Edge

take Zagaev, not tail him.”
    “Why?”
    Bayesian game theory analysis wasn’t much help. I didn’t have any information, perfect or otherwise. I told him the truth. “A hunch.”
    There was silence for a moment.
    Freddy said, “But if we don’t stop him fast, he’ll call or text Loving and any other primaries. They’ll vanish. We stink of federal cars. He’ll see us coming.”
    He was right.
    I asked, “What’s Zagaev’s vehicle?”
    “Silver BMW seven-forty.” He gave me the tag numbers.
    “And his location now?”
    “Just getting to Tysons. He’s bypassing the business district, turning onto Holly Lane. I think he’s making for the tollway.”
    “If he gets on that, there’s no way you can take him before he gets a message to Loving. He’ll see you coming.”
    I was now at Tysons myself. I sped up and turned onto a road that crossed over Holly. I skidded to a stop, climbed out and pretended to look over a roadside produce stand as I scanned the road that Zagaev would be approaching on.
    “I’ll call you back, Freddy.”
    In a moment I saw a silver Beemer heading toward me. In about two minutes he’d pass underneath and make the turn that would put him on the Dulles Tollway. I squinted and checked the tag number—Virginia conveniently includes both rear and front plates. I caught a fast glimpse of Zagaev’s bearded, unsmiling face. I confirmed it was he; Freddie had uploaded a picture to my mobile. There seemed to be nobody else in the car.
    I’m not known for making spontaneous, let alone rash decisions. But a game player recognizes that sometimes a bold choice is necessary. I turned and began to sprint.

Chapter 50
    “ A PUMPKIN BOMB, Corte. You do have a sense of humor. Despite what everybody says.” Freddy kicked at a piece of slimy vegetable. “You just express it different than most people.”
    There were two FBI cars in the underpass, bracketing Zagaev’s yellow-and-orange-smeared vehicle, the windshield messy but intact; the folks in Munich make a solid machine.
    Since a traditional takedown wasn’t an option—because Zagaev could warn Loving—I’d decided to stop him myself as he cruised under the overpass I was parked near. I’d bought a ripe pumpkin from the produce stand beside the road and, when Zagaev sped underneath me, I dropped it into the middle of his windshield. I then slid down the incline, gun drawn, and got him out of the car. He was stunned but unhurt. A fast check of the phone revealed he’d placed no calls or sent any texts in the past five minutes.
    I was pretty sure that neither Loving nor the partner would be present, but not positive, so I asked Freddy, “Your people notice anybody peel off when he didn’t make the turn on the tollway?”
    “‘Peel.’ That’s funny. Like with fruits and vegetables. But I don’t suppose you meant it that way.”
    I lifted an impatient eyebrow.
    “No. He was alone.”
    In a faintly accented voice, Zagaev muttered, “Who are you? Why you did this to me? Look at my car! It’s ruined.”
    I wasn’t interested in his complaints. I was sore from my jog along the shoulder of the road with my ripe, twenty-five-pound projectile.
    Another agent had gone through the BMW’s trunk and had assessed the arms haul. He reported, “Nothing spectacular. M-four rip-offs from Russia, with magical disappearing serial numbers. And a couple of Beretta nine mils, with numbers. They’re stolen, surprise, surprise. Lot of bullets. Nothing that goes bang in the night.” He transferred the lot of it into the trunk of Freddy’s car.
    “I want my lawyer.”
    Ignoring him still, I said to Freddy, “What’s around here for a chat?”
    The Washington, D.C., area is home to dozens of police and national security organizations, some as public and visible as the CIA, some of them sort of anonymous, like ours, others so anonymous they don’t exist. Like Williams’s. But one thing they all have in common: They need facilities—buildings to operate from, just like insurance companies or computer software start-ups. Many of even the most secret take space in high- and low-rises in and around Tysons, where we were now. It’s plenty overbuilt—so the general service managers can get good bargains. Saving us taxpayer dollars.
    Besides the area’s got Clyde’s and Starbucks andArigato sushi; even spies need to eat franchise food like the rest of us.
    Freddy thought for a moment and turned around, nodding at a boring-looking white