The house remained silent. But she had heard her child—of that Christine was sure. The laundry room was uneventful, nothing but a paired washer and dryer that hadn’t been used recently—no shirts on hangers or stacks of folded towels. She emerged into the dining room where a four-chair setting gathered dust, and to the right was the kitchen. In the half-light she saw a plastic grocery bag spilling a can of soup and a half-used loaf of bread. She had been here before, most recently on the Fourth of July, standing around the center island and sharing hors d’oeuvres with Ed and Annette and a half dozen other neighbors. It looked different now, empty and cold. The only illumination cascaded down the staircase from the second floor.
Then she heard it again: a gurgle she’d recognize anywhere. Her son was upstairs.
She bit her lower lip, and called up the staircase, “Yaniv?”
At the sound of her voice Davy wailed, the way he did when she came home from work. Stein didn’t respond. Was he even there? One of the footprint sets in the snow must have been his. She wanted to call out to Davy, tell him she was coming in her most reassuring voice. She said nothing. Then, by some impulse she didn’t understand, Christine slid the gun back into her rear waistband.
She took the stairs slowly, one at a time. A step creaked halfway up, and she cringed and wished she’d done everything differently. Done it as David would have. She should have stepped on the edge of the stairs and climbed in silence. She should never have announced her arrival. Christine was sure she’d done a hundred things wrong since rushing out her kitchen door. But there was no going back. Her son was upstairs.
She tried to remember the second floor. Big room in the middle, a living area with chairs and a TV, two bedrooms and a bathroom on the sides. She stepped more quickly, listening and watching, until her eyes reached floor level. She froze when she saw the body.
A man she had never seen was sprawled on the floor, and there was no mistaking the blank glaze in his eyes. As a doctor Christine was familiar with death, yet the manner of this man’s demise was both obvious and chilling—there was an ugly wound on one side of his head, and blood had pooled on the carpet underneath. Her heart thrashing, she steeled herself and climbed the last few steps. The next sight brought a wave of relief.
“Thank God!” she exclaimed, exhaling for what seemed like the first time in minutes. “Why didn’t you answer?”
Stein was across the room in a wide armchair, Davy sitting on his good left leg. Her son chirped when he saw her and lifted his arms, expecting to be picked up.
She took a step toward him, until something in Stein’s level gaze caused her to stop. His left arm was wrapped around Davy, and resting casually on his damaged right leg was his handgun. She looked once more at the dead man. Graying fair hair, long and unkempt, a white-stubble beard. Hardly the image of a Palestinian assassin.
“Hello, Christine.”
“What the hell happened? Did you shoot this man?”
“Of course I did.”
His tone was light, as if she’d asked if he’d unloaded the dishwasher. The roller coaster in her gut hit bottom again. “I don’t understand—who is he?”
“His name is Tony, or at least that’s what he told me. Street people make a habit of not giving their real names.”
“Street people?”
“He’s been here since Friday. I found him living in a cardboard box under a Georgetown overpass. Lousy way to live in D.C. in February. I told him I needed a house sitter to keep an eye on things, which was true. All he had to do was stay inside, keep the blinds closed, and he could have all the heat, food, and sleep he wanted. I even told him I’d give him twenty bucks a day. Everybody was happy until he broke into the car and found my retirement fund. Then he got greedy, wanted to make a deal. Bad move on his part.”
“Where did all that gold come from?”
“There’s a very clear paper trail, one that leads straight to David.”
“David?”
“I know you’re playing catch-up here. There’s a bit of terrorism taking place in Saudi Arabia as we speak. More damaging than September 11 in a practical sense, although it won’t get as much press coverage—no crashing airplanes and burning buildings. If David is still alive, by tomorrow he’ll be world enemy number one.”
“What?”
“He’s going to take the fall for this attack. It’s been in the works for some time—I rented this house over a month ago. I know how problematic David can be—but then, being married to him I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. He let you believe he was dead, for God’s sake. You see, when our strike went down I intended to lay low, and being across the street from you seemed like a good insurance policy. Come tomorrow, it’s the first place they’ll look for David, which means it’s the last place he can go. My original plan was to sit right here and watch you and Davy from a distance until our mission was done. Imagine my surprise when David called and asked me to keep an eye on you.” Stein chuckled.
Christine tried to wrap her mind around what he was saying. “So … there is no assassin.”
“No, but you can blame David for that lie—it was his idea to get me into your house.”
For the first time she noticed a television on the far side of the room. It was tuned to CNN, but muted, just as the TV in her own house had been.
“So what’s going to happen?” she asked.
“You’ll see very soon. The first reports should be—”
Stein was cut off by a phone ringing. No, by her phone—she recognized the ringtone. Christine watched Stein pull her handset from his pocket and study the screen. His expression went leaden. “You don’t have any friends in Saudi Arabia, do you?”
When she didn’t respond, Stein hesitated for a long moment. Then he swiped the answer button.