Storm Front

Yael-2, “It’s this kind of reporting that has made the American media what it is.”
    She nodded. “You are correct,” she said.
    —
    V IRGIL DROPPED Y AEL at the Holiday Inn Express with her own suitcase and Yael-1’s two enormous empty bags, told her that he’d pick her up at seven o’clock the next morning, and that he had a few more leads they could chase down.
    Then he had to think about it. Ellen, he believed, was back in the Cities. The Turks were available, and right there, but they’d had a falling-out with Jones, and Jones might be done with them. Eventually, he drove over to Awad’s apartment, located his car, unpacked the magnet-mounted GPS tracker, fixed it to the Toyota’s frame, and made it doubly secure with a few turns of black duct tape.
    Then he went home.
    Unable to help himself, he checked his phone, and found that Davenport had called at 10:14, and had left a message. He turned the phone back off. His best response to Davenport would be to call him in the morning, at about seven o’clock. Davenport never got up before nine, but Virgil did.
    Virgil got in bed, and thought about the day: and thought, uneasily, that he should have checked out the campsites mentioned by Sugarman, the lawn-mowing guy. If he could only get hold of Jones and the stone, then everybody else, with all their motives, money, and impulses, became irrelevant. They’d go home, and leave him alone to investigate Ma.
    He considered getting up and going out, but then he thought about driving down a dirt track at midnight, coming up on somebody about whom he knew only one thing for sure: he was willing to shoot people.
    He thought,
Screw it
, and went to sleep.
    —
    V IRGIL WOKE the next morning at six-thirty, did his usual twenty-minute shave and cleanup, microwaved some instant coffee and poured it into one of several stolen paper cups from Starbucks, and called Yael-2. “I am awake,” she announced.
    “I’ll be there in ten minutes. We’ll find a place to get breakfast, and plan the day. I have a couple of places we need to check.”
    “I will wait,” she said.
    Virgil got his bag and carried it out to the truck and fired everything up. He sat in the driveway and checked the GPS tracker tablet, which showed Awad’s car still at the apartment complex. Virgil backed out of his driveway and headed east toward the Holiday Inn Express, checked the time—6:59—and called Davenport.
    Davenport answered on the fifth ring, groaning, “This better be important.”
    “Hey, you called me in the middle of the night,” Virgil said, as brightly as he could manage. “I didn’t get it, but I figured it must be critical.”
    “Fuck you,” Davenport said, and hung up.
    As Virgil had expected, Davenport had called to rag on him about the TV interview. The whole episode cheered him up, and he was whistling when he pulled in at the Holiday Inn Express.
    Yael was ready to go. Virgil asked, “Are you carrying a gun?”
    “Good God no,” she said. “Why would I do that?”
    “Atta girl,” Virgil said. “Let’s go get some bacon ’n’ eggs.”
    “Maybe not,” she said. “I prefer not to burn in Jewish hell. I would like a nice morning salad, with some olives.”
    “That’ll be a Mankato first,” Virgil said.
    —
    T HEY HAD just ordered breakfast at a downtown café—Virgil told her about the GPS tacking unit on Awad’s car, and about the two places that Jones could possibly be hiding—when Awad called. He said, “This is Raj. I need to speak with you on the telephone.”
    “Well, you are,” Virgil said.
    “Yes, good. I now drive to the airport,” Awad said.
    “You need some flying advice?”
    A moment of silence. “No, no, I wish to speak to you confidentially.”
    “That’s my middle name,” Virgil said. “Confidential.”
    Another moment of silence, then Raj said, “I doubt this. For many people, this would be an unusual name. For you, it would be ridiculous.”
    “So what do you want to talk about?” Virgil asked.
    “I have a big problem which I have considered all night, and I finally have decided to put my life into your hands.”
    “Hang on a second, my pancakes just got here,” Virgil said. Raj hung on, and when the food was delivered, Virgil started soaking it in maple syrup with one hand, and went back to the phone with the other.
    “What’s up?” he asked. “You know where Jones is?”
    “No. But I tell you this with great confidentiality, that an important figure in