of developments in the Maldives. But gruesome as the tanker takeover was, Jenna worried even more about those North Korean rockets. She hadn’t received a single call, text, or e-mail from Vice President Andrew Percy’s office, despite having left messages twice during a two-hour layover in Dubai.
Nicci, who prided herself on being a “cat napper of the first degree,” was shedding her blanket and awakening from her most recent snooze.
“Are you heading straight home?” Jenna asked. Nicci had a one-bedroom apartment in the West Village with more charm than half a dozen high rises in Midtown.
The weather producer nodded and yawned. “I’m planning on at least one day to chill after I call Mikey.” Her agent, who looked as boyish as his name suggested, would soon go head-to-head with the suits on the eighth floor. Jenna had already texted her own agent, a former Marine who had issued his opening salvo within minutes of receiving her message.
“Keep your phone handy,” Jenna said. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything from Elfren or Percy.” Though she was increasingly doubtful about the latter. Granted, the vice president was a key player in the cabinet, which had plenty on its plate, but in the IM age what would it take to text her? She was on his frickin’ task force, after all. Meantime, the sulfate rockets in North Korea awaited a launch order from a leader widely regarded as a nutbar of the first order.
How does that happen? she asked herself. How does a total demento get to the point where he can end the world?
With a seat-jarring thump the jet touched down, and an hour later Jenna was in a taxi heading to Penn Station, bypassing her own apartment for a direct trip to Dafoe’s arms.
The familiar smells of the city—not entirely unappealing with their kindred associations of home, excitement, and meteorology—greeted her in force as she fled into the station’s bustling main concourse. She might not have noticed an Asian man in a black shirt and slacks if he hadn’t had his eyes fixed so firmly on her.
Jenna let her vision glide right over him. She’d learned in her first few months on The Morning Show that any kind of eye contact could generate the exclamation, “You’re Jenna Withers!” Her fans were the nicest people, but once she stopped to say hello, it was practically impossible to get moving again.
But the Asian man didn’t look like the others. His gaze felt as sharp as a bone saw.
You’re paranoid, she told herself as she stepped onto the down escalator. Who’s going to be tailing you here? They would have had to have been listening to your calls and reading your messages.
But Jenna had developed a clear sense of how it felt to be watched. It happened everywhere she went. She’d never bemoaned this, but at the same time she’d never felt so baldly observed as she did at this very moment.
As she walked down the platform, she turned and swept her eyes intently over the crowd of afternoon commuters who were making an early getaway.
She boarded the same train that she’d taken on her first trip up to see Dafoe. Today, she anticipated her lover’s lair even more keenly, the memory of their frantic lovemaking suddenly as fresh as her feelings of longing.
Lost in reverie, Jenna idly scanned the platform. That’s when she spotted the Korean’s purposeful gait. She did not look at him directly, but from the corner of her eye she tracked his progress toward her train until he disappeared into the car behind her. She particularly noted how his gaze moved over the windows, including the one that framed her unmistakable face.
She didn’t think he’d spotted her. His eyes never lingered, and Jenna had an urge to slip off the train and make a run for it. Or stay and call the NYPD.
And then what? she scolded herself. Tell them that a Korean caught your eye at Penn Station, and then caught the same train you’re on—along with hundreds of other people? That’s not even a coincidence. That really is paranoia. How idiotic would that sound on Page Six?
But the scolding she gave herself didn’t ease the eerie sense of eyes boring into the back of her head. In seconds, hairs on the nape of her neck sprang up, a sensation so uneasy that she tried to press them back down, but those pushy little Cassandras would not lie still for long.