Alyssa was much improved at dinner. Sarah made beef tacos, one her favorites, and after helping with the dishes her daughter retreated to her room. Supposedly to do homework, but doubtless with some messaging built in. By ten o’clock the light in her room was out.
Sarah settled on the couch in the company of a lighthearted novel—not work, but a pure pleasure read. She had trouble focusing and soon drifted off.
She was stirred awake by the rattle of the front door opening.
Bryce walked in, his tie hanging around his neck like a withered scarf. His shirt looked like he’d slept in it. Sarah got up and gave him a heartfelt hug. When she pulled away he removed a dishrag from her shoulder—she hadn’t realized it was there.
“I’ve been gone too long.”
She smiled wearily.
“Sorry I’m so late.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, then headed for the kitchen. She snapped the dishcloth on his receding ass. Forgiveness complete.
“Have you eaten?” she asked. “I saved a couple of tacos.”
“No, thanks. I just need a drink. Mandy and I ordered takeout—we were at the office all night.”
“Tough day, huh?” She moved behind him and started massaging his shoulders.
“Yeah, nonstop. I must have looked at fifty cameras today.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“More of the same, I guess. In the afternoon I’ve got a meeting with the RNC chairman, Henry Arbogast.”
Sarah kept her hands on his back, but leaned around to catch his eye. “Really? That’s unusual. What’s it about?”
“Don’t know, but if I were to guess—he probably wants to thank me for keeping one of his candidates from being blown to bits.”
Sarah sighed. “Naturally. Well … sounds like some good face time. I doubt many freshmen in the House have had a private meeting with him.”
“Mandy said there might be a couple of others coming. But yeah, it should be good.” He performed a playful reversal and pressed his hip into her backside. “What do you think? Bottle of red?”
“Sounds great.”
He perused the rack near the dining room table and plucked out a Merlot. “Ahh … where’s the corkscrew?”
“Right where it always is.”
She went to get two glasses from the kitchen. Bryce followed, and soon he was standing with the bottle, looking lost, his eyes alternating between kitchen drawers. Sarah returned to the dining room, and from a shelf near the wine rack she pulled the corkscrew out of a pinch-pot—an ancient preschool treasure of Alyssa’s. She handed it over to the world’s worst wine steward.
“Right,” he said. “Meet you in the living room? I’ll get a fire going.”
“Done.”
He disappeared through the connector. Sarah stood still for a moment, but her distraction was broken when she heard the plop of the cork being pulled from the bottle.
Eighty yards away, in front of the Schreibman’s house two doors down, the plop was picked up loud and clear by a highly sensitive directional microphone. The microphone was concealed artfully in the sidewall of a work van, right behind the logo of a notional plumbing company. Were anyone to call the phone number beneath the logo, they would hear a short message followed by a request to leave a number for a callback. To the best of the owner’s knowledge, no one had ever done so.
Kovalsky sat behind a computer in the van’s concealed cabin—the only windows were those in front, and he’d installed dual curtains to shield the darkened work area. He’d parked as far away as he could, and on a slight angle to the curb to give the antenna a better look angle. Last night he hadn’t been able to get near the place until very late, the residence having been surrounded by news vans and gawkers.
He was wearing a noise cancelling headset, and though he’d heard the wine bottle open—few sounds were so easily recognizable—it hardly seemed notable. Kovalsky remained focused on his primary mission, which was so far going well. It had taken only twenty minutes to hack the home’s Wi-Fi router. The password had been reasonably good, twelve random characters and numbers, but his brute force cracking software was better. It was top-of-the-line code, acquired from Mossad—something he’d awarded himself on leaving as a kind of retirement gift.
Once he was in, the chore became to penetrate individual devices. He’d so far identified two cell phones—those of the wife and daughter—the wife’s laptop, and an iPad owned by the congressman himself. This last device became his focus. For the most part, he downloaded files and histories for later study, yet he also took the time to insert a tracking app that would give him updates over the next twenty-four hours. After that, the software would scramble itself, leaving no trace of its existence or purpose.
Kovalsky checked his watch. 10:15. It was time to wrap things up. Plumbers rarely worked this late, no matter the premium, and the van hadn’t moved in nearly two hours. More to the point, he was quite sure he had what he needed. With his research phase complete, it was time to move on.
Tomorrow, on schedule, he would fulfill the final act of a very lucrative contract.