Chapter Twenty-Two

Druid Hill Park, Baltimore, Maryland

Saturday, August 28, 10:41 A.M.

Time Remaining on the Extinction Clock: 97 hours, 27 minutes

The car pulled to the curb and I bent down to peer through the passenger window at the man behind the wheel.

Dr. Rudy Sanchez grinned nervously at me. “Hey, sailor, new in town?”

“Hilarious,” I said as I climbed in.

Rudy is shorter and rounder than me and usually drives a roomy Cadillac DTS, but now I was crammed into a twenty-year-old Geo Prizm with no legroom.

“What the hell’s this?”

“Mr. Church told me to be nondescript, so I borrowed it from my secretary, Kittie. I told her I had an emergency and that my car was in the shop. I gave her cab fare home.”

The car was a patchwork of dusty gold and primer gray. The interior smelled of cigarettes. A pine-tree-shaped deodorizer hung in total defeat from the rearview mirror.

“Jeez, Rude, you gotta pay that gal better. My grandmother wouldn’t drive this.”

“Your grandmother’s dead.”

“And she still wouldn’t drive anything this crappy.”

“It’s a good car, and it’s nondescript as ordered. Besides, being a prima donna isn’t becoming to a fugitive.”

“Shut up and drive,” I grumbled.

He said something inappropriate in gutter Spanish as he went up the ramp to I-83. Rudy seemed to know where he was going. For the first few minutes he said nothing, but even with the air-conditioning at full blast he was still perspiring.

“How’d you get roped into playing chauffeur?”

“I wasn’t at the Warehouse when all this started happening. El Jefe called and said to come and pick you up.”

“How much do you know?”

“Enough to scare me half to death.” A minute later he said, “I hate politicians.”

There was nothing to argue with, so we kept driving.

Later he said, “I can’t believe I’m aiding and abetting someone wanted by the National Security Agency. I can’t believe that someone is my best friend. And I can’t believe that the Vice President of the United States of America would trump up charges just to further his own political aims.” Half a mile later he added, “No, I can believe that . . . I just hate that it’s true.”

“Not happy about it myself. Of course, the charges aren’t entirely groundless, Rude.”

Rudy breathed in and out through his nose. “I hate that, too. I mean . . . we both believe that Church is a good guy, maybe even the good guy. If there is anyone with the strength of will and the solidity of moral compass to not misuse something like MindReader, then it’s him. I’m not sure I’d be able to resist the temptation. That said, how screwed up is our world that it takes blackmailing the President and members of Congress to allow us to do our jobs, considering that our jobs involve stopping terrorists of the most extreme kind. Tell me, Joe, how does that sound like a sane world?”

“You’re the shrink, brother; you tell me.”

“If I could figure out the logic behind the way the political mind thinks, I’d write a bestseller and spend the next two years on the talk show circuit.”

“Beats driving fugitives around in a hooptie.”

“Most things do. So . . . how are you, Cowboy?”

“Not happy about the way things are spinning. And worried about Big Bob.”

“Can we call the hospital to check on him?”

“We shouldn’t. He’s registered under a false name so the NSA can’t find him. Church is fielding the info about him. He’ll update us.”

Rudy’s knuckles were white where he gripped the wheel and every few blocks he cut a look my way.

Before he could ask, I said, “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I’m feeling it. Big Bob. The NSA. I’m feeling it.”

“It’s okay to show it, to let it out.”

I nodded. “In the right place and at the right time.”

“Which isn’t now?”

“No.”

“Even with me?”

“Rude,” I said, “you’re my best friend and you’re my shrink, so you get a lot of leeway most folks don’t get. You can ask me anything, and probably eventually I’ll tell you everything. But not right now.”

“You’ve had a lot of stress today, Cowboy. Are you the best person to make that call?”

I nodded. “When the soldier comes home from the war the shrinks call all the shots. They poke and prod and ask and ponder to separate the soldier from the stress of combat, to free him from the thunder of the battlefield.”

“Ah,” he said, his eyebrows arching, “but we’re still on the battlefield.”

“Yep.”

“You believe that we’re in the middle of something.”

“Yep.”

“Something bigger than the NSA? This Russian thing, whatever it is.”

“Whatever it is, yes,” I said.

“So. Now’s not the time to debrief.”

“Right.”

He nodded. Rudy is the best of companions. He knows when to stop harping on a point, and he knows how to give space, even in the cramped confines of a compact car. We drove the rest of the way in silence.

We took the first exit off the JFX and headed west and north on a number of seemingly random roads, but then twenty minutes later Rudy pulled onto a rural road and drove a crooked mile to an upscale small private airfield. He made a bunch of turns until finally pulling to a stop fifty feet from a sleek late-model Learjet.

The stairs were down and the pilot sat on the top step reading Forbes and sipping Starbucks out of a paper cup. As we parked he folded the magazine and came down the steps to meet us.

“Captain Ledger?” he said, offering his hand. “Marty Hanler.”

I smiled. “Marty Hanler . . . the writer?”

“Yep.”

Rudy whistled. Hanler’s espionage thrillers always hit the number one spot on the bestseller lists. Four of them had been made into movies. Matt Damon was in the last one and I had the DVD at home.

“You going with us?” I asked.

“Be more efficient that way,” he said. “I’m flying this bird.”

Rudy blinked.

Hanler was amused by our reactions. “A buddy of mine called me and said you needed a lift.”

“A ‘buddy’?” I asked.

“Yeah. Your boss, the Deacon.”

“He’s . . . your ‘buddy’?”

Hanler was in his mid-sixties, with receding gray hair and a deep-water tan. Bright blue eyes and great teeth. He winked. “I didn’t always write books, fellas.”

“Ah,” I said. His handshake had been rock hard and he had that look that I’ve seen in other old pros. The “been there, done that, buried them” sort of look.

“Come on,” he said. “The Deacon asked me to fly you to Denver.”

“Good luck, Joe,” Rudy said, and I turned in surprise.

“Wait . . . you’re not coming with me?”

He shook his head. “Church wants me local so that I can help the staff deal with everything that’s going on.”

“And who’s going to help you with this crap?”

“My good friend Jose Cuervo.”

“Ah,” I said. We shook hands. “In the meantime, stay low and stay loose.”

“And you watch your back, Cowboy.”

“Always do.”

Hanler said, “When you fellas are done spooning maybe we can get this bird in the air.”

I shot him the bird and he grinned. Three minutes later we were in the air heading west to Denver.