“God willing,” said Morgan, shaking his hand. “Oh, and, Peter,” he added, as he got up. “T never finds out about this. Deal?”
“She’ll never hear it from me,” said Conley.
CHAPTER 40
Saturday was a bright, beautiful day, and although the senator’s speech wouldn’t start until seven that evening, which was more than three hours away, the people who had trickled in since noon were already waiting in line at the gate, wearing shirts or hats or carrying signs with McKay’s name on them. All in all, a casual observer might have mistaken it for a ball game. Natasha, who was most certainly not a casual observer, watched with unmitigated contempt, this audience in the circus world of political rallies. Well, there would be a spectacle tonight. She would make sure of that.
“Vera!” came a voice from behind her. She turned to see Dennis Poole, in a white button-down with the collar open and sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
“There you are!” said Natasha, her voice suddenly laden with enthusiasm, all traces of her accent gone from her voice.
“Hello, Vera,” he said. After a faltering greeting, he seemed to draw some courage and kissed her as passionately as he knew how. It was still pathetically clumsy and awkward, Natasha noted. “I’m glad you came, although I’m afraid you’ll be doing a lot of sitting around until it’s time for the speech.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” she said. “It’s all so exciting!” She, Natasha, would normally have regarded Poole with nothing but disdain. But she was not herself now. She was Vera, a superficially adventurous publicist from Brooklyn with big soft eyes and a tender smile. She appeared to be the kind of woman who might conceivably, even if improbably, fall in love with a bore like Dennis Poole, as well as a woman who might feel genuinely sorry for manipulating him.
“You’re dressed up,” he remarked. She was wearing a crisp gray pantsuit over a dark red shirt.
“Well, I don’t go to one of these events every day, you know!”
He led her toward the service entrance to the stadium, his hand in the small of her back. “She’s with me,” he said to the guard at the door, flashing the badge he was wearing on a lanyard around his neck.
Inside, the tunnel-like halls of the stadium were pulsing with their own energy. But unlike the festive mood outside, the atmosphere inside was tense, and everyone was working hectically, preparing for the big event.
“I’m really not supposed to bring you back here,” he said, with far more pride than remorse.
“Oh, what harm could there be?” she said.
He eyed her, raising an eyebrow in mock suspicion. “You’re not a spy, are you?”
“Nyet, comrade,” she said with a sly smile, in an American accent, and he laughed.
“Do you want to see the war room?”
He led her down the long, curved hallway, past a steady stream of event staff, and through a door into the home team locker room, which had been repurposed for the rally, furnished with a long table that was stacked with boxes and papers. In the far end of the room, a minifridge hummed, with a jar and a glass sitting on top of it on a circular platter.
“It’s not exactly what the space was designed for,” said Poole, “but the location couldn’t be more convenient in terms of proximity to the stage. Just hold on a sec. I need to take a look at something while I’m here.”
Natasha slowly made her way around the table, trailing her left hand on the outer surfaces of boxes and the papers that lay strewn about. She reached Poole, who was rummaging through a box, and snaked her hand around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. He offered only token resistance before leaning in.
They were interrupted by the ringing of his phone. He looked at the display and grimaced apologetically. “I’m sorry, but I need to take this.”
“I’ll hold the thought,” she said, giving him one more lingering kiss.
He took the call and wandered toward a corner of the room, while Natasha continued to make her way around the table, affecting flawless nonchalance, running her hands over the documents, her fingers slipping lightning-quick into a box and taking out an ID badge with a lanyard hanging from it, which she dropped into her purse.
Poole glanced at her as he talked, and she gave him a sweet grin as she continued to walk the length of the table. On reaching the end, she sauntered off at an angle as her fingers crept into her purse and found a small rectangular plastic case. She looked at Poole, smiling, but he was looking away. She clicked the case, and a small, clear strip stuck out like a tongue. It was adhesive, and with the exact refractory index of glass. Handling it took extreme care. Just one slip of her finger, and—