I never want to talk to her again. But the well-trained ghost of my childhood demands to know how she’ll twist Nikolai Tarasov’s demise into a drama about her.
“Mam,” I say, just before voicemail picks up.
“Don’t listen to him!” she shouts.
“Don’t listen to wh?—”
But my confused question is interrupted by a rumbling baritone, thick with an Irish brogue. “Kaitlín Minola Lynch.”
“Who is this?”
“I am Robbie Malloy, just off my plane from County Donegal. And it seems you and I are long overdue for a talk.”
44
COLE
“I’m coming with you,” I say, the instant Kate announces she’s heading up to Baltimore.
“You’re not,” she counters. “You have to get upstairs. Make sure everything is taken down. We can’t risk anything connecting that office with us after we leave.
“Megan is already working up there.”
“And that doesn’t put the fear of God in you?” She laughs as she says it, which is the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in days.
“Kate…” I reach for a handful of her hair.
She leans against my palm for just a moment. We’re both bone-tired. But she turns her head and skates her lips across my wrist. “I’m Canton Crew born and bred. I can handle a Donegal man.”
“From everything you’ve said, he’s not just any Donegal man.”
“He’s the one I asked to come here. Go. Take care of things upstairs. I’ll see you back at the house.”
“Take Cameron,” I say.
She nods acceptance.
“And the two guards.”
This time she argues. “They’ve earned a break.”
“Jacobson!” I call. “Tell Kate she isn’t going to Baltimore without at least three men.”
Jacobson crosses the lobby. “She isn’t going to Baltimore without at least threevehicles.”
“I don’t have time for that,” she snaps, her old impatience finally breaking through.
“Fine,” I say. “Three men. Go.”
Kate growls, but she recognizes victory when she’s won it. I watch her head down to the garage, Cameron and the two uniforms in tow. Then Jacobson and I go up to the fifth floor. “Will the security guard be any trouble?” I ask.
“I’ve had plenty of time to talk to him this week. The man’s a true patriot. Despite his momentary panic just now, he’ll support the FBI in its undercover mission.”
“Wonderful,” I say wryly.
Jacobson waits by the elevator on the fifth floor as I take in a completely changed scene. Megan stands in the center of the room. Her wig is long gone, along with those fake teeth and her unnerving contact lenses. She’s ditched her chartreuse polyester top for a ripped Nirvana T-shirt, and she’s traded in her pink-and-beige plaid pants for a pair of cut-offs. Her bright green hair shines like a traffic light.
She’s scowling at her phone as a moving crew crawls through the space like ants on a hill. Four over-size black garbage bags hold a jumble of keepsakes and souvenirs, the accumulated crap that made this place look like a real government site. Another bag is filled with waste from the kitchen—everythingleft in the refrigerator, a canister of Maxwell House, powdered creamer and sugar, and that miserable excuse for a coffee maker. Computer drives, speakers, and cameras are triple bagged, just waiting to be tied off.
