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Her eyes flicked from side to side for anyone who could help her, but the few people she could see were paying attention only to the historic grave markers. He could smell the fear oozing from her pores and feel the exquisite trembling of her body. There was no telling how many diseases she carried, but he didn’t care. He was interested in only one thing from her. Closing his eyes, he listened until he could hear the thumping of her terrified heart as it pounded against the wall of her chest. It sounded like a rabbit ru
He pulled up on her arm, right to the precipice of breaking it, and then he let her go. She stood for a moment, frozen in place by fear, and then like the little rabbit she was, she ran away as fast as she could from the big bad wolf.
He smiled as he watched her run. Broad daylight, a public space and commitment to his pills: the trinity that had saved her life that late afternoon in the graveyard and which had given him an appetite.
He was wary about where he should and shouldn’t go, should and shouldn’t eat. Though he had taken steps to disguise his appearance, there were certain risks that were not to be taken. He walked south to the city’s Chinatown neighborhood, where he ate in a small, hole-in-the-wall restaurant that couldn’t afford matching chairs, much less a CCTV system.
The best thing to be said about the food was that it was edible. He gorged himself on fried rice and egg rolls, washing it all down with a syrupy sweet Asian soda he had pulled out of the cooler. Impulse control was something the medication was supposed to help, but when he overloaded on stimuli the way he had in the graveyard, he found his cravings harder to control.
In addition to his eating binge, he also had to contend with the fact that his sexual arousal hadn’t dissipated. Smelling the terror on the woman as well as feeling her fluttering body pressed tightly against his was a heady combination of sensations made only more acute by the danger of it all.
He was drifting into choppy water and being pulled further and further from shore. He fingered the pillbox in his pocket as he stared over at the cooler with its beer and sodas. If he took more medication he could become dopey and slip up. But if he didn’t take any, and he gave in to one of his nastier impulses, he could also slip up. He felt damned either way, which suddenly brought on an additional sensation, anxiety.
He decided to write his own prescription. Walking over to the cooler, he removed two Yanjings, paid the old Chinese woman with the whiskers behind the counter, and sat back down at the table.
He drank the first beer in one long swallow. With the second, he took his time and willed himself to relax. It took several minutes, but eventually the warmth of the alcohol crept into his bloodstream and he began to feel himself relax. The benefit of the anxiety, if you could call it that, was that it was an arousal killer. His erection had completely gone away.
The longer he sat in the restaurant, the more relaxed he became. The more relaxed he became, the more his mind drifted, particularly to what had happened at the graveyard and he could feel the strings of arousal starting to be tugged. He was being pulled out to sea again. What he needed was some coffee.
Finishing off his second beer, his steered his legs out onto the street and into the early evening. Rush hour was already well under way. When he finally found a café it was staffed by wrung-out baristas watching the clock, eager to close up and get home for the evening. He ordered his coffee with a “black eye,” coffee-talk for two shots of espresso. As he had done in the Chinese restaurant, he paid in cash, and then exited the establishment.
He felt the caffeine hit his system faster than the beer. There was a pep in his step and he felt a buoyancy of spirit. Everything was going to be okay. He was actually looking forward to his assignment tonight. It was complicated, but not impossible. Every step had been mapped out in perfect detail. It was like making a cake. As long as you followed the recipe, you had nothing to worry about, and he always followed the recipe.
The vehicle and his supplies were stored in a dilapidated garage in East Boston. He spent an hour casing the neighborhood and an additional hour surveilling the garage before he approached.
The key to the padlock had been sewn into the lining of his jacket. Ripping part of the fabric, he removed it, and let himself in, closing and locking the door behind him.
He slipped a small flashlight from his backpack and cupped the head so as not to throw too much light. The white panel van was unlocked. Climbing in back, he did a quick assessment. Everything was where it was supposed to be.
Opening the lid of the large garbage can, he checked to make sure the final ingredient was in place. Squinting into the beam of his flashlight was a man, bound and gagged, with a two-day growth of beard.
He closed the lid and began to feel very excited as he laid out a blue jumpsuit and stripped off his clothes.
CHAPTER 18
BETHESDA
MARYLAND
General George Johnson, Director of National Intelligence, lived in a modest colonial house near D.C. with his wife, an around-the-clock protective detail, and a French bulldog named Martin. Despite nearly two years of the detail that changed shifts every eight hours, the dog still went berserk every time someone showed up at the house.
For the security-minded, this might have been viewed as a positive. General Johnson, though, saw his wife’s dog as a colossal pain in the ass. Even before they had rung the bell, Lydia Ryan and Bob McGee could hear both the dog and the DNI barking from inside the house.
“Damn it, Marty! Quiet!” Johnson shouted at the bulldog. “Carol! Come get this damn dog!”
A solidly built man in a dark suit opened the door. Behind him, the DNI was trying to corral the little bulldog with his foot in order to prevent him from charging the visitors. “Sorry about this,” Johnson said as he beckoned his guests. “Please come on in.”
“I told you, you should have gotten a Rottweiler,” McGee said as he stepped inside.
“I’ve got several already,” he replied, gesturing at his security men standing in the foyer. “And I haven’t caught them once going on the rug,” he cracked before yelling for his wife again, “Carol!”
The DNI’s assistant stepped out of the living room. “I’ll take him upstairs, sir,” he offered, bending down and scooping up the dog. Instantly, Marty’s bark turned into a growl.
“Be careful, Stu.”
“It’ll be okay, sir.”
“Sure it will,” Johnson said with a smirk as his assistant began climbing the stairs. “I’ve got a hundred bucks that says he bites you.”
“He’s not going—” the assistant began just as the dog nipped him in the hand.
“Told ya,” the DNI said with a laugh as he walked over to shake hands with his guests.
McGee introduced Ryan and then General Johnson invited them to follow him to his den.
“Can I offer either of you anything?” he asked, “Coffee? Soft drink?”
“Coffee would be good,” said Ryan, still feeling jet-lagged from her trip. “Thank you.”
“Got any bourbon?” replied McGee.
“I’ve got plenty. Up or neat?”
“Neat, please.”
“They say consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds, Bob.”
“Actually,” McGee corrected, “they say foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds. There’s nothing foolish about a man loving bourbon. Unless, of course, that man starts including ice cubes in his glass. Ice is a crutch.”
The DNI was a short, broad-chested fireplug of a man in his early sixties, with a bit of a paunch and thi