She barked again, clear in his ears now that he was closer.
Freya would not risk detection had she not already been detected.
Two hundred yards from the van, he slowed his pace. He would not simply plunge into a situation about which he knew nothing. If the police had spotted his van and somehow connected it to Olaf ’s handiwork, they might be lying in wait for him. Perhaps they believed he was in the van, asleep or preparing to fend them off with an arsenal of firearms. Freya would not distinguish an ambush from curious passersby, unless they stormed the van or bathed it in blinding halogen lights, neither of which had apparently happened.
He moved from tree to tree, sniffing for a hint of the danger: cigarette smoke, gun oil, body odor. As he drew close, he crouched lower, making his silhouette less human-shaped. When the branches that camouflaged the van came into sight, he lowered his body onto the ground, fluidly, as if melting into the undergrowth. Looking sideways, forcing images onto the more light-sensitive rods on his retinas, rather than the cones directly behind the pupils, he surveyed the darkened forest. He moved quietly on knees and elbows in a move-stop-scan sequence. He circled the van’s hiding spot until he’d examined the complete area.
Nothing. Yet Freya continued her rhythmic barking, once every five seconds or so.
He crawled right up to the jumbled branches that obscured the van and slowly moved aside three of them. He pushed his head and shoulders into the gap he’d created. No one hid under the van. None of the shocks sagged with the uneven excess weight of a man hiding inside—a possibility Olaf thought as unlikely as the dogs sprouting wings and flying away. It would have required recording Freya’s bark, killing or otherwise incapacitating all three animals, and then playing back the steady bark on nearly perfect speakers. He rolled onto his back to examine the branches high over the van. No hunter’s tree stand. No clinging snipers.
What then?
He raised his arms and knocked down the wall of foliage. When he stood, all three dogs were staring out at him. Freya whined. He circled around to the other side and slid open the door. The dogs edged up to the opening.
Remaining outside, he studied their faces curiously and whispered, “Hva vík hóra?” Then he caught the amber oil light blinking on the dash. He nodded. He had not trained her to draw his attention to it if it activated, but he was pleased that she somehow knew it was important.
“Góo stelpa. Good girl.” He said it with enthusiasm so she’d understand how much she had impressed him. He rubbed her muzzle, then her head, neck, and throat. Thor and Erik watched impassively. They were older than Freya and more secure in the place they occupied in his heart. Still, he scratched their heads and told them, “Good boy,” before nudging all three into the far back.
He brushed aside an assortment of litter on the floor. He reached under the van, found the hidden compartment’s release button, and pushed it. The floor panel popped up. He lifted it and propped it open.
Gently he removed the twin aluminum cases, setting them on the ground. He dropped the floor back over the compartment and unfolded a camper’s chair in front of the door. He positioned the cases side by side in the van before him, punched numbers into keypads, and popped their locks. He raised their lids and sat facing a communications station as sophisticated and formidable as that of any army’s command post. The flashing oil light had nothing to do with the level of oil in the crankcase or the condition of the engine. He had wired it to signal an urgent communiqué from his controllers. Essentially, it acted as a clandestine pager, and he had just been summoned.
THE POUNDING on Brady’s hotel room door was nonstop. He set the murder book he was studying on the nightstand, pulled on his pants, and ran to the door.
Alicia was bubbling, bouncing on her toes, stretching her lips into a huge grin.
“Brady!” she said. “I just spoke to Gilbreath again. He agreed to let us go to New York to investigate the Father McAfee lead.”
He saw she was fully dressed and looked back at the clock. “He called you at this hour?”
“Well . . . I called him.” She shrugged one shoulder. “I woke him up, but once he heard me out—”
“We have to go?”
“Nooo . . . ,” she said, dragging out the word. “But don’t you want to?”
“No.”
“We both need collars, Brady. It’s the only way to advance.”
“Have fun.” He grinned and swung the door closed.
35
With the two aluminum cases open before him, Olaf prepared to phone home.
The right case contained a Motorola SATCOM Crypto Transceiver with an internal power supply and a headset. The left case contained an Apple PowerBook computer. He linked the two pieces of equipment with a ribbon cable and hinged open the PowerBook’s display. Next, he pulled a collapsible satellite dish from the rear of the SCT, snaked it up to the roof of the van, and pushed its suction-cup base onto the metal. Looking up, he saw stars watching him through the branches of the trees. He believed the dish had a clear shot at the communication satellite sailing invisibly overhead, a false star that received more appreciation these days than real ones. To Olaf, it was a metaphor of the times: technology had replaced the heavens; people worshiped that which gave them cell phones and HBO, instead of the gods who gave them life.
Given a choice, the furthest Olaf would venture into technology was his 1974 VW minibus, and only then on assignment. He was not so ignorant that he didn’t see the advantages of instant communication, of using a network of computers to access more information faster than ever, of storing libraries on a disc the size of a wafer. He just wasn’t convinced technology was worth losing the things it killed: knowledge from experience rather than keystrokes, embracing friends after days of journeying to them, oral history through storytelling. Maybe it was those who did not comprehend technology’s price who were the truly ignorant ones.
However, as it was explained to him when he grumbled about learning to use the SCT and other electronics, the enemy was vast; they were few. Using every available means to secure an advantage was prudent and expedient.
“They will get you home sooner,” explained the man who had come bearing gadgets and Olaf ’s assignment, along with tasks for the other warriors of his tribe as well. The man—a thin Albanian named Arjan, with intense eyes and bulging veins—had been holding what looked like a toy gun. He had called it a Taser, which “incapacitates without killing.”
“I have something for that already,” Olaf said, holding up his cantaloupe-sized fist. His compatriots laughed in hearty agreement.
“Perhaps you’d like a demonstration?” Arjan asked.
Olaf rose from the gym floor.
More laughter and boisterous encouragement.
Arjan flipped a switch on the Taser, which emitted a whine that rose in pitch until it surpassed the range of human hearing.
Even with no knowledge of the thing’s capabilities, Olaf found the sound disquieting. Still, he stepped up to this challenger. He was only a few inches taller than Arjan, but where Arjan had a sinewy physique, Olaf had flanks of powerful muscles.
Arjan met Olaf ’s gaze, then eyed him up and down.
“The Taser will work even through your heavy clothes,” he said. “Why don’t you step away a little. Its range is twenty-one feet.”
Olaf turned but didn’t take a step. Instead, he spun in a complete circle, using the movement to build speed. His fist came up and crashed into the side of Arjan’s face. The sound was like two rocks rapped together. As Arjan’s upper half pivoted down, his legs came up. He seemed to levitate in a prone position for a moment before dropping with a thud to the hardwood floor. The Taser clattered away.
Olaf stared down at the unmoving body. “If its range is so far,” he said, smiling at his friends, “why did he let me get so close?”
After that, Arjan had agreed to limit his intrusion into their way of life to essential communications and transportation. “Just make sur
e you get the job done,” he had said, glaring at Olaf.
Olaf smiled at the memory and dropped back into his chair. Visibly, the SCT consisted of plugs, switches, dials, a numeric keypad, and a wild assortment of colored lights—all arrayed across four black boxes. Olaf powered it up, set the frequency, the prearranged satellite channel, the primary encryption code, the secondary encryption code—both also prearranged for this date—and his call sign. He punched the button that would send the information streaming to the low-orbiting satellite, which would, in turn, send it to another, then another, until it found the one passing 780 kilometers above the SCT that was transmitting corresponding data. It took about five seconds.
Through the headphone, a clear voice spoke: “Hvar er salerni?”
He frowned. Who’d thought up these pass codes? Where is the toilet? He understood the necessity for verbal verification, but must they be so adolescent? In Icelandic, he responded, “Why do you want to know?”
“You must be joking!”
“The toilet is in Colorado.”
The man on the other end laughed. “I don’t think I’m going to make it. It’s good to hear your voice.”
“And yours, Ottar.” He smiled and leaned closer to the SCT. “Have you seen Ingun? Tell me she is well.”
“She has been a pest. She insists on speaking to you.”
His smile widened. “And my sons?”
“Jon is a newborn calf: find his mama, find him. Bjorn is all the time looking for trouble.”
Those were his boys, summed up well. He wanted to wean Jon from dependence on his mother and help Bjorn focus his curiosity and lack of fear into bravery. He ached to be with them, but at the same time, sacrificing the embrace of his family made his victories here sweeter. Perhaps this was the nature of sacrifice, that the love required to make it wasn’t only yours, but belonged also to everyone you loved and who loved you. Sacrifice by its nature is love, and love is always shared.
“Olaf . . . you there . . . ?”
He shook his head. He had been trained since boyhood to be a warrior. Weaponry, stealth, survival, target acquisition, escape. Why had they not prepared him better to leave his home?
“Go ahead,” he said.
“Arjan sends word. You have a new assignment.”
With that, Arjan returned Olaf ’s stunning blow. His assignment had been to kill every person on the list of fifty, quickly and without interruption. Arjan had stressed the task’s importance to the rise of a new order—or a restored order, in Olaf ’s opinion.
“I don’t understand,” he said. He leaned past the aluminum cases to retrieve the sheet of names and biographical data.
“Priority one reassignment,” came Ottar’s matter-of-fact words.
Olaf unfolded the list. Only six names crossed off.
“Was it . . . me?” He did not want to broach the subject of failure, but he had to know. “Ottar, was it something I did?”
“No, no, no. Arjan said, tell Olaf, ‘Good job. Wonderful. Everything went as planned.’”
As planned? His confusion grew. He had been given fifty names. Forty-four yet remained.
“What about the others? The other names on my list?”
“Forget them. That’s what Arjan said: ‘Forget them.’”
Olaf touched the letters of Trevor Wilson’s name as though touching the boy himself. He thought, You have been pardoned, Master Trevor. Live well.
When Ottar said, “I didn’t catch that,” he realized he had spoken out loud.
“Nothing. What is the new assignment?”
“I’ll send it through.”
“Do it, Ottar. I’ll sign off now.”
“Wait, Olaf. Arjan said to tell you that these next two targets are on the move. If they leave from their location, which is near you, we will notify you and arrange for transportation.”
“I understand.” Transportation meant a private jet. Sixteen days before, a Gulfstream had deposited him in Utah. How else was he to travel, the way he looked and with he dogs?
“Gods be with you, Olaf.”
He peeled off the headset to save his ears from the screeching damnation of data transference. Two color photographs, positioned side by side, began materializing on the laptop’s wide screen. Horizontal lines of pixels zipped from left to right, then from the top down. On the left, a woman. Feline features. Upturned nose, green almond-shaped eyes. Attractive, if you liked them that way. Olaf preferred women with more meat on their bones. More oomph. The man on the right had dark hair, brooding eyes, green or hazel.
He leaned back in the chair. The photographs had finished rendering. Now, information about each person filled the space underneath. The fourth line, under their names and physical descriptions, caused his eyebrows to rise. This was where their occupation was entered—the same occupation for each—and Olaf nodded in appreciation.
It read: Special agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation.
PART II
VIRGINIA
AND
NEW YORK
Man’s mind is so formed that it is far more
susceptible to falsehood than to truth.
—Desiderius Erasmus
Because I could not stop for Death
He kindly stopped for me.
—Emily Dickinson
36
If it weren’t for Mrs. Pringle, Brady would sneak into his house like a shadow.
Since Zach was three or four, whenever Brady came home from a trip, a game of hide-and-seek would start even before his Florsheims hit the front porch. He’d tell Zach when he was scheduled to touch down at Ronald Reagan National, and that was it. He didn’t know if Zach started hiding right at that time, if he calculated his ETA from the airport, or if he watched for him from a window. (He had once asked Karen, who lowered her eyes coyly and said, “I ain’t telling.”) But whenever Brady arrived home, Zach was hiding. And the kid was good. He’d slip his little body into the tightest nook or cranny and wouldn’t make a sound until Brady either spotted him or gave up, which he usually did after forty-five minutes of serious seeking.
The prize for not being found was dinner out at the restaurant of Zach’s choice. When the game started, that had meant McDonald’s. Lately, it was Olive Garden. If Brady found Zach, they would go for a round of putt-putt golf, which Brady enjoyed more than Zach did. Brady didn’t get to do much putt-putting anymore.
Three years ago Brady went to Los Angeles to consult on a case. When he returned, he searched from the attic rafters to the basement drains. Prodded by Karen, he searched for two hours. Finally, he gave up.
Karen led him to the basement, where she slid away a false wall to reveal a small hidden room—and Zach. Their close friend Kurt Oakley had wanted to build a hideaway and playroom for Zach for a long time—he had made one for his three boys and they loved it. When he had heard about the game, he insisted on building the room while Brady was away.
Brady protested that he didn’t spend enough time in the basement to know its precise layout. Besides, the wall was perfectly camouflaged, with a rowboat wall hanging and empty boxes of laundry soap and bottles of cleaner attached to the sliding wall, low to the ground. The effect was brilliant in its ordinariness. Finally, Brady had admitted defeat and taken everyone—including Kurt, his wife, Kari, and the boys—out to Red Lobster, a very special treat indeed.
Zach used the hideaway frequently to play, spend quiet time, and hide from uninformed friends, but he never hid from Brady there again. Still, Brady always scoped it out, because he knew the day he stopped checking was the day Zach would be there.
The first time Mrs. Pringle was at the house when Brady showed up for the hunt (this was six months after Karen’s death), she had spotted him—to her fading eyes, a mere shadow—creeping up the stairs. She had screamed to wake the neighborhood and clutched her chest. He had thought that was the end of her—if not her life, then certainly her babysitting for him. She had recovered remarkably well, however, and made him prom
ise to inform her of his arrival in the future.
So now, after using his key to unlock the front door and after removing his shoes in the hardwood foyer, he found Mrs. Pringle watching Entertainment Tonight in the den and cleared his throat for her. She started slightly, gave him a maternal look, and nodded.
A half hour later, Mrs. Pringle was ready to go home, and he had not found Zach.
“Ollie ollie in come free!” he called from the foyer. After a minute: “Zach! Mrs. Pringle wants to go home. Ollie ollie in come free!”
He looked helplessly at Mrs. Pringle, who gave him that look and nodded to something behind him.
He turned and there was Zach in the hall leading to the kitchen, the sweetest smile on his face.
“Where were you this time?” Brady asked.
“I ain’t telling.” Sounding just like his mother.
Brady held open his arms, and Zach ran into them. “I think I’ll try the macaroni and cheese this evening,” Zach informed him.
“Olive Garden?”
“Of course.”
AFTER DROPPING off Mrs. Pringle, but before descending upon Zach’s idea of culinary perfection, father and son went to visit wife and mother. Karen’s grave site at Mt. Olivet was one of those quaint hilltop plots every person thinks he or she’ll occupy one day; the more likely scenario for most people is that their bodies will spend eternity in a flat space the size of a football field, plot number C-10 in a matrix of a thousand graves. Karen had a modest life insurance policy. Most of it went to purchase two adjoining plots in an undeveloped section of the cemetery, under a hundred-year-old oak that the management company agreed in writing to maintain and never remove. Brady had written a check for $60,000, nearly twice the cost of other grave sites.
Each time they visited, Brady considered the money well spent. Away from the milling mourners, from the assembly-line death holes down in the older and current “communities”—as the manager called the various areas of his necropolis, as if he were building neighborhoods of growing families; perhaps philosophically, he was. Away from all that, Zach could spend time with his mother. He could talk and sing and weep and lie still on her grave. On a typical visit, he would do all these. When Brady visited alone, he did too.