“If you say so,” he said, meaning it to sound dismissive, but he had no doubt that she did. She’d orchestrated everything exactly to her liking. He’d have admired her if she wasn’t so damned contemptible.
“I do say so,” she said and held out a hand. He shook it. The first time that he had ever touched her. She was shivering, or trembling. It was impossible to say which.
“One last thing,” Calista said. “There is a laptop in the passenger seat of your vehicle. Show the recording on it to your prisoner along with the documents in the sleeve. I believe it will paint a rather damning picture of dear Mr. Eskridge.”
“A recording of what?”
“You will see. But now it’s time for you to go.”
Gibson lingered a moment longer. It seemed there should be more to say to this woman who had loomed so large over his life. Who had brought so much suffering to so many. The thought that she might pull this off, and that he’d helped her to do it . . . Tidy her affairs, as she called it, and simply retire from the world so that her son might be king—it sickened him. But what could he say to her that would make a difference, to her or to him? He’d wasted too much of his life on dreams of revenge that, in the end, always proved hollow. Allowed those dreams to consume him.
That ended now.
Calista was right.
It was time to go.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Duke leaned against the SUV, waiting on Gibson. Gone was the charcoal suit, replaced by chinos and a polo shirt as if it were a summer’s day at Pamsrest. Gibson braced for whatever would come next. Another diatribe about how ashamed Duke was to call him son.
But to his surprise, his father looked up and smiled. A gentle and kind smile. One Gibson knew well. A smile straight from his childhood. The one that said, It’s just you and me, kid, against all comers. The one that promised a late-night milkshake at the nearest diner. Gibson couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it, but he knew how much he’d missed it.
“Don’t know that we have time for a milkshake,” his father said with a wink.
“Probably not. Rain check, then?”
“You betcha. Now let’s get you in where it’s warm.”
Gibson unlocked his car and got behind the steering wheel. His breath immediately fogged the windshield, and he started the engine so he could run the heater. In the backseat was the duffel bag of clothes that Gibson had left at the Reston house to be destroyed. On top of it was his passport and an envelope with a credit card in his name. “In case of emergencies,” read a yellow sticky.
In the passenger seat sat Calista’s laptop, connected to a large external battery. He peeled off another yellow sticky from the touchpad: “Click record.” Suspicious, he tapped the spacebar, and the screen blinked to life. He saw a video feed from the runway. A split screen showing two different angles of the rear of the C-130 and the limousine. Calista had had the area wired for video and sound. What was she up to?
Gibson started recording the scene and put on the headphones connected to the laptop. At first, all he could hear was the wind. Then the back door of the limousine opened, and Calista stepped out. She stood defiantly in the cold, holding her china cup and saucer. Gibson heard the rumble of approaching vehicles. Calista turned to greet the two panel vans that roared into frame and slammed to a halt.
Cold Harbor mercenaries leapt from the backs of both vans. Unlike their brethren at Dulles, these men were armed for war. A pair disappeared up the ramp and into the aircraft. Two more cleared the limousine, checking the front and back. The remaining men fanned out to secure the nearby hangar. None paid Calista any attention as she stood stoically sipping her coffee.
Titus Stonewall Eskridge Jr. clambered out of the passenger seat like a man buried beneath the bodies of his enemies. His photographs did not do him justice. Well into his fifties, he carried himself with the arrogant bravado of a twenty-two-year-old athlete. The scar that ran down his jawline pulled the corner of his mouth into a permanent scowl. Gibson doubted he’d ever been a handsome man, but he could see the blunt-hewn charisma that would inspire awe in a certain kind of man. The gun Eskridge held in his right hand looked anxious for a target.
“You are too late for coffee, I am afraid,” Calista said.
In answer, Eskridge cracked her across the face with the butt of his gun. She went down hard. Her china coffee cup shattered, but Calista Dauplaise didn’t make a sound. She worked herself back to a sitting position, found her hat, and repositioned it atop her head. It wasn’t the reaction Titus had expected. He stood over her, unsure of himself. Clearly not a familiar or comfortable feeling.
“You always did lack imagination, Titus,” she said and glanced toward the flight manual, which still lay on the tarmac, bleeding pages. “It’s one of your more charming qualities.”
Eskridge followed her eyes and let out an inchoate roar. He snatched up the binder and paged through it furiously, flinging it away when he’d confirmed what he already feared.
“Get up.”
“I do wish you’d make up your mind,” Calista said, rising shakily to her feet. She was hurt worse than she let on, and Gibson could hear the pain in her voice.
“Do you have it?” Eskridge demanded.
Calista gave him a disappointed look that Gibson knew well. “Of course not. It is far, far from here now.”
“You’ve been working with that bitch Charles.”
“I always was. How has it taken you so long to catch up?”
“And?” he said. “What do you think you’ve accomplished? You don’t think I have another copy?”
“In fact, I am counting on it.”
“Bullshit,” Eskridge snarled. “If that’s true, why are you still here?”
“So that you would know it was me, and so that I might see firsthand.”
“See what?”
Calista drew herself up to her full height. “You run.”
Gibson didn’t doubt that Calista thought she had the situation under control. She had a plan. She always had a plan, but for the life of him he couldn’t see it. This wasn’t like her. Sticking around to gloat. Eskridge wasn’t the kind of man you goaded. If she kept on this way, she really would get herself killed.
And, like that, Gibson understood her plan.
“And why would I do that?”
“Because the CIA takes a rather dim view of treason, Titus.”
“To hell with Israel,” Eskridge said. “Those sons of bitches have it coming.”
“Be sure to mention that in your interrogation. Everything you stole is on its way to Langley, along with your particulars. I expect you will be a most popular fellow in a few short hours. The belle of the ball, as it were. If I were you, I would—”
She never finished that sentence. Eskridge’s right arm flashed up, and Calista crumpled to the tarmac alongside the flight manual. Her hat rolled away again, but this time she didn’t sit up and she didn’t reach for it. The gunshot echoed across the airfield. For a moment, Eskridge stood rooted to the spot, as did his men. Then he holstered his gun and began shouting orders to refuel the C-130.