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“But thousands didn’t,” he says. “Just a few homeless folks and pedestrians got their lungs scorched.”
“But my husband…and child. Others were killed in Manhattan.”
“Those were traffic accidents, Amy,” he says. “Truly unfortunate, but the luck of the draw.”
“Next time,” Amy says, “we might not be that lucky.”
“And if we keep on using women in the field,” says Ernest, “tens of thousands will eventually die. I wasn’t going to let that happen. No matter what the social scientists say, women can’t handle the strain, the pressure, of being out in the field. Congratulations, Amy: you made history by being the first in Special Activities. And now that history is coming to an end. I won’t allow it.”
“Even if smoking me was against orders and regulations?” Amy asks, the pistol still firm in her hand.
Ernest says, “I decide what orders are made, which ones are erased. That’s my job.”
“And my stay at your black site in the UK? That choice?”
Ernest smiles, sensing he’s winning this one. “What stay? What black site? There’s no evidence you were there—and there never will be. The security contractors you shot died in a training accident. Their families will get a nice insurance settlement. That cute cottage has been burned and plowed under. That’s the truth, as much as you might hate it.”
He waits, sees her eyes moisten, her hand start wavering.
This is going better than he expects.
Now, then.
“Go on, get out of here,” he says, gentling his voice. “You made your point and your questions have been answered. And since you’re in mourning, Amy, I’ll give you a half-hour lead before I call the State Police and our law-enforcement liaison at Langley.”
And like that, she gets up and nearly runs out of his home. Hearing the door slam behind her, Ernest smiles in satisfaction.
Amy Cornwall proves his point.
Chapter129
THE WEATHERshould be raining, or sleeting, or doing something foul to match my mood, but it’s actually a pleasant early evening in this luxurious development in Virginia, and I walk away from Ernest’s home staring at my feet, the heavy weight of the unfired Beretta in my jacket pocket.
There are voices about me: children playing, mothers talking, husbands laughing with their neighbors. God, the voices are still within me, softly whispering, always reminding me of what I’ve lost.
Mommy, when are you coming home?
Amy, I got your back. Whatever you need.
I pass a storm sewer and I’m tempted to toss the Beretta in. But no, you never know when you might need a weapon.
I keep on walking.
Bear right at a corner.
Walking.
Head down, still not wanting to see the families around me.
Up ahead is a black Cadillac Escalade with Maryland plates.
I open the rear door, slide in.
The tanned man is sitting there. Up front are a driver and an armed female escort. The rear of the Escalade is torn out and replaced with communications gear, like the van I rode in back in London a hundred years ago—an intense slim man is working a keyboard.
I say, “You get it?”
“Got it all,” the tanned man says.
