped the second drink and looked out. The river sparkled, a silver ribbon under the setting sun. A few blocks away the Washington Monument stretched skyward. And below me, just past the Treasury building, there was the White House. A giant American flag billowed on the roof. Was it my imagination, or were there people up there? I thought I could make out the dark silhouettes of figures scurrying around the edges.

I squinted and craned forward, trying to see.

“It's Secret Service. The ERT, I would imagine—Emergency Response Team. Useless little gits.”

The voice in my ear was flat, accentless. And yet I knew it. My breath caught.

Behind me, leaning down so close his tongue flicked against my ear, stood Edmund Tusk.

He had positioned himself so that I was pinned between him and the metal railing. His flaccid belly pushed against my back. I felt bile rise up my throat.

“You followed me?”

“Why, yes. I think we have some unfinished business, don't you agree?”

I arched my neck and twisted around to look at him. His eyes were cloaked behind the enormous spectacles. His face was expressionless. Bizarrely, he was wearing what appeared to be a brand-new, ill-fitting Nationals baseball cap.

“Nice disguise. Suits you,” I said, frantically scanning the crowd over his shoulder, searching for some way out.

“Thank you. I thought so. You'll notice as you look around that we're packed in quite tight. You won't be able to run. Also, that is a gun you feel. Pointed at you.”

Something round and hard was in fact digging into my side. Tusk
had his suit jacket thrown over his arm, and he pushed it aside slightly, allowing me to glimpse the steel in his hand.

“A pity it's come to this, my dear. You. Thom Carlyle. That poor Irish woman—what was her name? Polly Murphy.” His lips curled up. “So much youthful beauty gone to waste.”

“Was that you?” I whispered. “The woman next to me on the plane?”

“Well, not me personally. I would have gotten it right.”

I shrank away from him. “And Thom Carlyle? Nadeem talked about it this morning. Did you—did you order him to kill Thom?”

“God, no. That was Mr. Malik's unfortunate initiative. Quite stupid.” Tusk paused. “I presume you have figured out who Nadeem Siddiqui is? That he and Shaukat Malik are one and the same?”

I nodded.

“If I may ask, how did you survive your little tête-à-tête with him this morning?”

I closed my eyes and pictured Nadeem, his mouth slack with lust, pawing at my thigh. My stomach lurched with disgust.