Fire with Fire(89)

And having Caine go missing a day ago had not helped matters. No word from Opal either. Some covert bodyguard she’s turned out to be.

But that was unfair and he knew it: there had never been enough time to do more than assign her and clean up after the ambush in Greece. And less than twenty-four hours later, Nolan was dead and Downing was scrambling to fill his shoes and figure out what to do next. Not easy, particularly since the outcome of the Dialogs was to have determined their future operational agenda.

Downing grimaced as he unfolded from the narrow seat of the cramped commuter craft. As it turned out, advance planning would have been a waste of time, because none of the scenarios would have begun with the operational presumption that Nolan was dead. There had been plans for how best to handle his death before Parthenon. But this—losing your leading man not at the close or rise of a curtain, but between the acts—this was terra incognita.

Downing exited the aircraft into the bright sun and cool air of DC in April and experienced a surge of anxiety that he imagined was indeed akin to those felt by ancient mariners whose journeys had carried them past the edges of their maps, compelled them to sail into deep, unknown waters.

As I do now, Richard thought, glancing at the Capitol dome as he walked to the black sedan waiting discreetly beyond the edge of the tarmac.

* * *

The traffic was moderate but progress was fitful, sudden rushes of speed alternating with a bumper-to-bumper crawl. Unpredictable and unsettling—just like the immediate future. If Arvid can help me forge, or better yet, inherit, the same political and industry links and relationships that Nolan enjoyed, then IRIS should be able to continue along on much the same footing. But if not . . .

Downing willed that thought to die, but another—just as troubling—rose to take its place: Trevor, arriving at Dulles, would be joining him at Tarasenko’s office within the hour. There, Nolan’s son would stolidly endure condolences, stolidly sit through lunch with Uncle Richard, and then stolidly shake hands, depart, and carry on a fighting withdrawal from his own feelings until he reached the safe refuge of his one-bedroom townhouse in Georgetown. By that time, Downing would be on his way out to visit newly widowed Patrice in Silver Spring, who would smile gratefully through bright, wet eyes that would not brim over until the intrusion of consolers had ended.

But the eldest child, Elena, was the wild card. Her father’s daughter in almost every way, Downing was certain of only one thing: she would be devastated, no matter what she showed the world, or Miles, her teenage son. On the other hand, although being a single mother had been hard on her, maybe it would be a strange blessing now: from his own experience, Richard knew that parents could often be strong for their children even when they felt themselves too weary and weak to carry on.

“Mr. Downing, we’re here.”

Downing sighed, looked up at the Capitol Building. An hour from now, he’d know the fate in store for IRIS—and himself. A part of him wanted to stay in the car, and just keep driving.

Right: none of that, now. Downing forced himself to exit the vehicle briskly, waved the driver on, went up the steps two risers at a time. He kept up that pace as a matter of principle, stopping only where the security checks—the chemical sniffers, metal detectors, Geiger counters, badge and retina checkers—slowed him down. Tarasenko’s assistant looked up as he swept around the door jamb. “Mr. Downing, Senator Tarasenko is expecting you.”

“Has he been waiting long?”

“Not quite a minute.”

“Thank you, Daniel.”

“My pleasure. Go right in.”

Downing did, willing himself through the doorway that would put him on his future path as well as bring him face to face with Arvid Tarasenko—

—who was staring at him as he entered. The senator was sporting a small smile, half-reclined behind his desk, hands folded over a midriff that had, in the last two years, started to expand. “Richard: join us.”

“Thank you, I—” Wait: ‘us’? Richard looked, saw that the chair in the room’s right-hand corner was occupied.

Caine. Smiling. Or, more accurately, with teeth bared. “Hello, Richard,” he said.

“Hello, and—and I’m damned glad to see you. But why didn’t you tell me where you were going? I had no idea—”

“I think that was the idea, Richard.” Tarasenko smiled, a bit ruefully: “Unless I’m quite wrong, you were not supposed to have any idea where Mr. Riordan was or where he was heading.”

“What do you mean?”

Caine’s voice was flat. “I’m out, Richard. No more IRIS.”