let the mask slide and my rage show, then seen his reaction—no reaction at all—I’d told myself I’d dodged the bullet, kept my secret. But if he hadn’t reacted, it was because he hadn’t been surprised, had already seen what drove me. Saw it, accepted it, let it be…until I almost got myself killed.
I remembered what Evelyn had said the night before, about another student. “Worst case of ‘fuck the world’ rage you’ve ever seen.”
I looked at Jack. “I won’t screw up again. All things considered, we both know I’m not the best person for this, but I won’t let you down.”
“Not worried about that.”
“Whatever you may think, I’m not suicidal.”
He rubbed his hand over his mouth. Then his eyes met mine. “I know what that’s like, Nadia. Lose everything. Everyone. It makes a difference. Not like you’d jump in front of a bullet. But things go bad? First thing people think? Who they’d leave behind. Parents, wives, kids…Don’t want to let them down. But if there’s no one there…”
“It’s easier to take that risk,” I said softly. “I won’t do it again, Jack.”
He nodded, gaze down, but had he looked up, I knew what I’d see. Doubt.
“I screwed up yesterday, on a whole lot of levels,” I said. “But I have it under control this time. I swear.”
He nodded. Hesitated. Opened his mouth to say something else, then Evelyn popped through the doorway. She saw us and stopped. A murmured apology, and she started to withdraw, but Quinn poked his head in, too.
“Jack? It’s almost ten to.”
Jack nodded. “Gotta run.”
“You can take another minute—” Evelyn began.
“Gotta be in position before Dubois gets here.” He looked at me. “Everything will be ready. It goes bad—”
“I bolt. You cover me. I got it.” I touched his arm. “I really do.”
He nodded, then everyone left. And I was alone.
Four o’clock, and the press conference, came very quickly. The furnished house had a television, so I tuned in. The conference took place in town, and was open to both media and locals. Wilkes would be there, if not in the audience, then close enough to overhear everything, anxious for firsthand news on his witness.
Dubois played his part perfectly. It started as a “no news to report” update, then he received an emergency call about the witness. After relaying the news to the press corps and the assembled audience of locals, he whispered something to the agent beside him, probably telling him to take over, excused himself and left.
I turned off the TV. Now my waiting began. Evelyn had instructed Dubois to get into his car and start driving. Felix would already be hidden in the backseat with the directions. Giving them to Dubois early would have been asking for trouble.
The route was as uncomplicated as we could make it, so Wilkes could follow. Dubois was instructed to “drive normally,” that is, not to speed and risk losing him, but not to go too slowly and look suspicious. He was presumably en route to meet a critical witness. He wouldn’t dawdle. Meanwhile, Evelyn would be tailing him, providing countersurveillance, should any agents or members of the press decide to follow Dubois. If they did, that could delay his arrival even more…if not permanently abort the plan.
Should everything work out, my cue would come when the front door handle turned, signaling that Dubois was there. Then he’d hurry back to the car, as if he’d forgotten something, and I’d be on, waiting for my big moment.
There was no sense trying to figure out how long it would take Dubois to get here. Overestimate and I’d be caught off guard. Underestimate and I’d start worrying that something had gone wrong.
I adjusted the police scanner in the living room. It wasn’t tuned to the frequency the Feds were using. Even if we could find that, we didn’t need to. The scanner was just a prop, set slightly off station so Wilkes could hear police-type chatter, but static choked out the words.
At four forty-seven the front door handle rattled. I stood poised in the living room doorway and blocked out the police scanner buzz as I waited for the next signals, as Felix had explained them to Dubois. First, he’d jangle the handle. Second, he’d open the door, just a few inches, then slam it shut again. Finally, he’d turn and walk past the front window, where I’d see him and know, if all three events occurred, that it wasn’t someone delivering pizza flyers.
The doorknob turned. It opened.