After his lengthy absence, Duke Vaughn seemed determined to make up for lost time. He hadn’t left Gibson’s side for a moment. A constant, glowering presence, Duke never gave his son a moment’s peace. At work. At the movies. More and more talk, until Gibson couldn’t even follow the story. He couldn’t hold a conversation without Duke interrupting. At night, Duke stood over him, waiting to pick up where he’d left off when Gibson opened his eyes in the morning.
Nothing Gibson did brought him peace. He tried reasoning with Duke. When that had no effect, he pleaded with the ghost for mercy. Then he resorted to yelling back, which only succeeded in making him feel like the lunatic he was. Finally, Gibson lapsed into a monastic silence, trying and failing to ignore his father. How do you tune out a voice that started and ended in your own head? It was almost as if the old political hand were trying to filibuster Gibson’s life.
It was working.
After days of trying to think of a solution, Gibson was still no closer to resolving the Ogden situation. So far he had four vague and unsatisfactory options—release Ogden, kill Ogden, kill himself. Or some combination of the above. One morning, after a restless night on the floor, a fifth option occurred to him. He could run, and tip off Ogden’s people once he was off the grid. Not that there was such a place, not anymore. Bin Laden had proven that. If they wanted him badly enough, they would always be able to find him. And Gibson imagined they’d want him pretty bad. It would be a dangerous precedent for Langley to set, allowing someone who’d kidnapped one of their people to remain a free man.
Gibson made a circuit of his tiny apartment and checked to see if the strips of Scotch tape on the windows and front door were all undisturbed. All part of his paranoid morning ritual. Some people made coffee; Gibson made sure the CIA hadn’t broken in while he slept. He really ought to write the adhesive-tape people a thank-you note. They probably hadn’t considered do-it-yourself alarm system among its possible applications.
He peered out through the thin floral curtains that decorated the small window in his front door. Before he got in the shower, he liked to check the street. It helped calm him enough to get ready for work. A black SUV with tinted windows idled at the curb behind his Yukon.
“What are you doing now?” Duke asked.
“There’s somebody out there.”
“Oh, right, that would be the CIA.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Gibson heard the panic in his voice.
“What, are we on the same side now?”
“What do they want?”
“I told you not to go back to the power plant.”
“No, actually, you didn’t,” Gibson said.
“Well, it was implied.”
From this angle, Gibson couldn’t see the plates, but the whole getup felt distinctly government issue. Although it didn’t make any sense, them sitting there out in the open like that. Gibson figured they’d either surveil him or arrest him. Why tip their hand otherwise?
Duke leaned in to take a look for himself. “Flushing game.”
“How’s that?”
“They want you to break cover. They’re trying to spook you.”
“Well, it’s working.”
“Relax, kid, if they had something, they’d have driven a tank through your door already.”
This was a true fact. “So what do I do?”
“I don’t know . . . cowering here seems to be working pretty good so far.”
Gibson felt suddenly vulnerable standing there in his socks and boxers. Ignoring Duke again, he went to find clothes, deciding the best course of action with the men outside was obliviousness. If they had him, they had him, and there wasn’t anything he could do about that. Otherwise, he needed to stick to the plan. He reminded himself how he’d almost freaked out when the cop had followed him. Don’t overreact. Maybe it was nothing but a parent waiting to pick up a carpool kid for school.
“Oh, I’m sure that’s exactly what it is,” Duke said.
Gibson locked his door and walked out to his car. Duke followed after taunting him with paranoid warnings of what would happen next. When the front doors of the black SUV popped opened, Duke chuckled. Two men in suits stepped out to meet him. Gibson scanned the street for their backup, resisting the urge to bolt. Instead, he planted his feet and let them come to him.
The driver, the older of the two, was white with bulldog eyes and a disappointed mouth. Broken blood vessels fanned up his nose like a map of the Amazon. He came around the car and joined his partner, a tall Sikh who wore a black turban that slanted down across his eyebrows and covered his ears. Unlike his partner, he glowed with good health. A lush black beard framed his imperial face, and his mustache came to manicured points. The bulldog held up a hand halfway between a greeting and a caution.
“Mr. Vaughn. A word?”
“I’m on my way to work.” Gibson didn’t know why he wasn’t facedown and handcuffed already, but he would play along.
“How is the dishwashing business?” the bulldog asked.
His younger partner stared off into the middle distance, smiling as if remembering a funny line from the movie he’d watched only last night. It did little to endear him to Gibson.
“What do you want?”
“We’d like you to take a ride with us.”
“Do you have a warrant?”
“We’re not law enforcement, Mr. Vaughn.”
Gibson didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. The partner’s smile broadened into a mirthless grin. He had the whitest teeth that Gibson had ever seen in real life.
“So who are you guys?” Gibson asked.
“My name is Cools,” the bulldog said. “This is Mr. Sidhu.”
“What kind of name is Cools?”
Cools blinked. “Belgian. So what do you say?”
“I say I’m going to be late for work,” Gibson said.
“Take a ride,” the older man said, as if reasoning with an uncooperative child. “We’ll bring you right back after. Dishes will still be dirty.”
“Where are we going?”
“Into the city to see an old friend.”
“Who?” Gibson asked.
“Calista Dauplaise.”
Served him right for wondering how his situation could get any worse. For the first time since the power plant, Duke Vaughn stopped talking. And for the first time since the power plant, Gibson’s head cleared enough for him to think without it hurting.
“Oh, that old friend,” Gibson said.
“What do you say? She just wants to catch up.”
Gibson was pretty sure catching up was the last thing Calista wanted. But she wanted something, and that was reason enough to take a ride into the city. After Atlanta, they’d struck an uneasy truce. A truce that he regretted, even if he knew it had been the pragmatic decision. It had held for two and a half years, until just this minute. Article one—stay out of the other’s way. If Calista was risking the status quo, Gibson needed to know why. She wouldn’t go away, and he’d rather see her coming than waste time looking over his shoulder. He was doing enough of that as it was.
“Do I have a choice?” Gibson asked.
“A choice?” Cools asked. “Sure. You get to choose whether you get in the car under your power or ours.”
“You really want to make a scene out here?”