Even the presidency would only be another link in the chain. So much more would need to be done to trigger the changes the Group had in mind. He would need their help soon enough, though for now, he had not even told them about the machines or the system. That could wait a bit. When he’d fortified his position, when he’d set enough in motion that there was no going back, when his control was incontestable, then he would let them in. Everything in its time.
He swung the binoculars from Dryden to the bar. Watched the place for ten seconds. He was just about to swing them back when he saw something:
Three people approaching the bar on foot. Two were a couple, probably in their fifties. Close behind them, jogging a bit to catch up, was a woman in her early thirties. Under other circumstances, Eversman might have guessed it was a party of three, the older couple and the younger woman going in together. Then he swung the binoculars and saw that Dryden had already stood from his chair and set off walking. Fast.
“He’s identified her,” Eversman said.
Collins turned the key in the ignition and reached for the gear selector.
Eversman held up a hand. “Hold here for now. Let him get inside first. Don’t spook her.”
*
Claire stepped across the threshold and found the interior of Myrtle’s disorientingly dark, after the harsh sunlight outside. Even the windows along the back wall, overlooking the harbor, didn’t help much; they seemed to offer more glare than light, leaving the rest of the place deep in gloom.
She crossed the entryway, the ancient wooden floor creaking beneath her feet. As her eyes adjusted, she swept her gaze down the row of booths along the left wall, and the line of bar stools on the right. The place was dotted with the handful of people she’d watched drifting in over the past half hour.
She crossed to the nearest booth, which was empty, and sat facing the front door.
*
Eversman watched Dryden cover the last fifty yards. Watched him cross the street and the front lot, reaching the bar’s entrance maybe two minutes after the woman had gone in.
“Let’s go,” Eversman said.
Collins put the Suburban in drive, and Eversman turned his phone on again, tapping the number for the team that would pick up Marnie Calvert.
*
Dryden pushed the front door inward and stepped through into the dark space of the bar.
A college kid in an apron looked up from a table he was clearing.
“Welcome to Silver’s,” the kid said. “Is it just gonna be you?”
Dryden nodded. “Just me.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
12:00.
Claire watched the door for Sam, her pulse already thudding in her eardrums.
Something was wrong.
She’d been here three minutes now. More than enough time for Sam to have reached this place, after seeing her walk in.
If he’d seen her.
If he was anywhere nearby at all.
If he was alive.
Footsteps outside, scraping the blacktop in front of the building. Someone moving fast, almost running.
For an instant her mind drew a picture of men with pistols in hand, swooping in to get her. The end of the line, just like that.
She was unarmed. There wasn’t a thing she could do.
Then the door swung in and a woman came through. Dark hair to her shoulders, dark eyes. She was winded, like she’d just covered serious distance on foot. The woman blinked, taking in the dim space of the room, scanning it quickly. When her eyes found Claire, they stopped.
*
Marnie saw her. The only woman alone inside Myrtle’s—which was decidedly not the location Dryden had named hours earlier, before the two of them had saddled up along with Eversman’s people.
The place Dryden had directed them to, Silver’s, was twenty blocks away from here.
Marnie let the door fall shut behind her and took three steps toward the woman in the nearest booth.
“Claire Dunham?” she said.
The woman, who’d gone dead still the moment Marnie locked eyes with her, only stared now.
“Who the hell are you?” the woman asked.
“Marnie Calvert. Sam Dryden sent me to find you. He said to tell you Biscuit was still a weak name for a dog, and that you should have used Chet, like he recommended. As in Chet Baker.”
The woman—Claire, beyond a doubt—seemed to register three or four different emotions all at the same time. Relief and confusion were chief among them.
Strictly speaking, Dryden hadn’t told Marnie to say that. He’d written it down on a piece of notebook paper—along with a great deal more—and folded it into a tiny square lump. A lump he’d pressed against her when he’d clapped her shoulder in the Suburban, then allowed to fall out of sight behind her. She’d pocketed it unseen before leaving the vehicle herself.
Then she’d gone to the café and stood outside it, reading the message on the page, each sentence pushing her a little closer to a nervous breakdown.
Claire slid out of the booth and crossed to Marnie. The competing emotions in her expression fell away, leaving only intensity. There was a distinctly military edge to it. It reminded Marnie of Sam.
“Where is he?” Claire asked.
“It’s complicated.”
“Then uncomplicate it.”
“He has a plan,” Marnie said. “He wrote it down.”
“What plan?”
Marnie stared at her and thought, You’re not going to like it. I already don’t like it.