She buried her face in her hands. It was too much. She was confused, hurt, angry, and so tired. She wished she was at home but at the same time felt that she wouldn’t be comfortable there, that it wouldn’t feel like home right now. Not after her father’s confession. Not now that she knew about the big lie.
She was so confused. She was so alone. She needed to talk to someone, someone who wasn’t her father or mother.
Her hand slipped into her pocket, and she fingered her cell phone. It had been off since they left the house. Could it really do that much harm if she used it? What if she just—
No. Her mother had warned her. Cell phones could be tracked, and she should only use hers in a dire emergency. It would stay right there, in her pocket. But what if she . . . Maybe that would be okay. Yes, it would do fine.
She trudged on, still not looking back. She was, however, no longer aimless.
CHAPTER 26
The iron connected with the ball satisfyingly at the nadir of the swing. Edgar Nickerson raised a hand to shield his eyes from the setting sun as he watched the white dot follow its lazy parabola until it hit the grass in a narrow stretch between a sand trap and a grove of trees, a cool 250 feet away.
“What did you think of that swing, Vinson?” he said jovially, squinting against the sun at the pin on the green.
“Just peachy, Mr. Nickerson,” said Vinson, standing near the cart and looking at him with his piggy little eyes glazed over with blank impatience. Nickerson had a habit of making people wait on his whim. He put away his club and motioned for Vinson to put the bag on the white golf cart, which he did, grudgingly. Nickerson had done without a caddy so he could talk to Vinson, but he was damned if he was going to carry his own bag when there was help around.
“Come on,” he said, motioning for Vinson to get on the cart. The vehicle moved silently.
“I take it the affair with Miss Dillon is taken care of?” Nickerson asked, hands on the wheel.
“As usual,” said Vinson. “I’m here because I need to know what’s going on with the Cobra situation.”
“I’ll tell you what you need to know,” he said.
“Well, Hodges is on my ass. If you want to tell him yourself, I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”
“Tell him it’s being dealt with,” said Nickerson.
“That’s not going to be enough to shut him up,” said Vinson.
“Then you can tell him that we have the full extent of the resources of the Central Intelligence Agency backing him. I thought the reason you were here was so I wouldn’t have to—”
“Mr. Nickerson,” Vinson interrupted, urgently, and motioned toward where his ball had landed. There stood a woman, dressed in tight black pants, with short, light blond hair and a deadly beauty that was obvious even from far away. She had picked up his ball and was tossing it lazily upward and catching it as it fell. “Do I take care of this?” Vinson asked.
Nickerson looked around to make sure there was no one else in sight. One paparazzo looking for a senatorial scandal was all it would take for pictures of him standing with a CIA assassin to be plastered on the front page of every major newspaper.
“No,” said Nickerson, agreeably. “I’m the one who asked her to meet me here.”
“I don’t think I like this bitch too much.”
“Then it’s a good thing that’s not what I pay you for,” said Nickerson. He brought the cart to a stop a few yards from Natasha “My, they do let anyone into this place these days,” he said, loudly enough for her to hear.
She had caught him off guard last time, and he had acted like a schoolboy afraid for his lunch money. She wouldn’t get that pleasure this time.
“I am here,” she said curtly. “What do you want?”
“Would you believe me if I said I enjoy our little talks?” he said jovially, motioning for Vinson to pull his clubs from the cart. She remained impassive. Vinson sighed and picked up the bag, setting it on the ground. “Would you mind?” said Nickerson, and he took the golf ball from her. “I don’t think anyone will mind if I don’t take a penalty over your interference.” He dropped the ball and positioned himself to swing . “Vinson,” he said. “why don’t you take a little walk?”
Vinson practically snarled at that. He shot Natasha a homicidal look, then walked away.
Natasha stood silently until he was out of earshot and said, “I hear Marwat is dead.”
“Yes. Drowned in his own tub,” said Nickerson flatly. “How tragic.”
“Was that your doing?”
“Marwat was greedy and predictable. That made him a good associate. I had no reason to get rid of him.” He practiced his stroke, brushing the grass with the sole of his club.