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“You were going to bust me out?”
“Yes,” he says. “You know how it is in the military: steel-hard friendships, always ready to do a favor for a mate.”
Another yawn, and my eyes get heavy. “Jeremy…what’s the date?”
“May twenty-eighth.”
“Then we have one day left before the attack.”
“We do,” he says.
Then, just as I predicted, I doze right off.
What else could I do?
Later that early evening, we’re in a small house on the outskirts of one of those perfect little English villages you think exist only in a Julian Fellowes screenplay, and I’m happy to be at Jeremy’s place. It’s one story—white exterior with gray shingles—and surrounded on three sides by gardens. Inside there’s a big kitchen, an even bigger living room with wide plank floors, a stone fireplace, and lots of books packed into bookshelves. The old-style windows are made of small glass triangles.
And no television.
He points me to a bathroom and I say, “Great place. Must have cost you a bit.”
“Some,” he says. “But I’ve never regretted it.”
I yawn once again, feeling my legs quiver. “Bet you have lots of good parties here.”
“No,” he says, heading to the kitchen. “No one ever comes here.”
“Not even female friends?”
“Especially female friends,” he says, opening up a stainless-steel refrigerator. “Amy, nobody knows about this place. Even my coworkers, even my boss. I bought this through a variety of cutouts and offshore real estate companies. It’s my little nest.”
I head to the bathroom.
“Thanks for inviting me in,” I say.
He doesn’t say a word, and then, neither do I.
After a shower—and after Jeremy trims some of my wet hair to bandage the deep scratch I’d given myself—I’m surprised to see my clothing laid out on his bed, freshly washed and dried.
He offers me a pair of soft leather moccasins. “Best I can do at the moment.”
“One of these days you’ll make someone a perfect husband,” I say, sliding them on. A bit too large, but they’ll work. “Or wife. Depending on your mood and the current language of gender.”
“One of these days,” he says. “Come along, before our meal gets cold.”
The meal is a hot omelet with cheese, veggies, and bits of sausage. There’s also hand-sliced toast made from a white-bread loaf. We’re drinking cold orange juice; at Jeremy’s elbow is an open laptop computer.
As we eat on his butcher-block dining table, I say, “We’ve got to get across the pond. More resources available to us over there.”
“Even with you smoked?”
“Not a problem,” I say, trying to slow my chewing, because with the smell of the freshly cooked meal, my appetite’s dial is pegged at 11. “I’ve got a source I’m sure will help us at the right time.”
He says, “I might be able to get us both over there, using some of my friends to grab us tickets on a transatlantic flight without getting too particular about passport control. Tricky, but we could probably get there before midnight tonight, New York time. But then what?”
“Rashad wants to be there, don’t you think?” I ask. “He wanted to kill you and Ollie, up close and personal. It’s certain he was at the airport runway with that fake nuke. And he was on the scene with you when you flew to Saudi Arabia after your father was killed.”
He nods, dabs a napkin on his bearded chin. “Good call. Hold on. Let’s see if I can get some transport lined up.”
