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“Just that they had no leads on his whereabouts.”
“That makes all of us.” The screen displayed a prompt for a password. “You need to reenter your password. I guess happy hour lasted too long.”
He returned from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He bent his long frame over at the waist and entered his password while covering her eyes with one hand.
He was serious about his security.
“While you do that, I’ll put together some lunch. I’m glad you insisted on stopping at a grocery store to pick up some fresh food.”
“I couldn’t handle any more of that frozen stuff.” She entered the address for the message board and held her breath as she scanned the page. She squealed.
“He responded?”
“Yes, I got a message from Einstein. He wrote that he is in the same boat and he needs backup.” She looked up. “We’ve got to help him, Mike.”
“We can bring him in.”
“By bring him in, you mean what? Not take him into custody?”
“Protective custody, not an arrest. Prospero can protect him on an unofficial basis, but we’ll want some intel from him.” He ducked into the fridge, so she couldn’t see his face.
Hopefully, he was telling the truth. “I honestly don’t think Hamid has any intel.”
“He was set up somehow and he may have noticed something leading up to it, talked to someone, had an encounter. We’ll want to know all that.”
“So, should I suggest a meeting? He’s not going to agree to meet with anyone but me.”
“He’s not going to have a choice. You’re not meeting him alone.” He reappeared hugging an armload of veggies. “Is he still online?”
“I don’t think so, but I’m sure he’ll be monitoring this board.”
“Set it up.”
“I don’t even know where he is.”
“Find out, Claire.”
She drummed her fingers on the computer. “He’s not going to want to meet in Boston, too close for comfort.”
“DC’s out.”
“Would we be safe in New York? We could drive down in about five hours, park and take a subway into the city.”
“Crowds aren’t necessarily a bad thing. It should be a public place for everyone’s safety.”
“A club with noise and music.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Mike waved his knife in the air. “Do it.”
She followed the rules of their cryptic communication, suggesting they meet at a jazz club in Chelsea, a place she’d told him about before.
She posted the message. “That’s it. Now we wait. If he can’t get to Manhattan, we’ll move to plan B.”
“It’s always good to have multiple plans.” He began chopping on a cutting board.
She carried the laptop with her to the kitchen counter and set it down. “Do you want some help?”
“When the water boils, dump in the pasta.” He jumped back as the oil sizzled in the pan on the stove top. “Where are we meeting him?”
“We? I still think I should meet him alone. He might not agree to see me if I’m with someone, and if I don’t tell him, he might bolt when he sees you.”
“Like I said before, he doesn’t have a choice.” He shoved the contents of his cutting board into the olive oil in the pan and stirred, the aromatic scent of garlic filling the kitchen. “You just happened to know of a club in Manhattan where we could meet?”
She dumped the fettuccine into the roiling water and added a pinch of salt. “The kid likes jazz, of all things. He was visiting the city on a break and asked me for a few recommendations. He went to the 629 Club in Chelsea, so I thought he’d feel comfortable in a place he’d been to before.”
“You like jazz?” He tapped the pot of boiling pasta with his knife. “Stir that so it doesn’t clump.”
“Who are you, Emeril Lagasse?” But she dutifully dipped the long plastic fork into the bubbling pot. “Yeah, I like jazz. You?”
“Jazz? Most of it sounds like weird, disjointed noises to me.”
She rolled her eyes to the ceiling as she stirred. “Let’s see...tough guy from the streets...my guess is rock and roll.”
