Edge

doesn’t like wire transfers.” A mirthless laugh. “Much less a personal check.”
    “And you haven’t seen him since then?”
    “No. We leave text messages or speak on the phone. He gave me a code to use when we talk. About construction jobs and the like.”
    “What number do you call?”
    Zagaev gave it to me and I recognized immediately that it was a rerouting service. It would be impossible to trace. The area code was in the Caribbean.
    “The helicopter? Is it yours?”
    “One of my partners in the restaurant. It’s his.”
    “What were you doing with the guns?”
    “He gave them to me for my protection. But, when he called, he gave the code that I should dispose of them. He was probably concerned that the people guarding Joanne might find them.” Zagaev chewed on his lip, staring at the red makeup case. “I swear I didn’t know how dangerous this Loving was. If I could have gotten the information from that woman, the point control woman, any other way, I would have. I swear to God, praise be to Him, that I didn’t know he would use the daughter as leverage.”
    I remembered he’d said something of the sort, according to the tap Freddy’d put on the phone.
    I asked, “Who else is working with him? Partners?”
    “He’s working with one man, former military.I’ve seen him once. Tall, dark blond hair. Wears a green jacket. I don’t know his name.”
    “Anyone else?”
    “Not that I know of.”
    I said, “I’ll be right back.” I stepped outside, leaving Zagaev to stare uneasily at Bert.
    I found Freddy, who said, “He’s singing like Britney.”
    “It’s good. He’s working solo and the idea originated with him. The Syrians might buy the finished product but he approached them, not the other way around. They probably don’t even know Joanne’s identity.”
    With the Chechnyan in custody that meant the only threats to the Kesslers were Loving and his partner and they wouldn’t be much of a threat at all as soon as they found Zagaev was in custody. They’d probably flee.
    “What’re you planning?” the agent asked.
    There were two strategies to play.
    I debated a moment and decided I really had no choice.

Chapter 52
    WAITING AGAIN .
    At 4:00 p.m. we were in a deserted field near the park embracing the site of the First Battle of Manassas or—if you’re a Northerner—the First Battle of Bull Run.
    Not far from where Thomas Jonathan Jackson fought his way through the brush—and grape and chain shot—to earn the name Stonewall.
    In the still, overcast day, waiting.
    “It’s the most dangerous time of all,” Abe would tell me, as I would later lecture my protégés. “Waiting. Because if you’re in this line of work, if you’re a shepherd, you’re smart. And smart minds need stimulants—crack, speed, puzzles, Rubik’s Cubes. Waiting’s going to make you dull. But you can’t afford to become dull, because the hitter or lifter never waits. Why? Because he’s using all his energy to move in close to you.”
    It was a lesson I took to heart. Especially since Loving had the tendency to appear unexpectedly. But it didn’t lessen the difficulty of waiting. I scanned the ground. Even on short notice, Freddy had managed to pull together four teams of special ops experts, all with military backgrounds, and chopper them into a staging area nearby but not soclose Loving might notice. We’d arrived a half hour earlier and left our cars in a suburban strip mall parking lot a hundred yards away, then had made our way here through bushes and reedy fields. Birds zipped into the air and grasshoppers sprang away startlingly.
    We assembled near the battlefield—it was surprisingly small, hardly able to have hosted the carnage of 150 years ago—and moved silently into position in a field and a stand of trees surrounding the deserted parking lot where Zagaev had agreed to meet with Loving. The lot was next to the site of a demolished warehouse or small factory. Freddy and the tactical officers and I were linked with special com devices, earbuds and invisible stalk mikes that could pick up the faintest of whispers. The brand name was Micro-Mike and they cost two thousand each.
    But as we deployed, there was no chatter. The ops teams were consummate professionals.
    At the far end of the lot Zagaev’s car was parked, the silhouette of a man’s head just visible in the driver’s seat. The Chechnyan had panicked when I told him he was going to call the lifter, cancel the job and