The End Game (A Brit in the FBI 3)

“Maybe he was in love with her, too.”

“No, no.”

Zahir listened to him ramble about a small phone hidden in a bar of soap, heard the growing hysteria in his voice. This wouldn’t do. He very much needed Matthew, in case something got cocked up. It shouldn’t, but you never knew, and that was the thrill of his business, the uncertainty, the wild card, like Vanessa. Sounded to him like she was an undercover agent. He didn’t think she’d ever gotten a photo of him to send to her handler. He was always too careful.

“Did you learn anything from Vanessa before you killed her?”

“She kept saying it wasn’t her, it was Ian, it was you. The phone messages were all deleted. Even Andy couldn’t find anything.”

“Very well. She is dead, no longer a threat to us. However, now we have to move quickly—whoever Vanessa was working with, or for, knows all about us.” Except me, of course. He heard Matthew’s deep, hoarse breathing. “Get hold of yourself. You did what you had to do. Now you must do your job, you must keep moving forward. All will be well.”

“But does it really matter anymore, Darius? Blowing up Bayway, I realize you believed this would help our cause, but now, like you said, because of Vanessa, the Feds know who I am and will be hunting me. And all those deaths, I swore never to be like them, like those terrorists who killed my family.”

What a twisted-up fool Matthew was. Who cared about the deaths at Bayway? Hadn’t he just murdered both Ian and Vanessa? Zahir would never understand this genius, who seemed now like a whining, hysterical child.

Patience, patience. Pull him back in.

“Matthew, where are you? What are you doing? We need to speak more about this.”

Then suddenly Matthew turned on a dime, something that always amazed Zahir. The steel was back. “I’ll do my job, Darius. You do yours,” and Matthew hung up.

Zahir stared at his cell phone, not wanting to believe that Matthew had actually hung up on him.

He realized he wasn’t surprised that Vanessa had been some sort of undercover agent. But it was Ian—he’d protected her? Was he an agent as well? No, impossible. Ian was a true believer and loved Matthew like a brother. Yet he’d tried to protect her. Well, in the end, who cared? It didn’t matter, they were both dead, it was over. Except Matthew was right, the FBI would be after him, guns blazing.

His only worry was that Matthew’s brain would twist him up again and he wouldn’t follow through on the assignment he and Darius had worked out. That, or he’d be caught first.

&n

bsp; Either way, Zahir had fail-safes. He always had fail-safes.

As soon as he had the blueprints, he’d be ready to move out. In fact, he was rather looking forward to finally having his moment in the sun. His wits, his abilities, pitted against theirs. He would be tested, and he relished it.

• • •

When room service knocked with his breakfast, he shouted for them to leave the tray. When he knew he was alone again, he shrugged into a hotel robe and sat down to enjoy the big continental breakfast. He knew he needed the carbs for sustained energy, since after this he’d be surviving off granola, jerky, and water. He’d be off, into the woods, on his own to take care of the business himself.

36

BISHOP TAKES C4 CHECK

Silver Corner Diner

Baltimore Inner Harbor

When Zahir parked his rental at the Inner Harbor, he paused a moment to look at the water, covered in a light mist, vapor rising as the morning heated. He breathed in deeply, regretted it. The air smelled of algae and waste.

He walked the half-block to Silver Corner, a mom-and-pop diner he’d eaten at once three years before. It now sported a cheerful new blue-and-white-striped awning.

Unfortunately, the inside still needed a serious face-lift. He stepped inside and inhaled bacon grease and mildew.

He eased onto a brown cracked vinyl seat in one of the six booths. He ordered black coffee—that surely couldn’t poison him—from a middle-aged waitress with a towering beehive of brassy red hair. Over her left oversized breast her nametag read, fittingly, Red. That made him smile.

“Getcha anything else, hon?”

What planet was she from?

“No, the coffee will be fine.” He turned to look out the window and saw his contact on the street outside, wearing, of all things, a tan trench coat and a slouchy hat pulled down over his forehead. Well, hello, Mr. Subtle. You’re pretending to be the spy who came in from the cold?