While upscale, the apartment was a bit cramped. Not that he cared. Being single, he didn’t need much room, and he traveled much of the time on protection assignments, anyway. Saving money while he determined what new course his life would take was more important than additional square footage. His apartment was tidy, but he had been too busy and too numb to personalize it in any way. His taste in art was eclectic, from the reality bending, impossible constructions of Escher, to the surrealism of Dali, to the serene, impressionistic work of Monet. Yet his framed reproductions of favorite works by these artists remained entombed in brown paper in his closet, a telling sign that his spirit had been sapped and he had slipped into a steady depression. Even more telling, he loved books beyond all else, and had collected many thousands over the years: but while being surrounded by shelf upon shelf of his favorites in their myriad of colors brought him great pleasure, he had yet to unbox them.
Connelly had read him perfectly. Even before Iran he had been contemplating leaving the military, struggling mightily with the decision. On the one hand, he had found friendship and camaraderie in Delta, and the importance of what he was doing could not be overstated. His work had saved thousands upon thousands of innocents from horrible suffering and death from dirty bombs, nerve toxins, train derailments, and the like, including children who were in some cases the principal targets of planned attacks, unconscionable as this was. Many Westerners were still blissfully unaware that the future of progressive society was anything but assured. Desh had been on the front lines and seen the fanaticism that threatened to turn the world’s clock back a thousand years. He was helping to defeat a rigid and destructive ideology. It was a fire that was blazing across the world that, if left unchecked, would surely consume civilization.
But he had also dreamed of settling down one day. Of becoming a father. Of raising a family. And if he remained in Delta, this was impossible. He was always on the move, being called away overseas on missions about which he couldn’t discuss with anyone—including a future wife. Being married was the sharing of two lives, and he would be unable to hold up his end of the bargain. And if he did have children, each time he left his family would wonder if this would be the time Daddy wouldn’t be coming back—or be coming back inside a body bag, in pieces—leaving his children fatherless. What kind of life would this be for them? The answer: no life at all. He had refused to even consider it.
But now he had no excuse not to pursue a wife or family. He was no longer in the military and soon wouldn’t even be involved in something as dangerous as executive protection. He had wallowed in self-pity long enough. Desh made a vow to himself: once he finished this final mission, he would find a way to get beyond what had happened in Iran and get on with his life.
He rummaged through his near empty refrigerator and found just enough leftover food to cobble together a dinner. He then spent several hours re-familiarizing himself with the contents of his laptop and the thousands of e-mails in his log. He needed to know the full extent of the data to which Kira Miller now had access.
Finally, he sat down in a comfortable chair in his living room and began reading the dossier on his quarry yet again. He knew he would probably read it dozens of times before this was over. And each time, as he learned more and more about her, he would bring a slightly different perspective to the material and would glean fresh insights.
Desh's cell phone began vibrating, an unwelcome intrusion. He reached into his pocket, removed it, and examined the screen. It was a text message from Matt Griffin:
key discovery 4u. visit me asap. don't call. computers, walls, phones: all might have ears.
The message drove Desh to a heightened state of awareness within seconds. Griffin had found something important and had reason to believe Kira had breached more than just Desh's computer. Maybe Griffin was being overly cautious, maybe not, but Desh approved. He had liked the friendly hacker from the start, and the man had already demonstrated that his glowing reputation was well deserved.
Now it was time to find out if his computer expert had truly earned his pay.
Desh armed himself as usual, threw on an oxford shirt and windbreaker, and rushed to Griffin’s apartment, his mind racing almost as fast as his armored Suburban. The traffic was light, but even so the trip should have taken forty-five minutes. He made it in just over thirty.
Desh felt butterflies in his stomach as he strode briskly through the short, musty corridor of Griffin’s building, anxious to learn what the giant had uncovered. He passed several doors until he came to number 14D. He rapped once on the door and waited, staring at the peephole to help Griffin make a quick identification.
He waited for Griffin to disengage the deadbolt and chain as he had done before, but instead the handle began to turn. Years in the field had trained his subconscious to set off alarms when it encountered anything unexpected, no matter how small, even before his conscious mind could reason out why. He instantly became hyper-alert, just as a woman emerged from behind the door with a gun aimed at his chest.