Shaw didn’t think it was likely that Allison had confided to a fellow worker where she was going. He gave that twenty percent. If she didn’t tell her boss or mother where, why would she tell a co-worker? Shaw was convinced she was running to some place, or someone, her ex-husband knew nothing about. Still with so few other leads, why not pursue it?
Which was a reward-seeker’s mantra.
They ate in silence for a moment.
He said, “You can tell me if you want.”
She looked back from the front window.
He continued, “Checking horizons. Vantage points for sniper nests. A second phone—encrypted, I’m thinking—you have serious conversations on. Paying attention to unattended packages.”
“You’re quite the observant one,” she said. After a moment: “Okay. I’m not Sonja and I’m not Nilsson.”
This part was a surprise, though he supposed it shouldn’t have been.
“You’re on a list.”
“I’m on a list. I never talk about it. But now, after last night.”
The kiss, he assumed she meant.
“How big’s the risk?”
“Not high. I’m not invisible, but with a new name, new look, it’s manageable. If you saw my Army ID, you’d see a brunette who weighed forty pounds more than I do now.”
But with or without green eyes?
“Hardest part of the new identity is staying skinny when I’m a born foodie.” She gave a laugh and ate a few of the chips that nestled against the other half of her sandwich.
“Confession?”
He nodded.
“Most of my bio was fiction. No hubby. Never was. They give you a cover story, you stick to your cover story.”
“So no San Diego or Hawaii. Where in the Middle East? Can you say?”
“No. But I can tell you it was a high-value target. The shit had lots of followers. Was going to light some fuses. I took care of it. I was extracted. All was good. For a while. Then came Thomasleaks.”
So that was it. A contractor with access to Pentagon files stole and published a trove of operational documents, which included personal information on intelligence officers, U.S. soldiers,contractors and foreign assets. Shaw hadn’t followed the story closely but he recalled that three locals in Syria were killed after they’d been outed, and a dozen covert officers had had to leave their posts—quickly. There were others on various kill lists.
“They call it a fatwa. Tony Soprano’d just say ‘hit.’ Same difference. So, fair warning: last night you kissed a marked woman.”
“I wondered what made it so good.” Shaw looked over her pensive face. “So why Ferrington?”
“My handler gave me a couple of options for safe-house cities. Ferrington was close enough to home to see family regularly, far enough away from the old me to keep off the grid.”
Silence between them. Another kiss loomed, but this time it was interrupted by Shaw’s humming phone. The screen showed a local number. He answered.
“Mr. Shaw?” the man’s voice asked.
“Yes.”
“Your camper’s ready.”
Shaw said, “Thanks. I’ll be there in ten.” He disconnected, told Nilsson, then turned and waved for the check.
“Good news,” she said. “You’re back on the road.”