Riptide

does."
    Gaylan said slowly, "One of my people pointed out that Kriakov
    certainly managed to get from one place to the next with
    no difficulty at all, suggested that maybe he has a private plane
    stashed somewhere. What do you think?"
    Thomas said,"Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Heaven knows you
    can't have much faith in the commercial airlines. But you know,
    Gaylan, shooting that dog wasn't on a set timetable. You can check
    it out, but I doubt it."
    Gaylan sighed. "We still don't have any leads in New York. His
    disguise must have been something. The security tapes showed old
    folk, pregnant women, children--do we track all of them down to
    question? Still no witnesses. Damnation, four good agents dead because
    of that maniac."
    Thomas said, "I've been thinking about that. I'm coming to
    believe that Krimakov wants Becca and me together, to torment us
    together, prolong our deaths. But yet he went right to New York
    University Hospital, shot everyone, then ran. What if Krimakov
    somehow found out it was a trap? What if he still did it, in fact
    made a big production of it, all to tell us that he knew about our
    plan and it didn't matter. Yes, he knew, and he thumbed his nose
    at us."
    "You're making him sound wilier than the Devil," Gaylan said, a
    brow arched. "More evil, too."
    "I would say certifiably insane," Thomas said. "But it doesn't
    make him stupid. It doesn't really matter what the truth of his motives
    was, four agents are still dead. Yet it fits into all the things he's
    done since then. Over the top, frightening as hell."
    "Yes," Gaylan said. He looked toward Thomas's bookshelves for
    a moment. He seemed to shake himself, then took a sip of his cof

fee. He carefully set the cup back into the saucer. He crossed his
    legs, then said, "There's another reason I came here, Thomas. The
    fact is that the president isn't going to sit still much longer. He
    called me over, paced in front of me for ten minutes, told me that
    all this mess had to come to a close, that the media are totally focused
    on it to the detriment of what he's trying to accomplish.
    He's got this new tax increase he's trying to sell to the country, only
    the media is ignoring him in favor of this. He said he'd even tried
    to make a joke, but the media was still talking about Jabbers and his
    sore neck."
    "Tell the president that if he wants me to go public, challenge
    Krimakov at high noon, I'll do it."
    "No," Gaylan said,"you won't. I won't allow that. He could take
    you out easily--his shot at the governor was from a distance of at
    least fifteen hundred feet. You yourself pointed that out to me. He's
    better than good, Thomas, he's one of the best." He held up his
    hand when Thomas would have said something. "No, let me finish.
    All I'm saying is that we've got to come up with something else.
    Somehow, we've got to make him dance to our tune."
    "A lot of very good minds are working on this, as you know,
    since some of those minds work for you."
    Gaylan nodded, picked up a pen from Thomas's desk, and began
    rhythmically tapping it against his knee. "Yes, I know. But for now,
    your whereabouts stays unknown. I'll tell the president that everything
    will be resolved in a couple more days. Think it's possible?"
    "Sure, why not?" And he thought, How the hell am I supposed to
    make that come about?
    "All right. We continue the silence. What about that incident
    with Krimakov in Riptide?"
    Thomas said, "Evidently, the media doesn't know about her visit
    there yet. And Tyler McBride--you know, the man whose son

Krimakov kidnapped in Riptide--he isn't saying anything to anyone
    about Becca. I think he's in love with her and that's why he
    won't explode sky-high with all this. Becca, however, as much as
    she cares for his little boy, isn't headed his way." He paused a moment,
    looking down at the onyx pen set that Allison had given him
    some five Christmases before. "It's Adam," he said, smiling briefly
    as he looked at his old friend. "Isn't that nice?"
    Gaylan Woodhouse grunted. "I'm too old," he said, then sighed
    again. "Krimakov won't find you, Thomas. Don't worry. I'll deal
    with the president. Let's say forty-eight hours, then we'll reassess.
    Okay?"
    "Again, Gaylan, maybe Krimakov needs to find me. Forget the
    president's political agenda. Just maybe Krimakov's reign of terror
    will continue until he knows where I am. Maybe we should let
    him know, somehow."
    "We'll all think about that, but not just yet. Forty-eight hours.
    Jesus,