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Jeremy grabs the laptop, swivels it around, and starts working the keyboard. I say, “If you think no one from your agency knows about you and this place, you have a funny way of showing it, going online like that.”
He stays focused on the screen. “I use two encrypted systems that rotate among servers in the Baltics and the Caribbean. Sometimes it’s slow, but I’m confident that…hold on.”
I hold on.
I keep on eating.
His brow furrows.
Something is wrong.
He works the keyboard again.
Shakes his head, looks up at me.
“Hurry up and finish your meal,” he says, powering down the laptop.
Shoveling the delicious omelet into my eager mouth without really tasting it, I ask, “What’s going on?”
He gets up from the table and walks his plate to the sink. He doesn’t even bother scraping off the half-eaten meal.
Jeremy quickly washes his hands. “You have a saying over there aboutbeing Gitmo’ed.A verb meaning that you’ve been sent to your Guantanamo Bay, with no hopes of ever coming out again.”
“Yes,” I say, eating faster, growing concerned about where this conversation is going.
Jeremy heads out of the kitchen, going to his bedroom. He calls out, “We got something similar:getting Faroe’d—being sent to our black site up in the Faroe Islands, at the northern tip of Britain.”
I get up and take my plate and glass to the sink. “Never heard of it.”
“Other times I’d say that was a good thing, Amy, but not today,” Jeremy tells me, opening a closet in his bedroom. “All of my computer access has just been removed, and a tracking program I have on my PC says somebody has cracked my online program and is tracing it back here.”
I go into his bedroom and suddenly wonder where my stolen Beretta is.
“They’re coming after you,” I say.
“Yes,” he says, “and we’ve got to leave, right now.”
Spotting my Beretta on the other side of the bed, I go over to pick it up and stick it in my waistband. “Any idea where we’re going?”
“Eventually to the States,” he says. “But for right now I’m happy the two of us aren’t in the back of an unmarked lorry, heading north.”
I turn out of the bedroom. “I’ll get the car started.”
“But I’m driving,” he says.
“Oh, you know it,” I say.
Chapter78
NADIA KHADRAtakes a moment to look around her in awe at the tall and forbidding buildings of southern Manhattan. What a city! Paris is a jewel—the City of Light, a center of civilization—but never has she seen such buildings, standing proud and conceited around her.
She is on the corner of Fulton Street and famed Broadway, having spent a long and uncomfortable hour on the disgusting, clattering subway system that has finally brought her here to fulfill her destiny and achieve her long-sought-after revenge for herpapyandmémère.
Horns are blaring from the crowded traffic on Broadway, the sound snapping her back to her task. With the precious metal briefcase in her hand and her carry-on luggage at her feet, Nadia makes the call.
It’s answered on the first ring.
“Mike,” the confident man says.
