She frowned.
Shaw said, “Lemerov.”
“Right.”
He pictured the lanky man and recalled the meeting in the motel not far from where the two of them stood now.
But don’t pat back too fast, Mr. Colter Shaw. More rounds to come. More rounds to come...
Tom Pepper had said that the Russian had been deported—put onto a plane bound for London—but had then disappeared.
She asked, “You read military history?”
“Some.”
“I’m fascinated by tacticians. I think the top five are Stonewall Jackson, Erwin Rommel, Sun Tzu, Alexander the Great and Hannibal Barca—that’s, yes, the Carthaginian Hannibal.” She shook her head. “His command at the Battle of the Trebia? The Carthaginians lost a few thousand men, the Romans more than twenty thousand—half their army.”
Both their eyes were on the Water Clock.
She said, “You strike me as a bit of one yourself. I’d like to hire you to step into the shoes of our Russian. Figure out how he’d strike the company. Where, when, how. And help me stop him.” She cocked her head. “Legally, of course.” Her smile appended the wordprobably.
“So what do you say, Shaw? Until you have to hit the road again?”
He turned to her, just as a cloud parted and her face was bathed in brilliance.
Suddenly, the answer was clear:
She wasn’t wearing contacts.
95
Colter Shaw pulled his Avis sedan, a not-bad black Malibu, into the driveway of Allison Parker’s rental house on Maple View Avenue.
Hannah was sitting cross-legged on the porch, rocking slowly in a hanging swing, wearing jeans, a pale green knit stocking cap, and a bulky maroon sweatshirt whose sleeves were far too long. The girl was waving goodbye to a lanky teenage boy, who had lengthy blond hair and was dressed similarly to her. Like a natural athlete, he dropped his skateboard, hopped on and wove down the sidewalk balletically, then out of sight.
Kyle. Wasn’t that the name? From the look he shot her upon departing, Shaw assigned him a slot far higher than ten percent.
He collected the bag beside him and climbed from the car.
“Hey, Mr. Shaw!” Hannah smiled. Then surprised him by climbing from the swing, stepping forward and hugging him hard. He reciprocated gently.
“Mom’s at the hospital. Think she’ll be here soon.”
Shaw said, “I know. You doing okay?”
“Yeah, it’s cool.” Spoken more like somebody who’d just dodged the flu, not been the target of professional killers.
They continued onto the porch.
He handed her the bag.
She extracted the slim book that was inside.
“Oh, hey. What you were telling me about.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson’sSelf-Reliance.
“Dope! Thanks.” Her face grew earnest. “I’ll read it. Not like the way I tell my teachers I’ll read something. I mean I’ll reallyreadit. Oh, hey, Mr. Shaw, there’s something I want to show you.” She picked up a notebook sitting on the swing. It was nearly identical to the ones that he used on his reward jobs. She offered it to him. “I wrote a poem.”