Pandora's grave

“Exhausted, but okay otherwise,” Hamid replied. “I hope they can cross the stream in safety.”

“Did he say where they were specifically?”

Hamid shook his head. “No. Just that they were on the east side of a stream there in the mountains. Keep your eyes open,” he continued, looking toward the mountains. “Hopefully the Kurds will leave us be.”

8:02 A.M. Central Time

The suburbs of Dayton

He had been in the house for an hour and three minutes, precisely, he realized, checking the luminous dial of his Armitron wristwatch. And he was stymied.

It would appear that the lawyer possessed a laptop. At any rate, it was gone, leaving behind an empty socket where it would have been docked with the flatscreen LCD monitor. Modern technology had such frustrating potential.

Despite this setback, he’d tossed the house. No dice. He moved back to the desk with the monitor, drawn there by a sudden impulse. A thin book lay there, with the word Address across the front in gold filigree. He picked up the book once again, unsure as to why he was returning. It was filled with personal contact information, the addresses of family and colleagues. The monotonous trivia of life in the suburbs. He turned all the way to the back and his breath caught in surprise.

All at once his earbud came to life with static, taking him off-guard. It was his partner’s voice, low and urgent.

“We’ve got an issue, Vic.”

His body tensed, every sense alert. He knew that tone. “What is it?”

“A car just pulled into the drive.”

“Oh, crap. One of theirs?”

“That’s a negative. It’s a little Honda. Ohio tags.”

Vic paused, torn by indecision. “A woman’s getting out,” his partner reported. “Looks like she’s got some sort of mop in her hand. I think she’s there to clean the place.”

He swore under his breath, standing there with the book in his hands. “I’ve got to have five minutes.”

“I don’t think you’ve got that kind of time, Vic. Get out of there. Now.”

“You’ve got to stall her somehow.”

“How?”

“I don’t care how, just do it,” he retorted stubbornly, whipping a PDA out of his pocket and running it over the open page. A scanned image appeared on the screen and he clicked Save. Next page. Rinse and repeat.

Plan B. Improvise. The man in the car sighed, disconnecting his lip mike and shoving it in a pocket. After ten years working with Vic, one might think you would become accustomed to this kind of thing.

A single coffee-stained pamphlet from the Jehovah’s Witnesses was crumpled in the center console, still there from their rehearsal of the night before. The trouble was, it was Vic that had rehearsed. Not him.

He took a deep breath, trying to smooth out the paper as he stepped from the car. Time to convert the lost…

8:06 A.M.

Air Force One

On approach to St. Louis

Missouri

“We have approximately twenty minutes till landing, Mr. President.” Hancock raised his head to smile at the brunette staffer who had just made the announcement. “Thank you, Mary.”

She smiled back, fairly glowing at his remembrance of her name. It was his specialty, he thought, watching as she returned to her seat.

“What do you think, Ian?”

“I think things would go much more smoothly if you would keep it zipped, Mr. President.”

Hancock laughed. Ian was among the very few men who would dare say such a thing to him. A straightforward opinion could be refreshing. At times. He tapped his fingers together and shrugged. “What could be the problem? Nicole stayed home on this trip.”

“And the wingnuts are already speculating as to why your wife wouldn’t accompany you. I would prefer not to throw any more bones their way.”

“Always the practical one, right, Ian? I take it you’ve seen this?” Hancock asked, throwing a paper with the headlines of the Eilat bombing into Cahill’s lap.

“Yes,” the chief of staff replied. “Any word leaked of our involvement?”

“No. That’s one thing the Jews are good at-keeping secrets.” The President smiled. “I want her transferred to my personal staff. Call it a performance promotion.”

“What?” Cahill asked, caught off-balance by the sudden change of subject.

“Not what. Who. Mary.”

8:09 A.M.

The suburbs of Dayton

He could feel the woman’s eyes bore into his back as he turned to walk away, leaving her holding the crumpled leaflet. Better have made good use of that time, Vic, he thought, rubbing his palms on the front of his suit pants. He didn’t reach for the phone until he had returned to the safety of his car.

“Are you out of there?” he demanded when the connection finalized.

“Yes.”

“Well it better have been worth it. Felt like a fool. I’ll bet she figured I wasn’t a JW within five seconds.”

“It was,” Vic replied, ignoring his partner’s complaints. “His computer was gone, but I have account numbers, passwords-we can access the whole blasted system remotely. Try to figure out how he ties in with his son.”