They rounded the last corner on the way to Cagliari and Sam saw the lights of a sleepy mom-and-pop restaurant. “I could eat my shoe,” she said. “How about Italian?”
Hayward looked at her. “When in Rome,” he said.
They sat across from each other at dinner, held hands between courses, posing as a romantic couple on vacation in a place that, if no longer romantic, at least had a few vestiges of Old World charm.
They discussed their options over dinner. In the absence of actionable intel, there weren’t many. A clear path had led them both to the Cagliari safe house, but there was no clear trail leading away from it for either of them.
That the Agency boys were ready and waiting for Hayward was telling—his digital maneuvering certainly hadn’t given him the advantage he was banking on—but it didn’t offer much clarity about where Katrin and Joao might be held captive.
For Sam, the Agency presence at the safe house wasn’t surprising. They were clearly interested in her and in the Doberman case, for reasons that weren’t yet clear. Maybe the CIA had intended to kill two birds with one stone at the hilltop mansion.
Her mind churned again on the burning question: why? She wasn’t naïve enough to think they were all on the same team, but an Agency op against a Homeland agent would have been well beyond unusual. And she was one person pitted against one of the world’s most powerful intelligence agencies. She felt certain that if they had wanted her dead, they’d have found an opportunity by now. So what was their angle?
There was something else to consider. Perhaps the CIA attention meant she was getting too close to something. Maybe she wasn’t as lost as she felt. Perhaps she was on the verge of something important. She shook her head. It certainly didn’t feel like it. She felt alone and vulnerable, like the odds of a favorable outcome were just the tiniest bit above zero, like there was still something very nasty lurking just out of view.
Hayward appeared to be suffering the same psychological malady. His expression was tired and grim. She wasn’t inclined to trust anyone with Agency stink on them, and she didn’t yet know Hayward well enough, but his interests appeared to be somewhat aligned with her own—at least for the moment.
Unless, of course, he was lying to her about the whole damned thing. Stranger things had happened.
But there was something in his eyes. They were tired and strained, sure, but also handsome and intelligent. Sam thought she saw something else, too. There was a guilelessness about him, maybe even an earnestness. Of course, a genuine, guileless, earnest affectation was a terrific tool for deception. Perhaps he was just better at it than most. Time would tell.
Exhausted, they rented a room at the attached hotel. The stairs creaked on the way up to their floor. They held hands. “Just for cover,” Sam said, hoping it was that and nothing else. For him and for her. How long had it been? Entirely too long, she decided, but she already had the Mehmet Kocaoglu encounter on her conscience. She didn’t need anything else to have to tell Brock about.
She showered first in a strange Italian contraption affixed to the floor in roughly the center of the bathroom. It was a square-shaped enclosure with walls no taller than her knees, and it was equipped with a handheld faucet but no shower curtain. Quaint and not terribly functional. By the time she felt reasonably clean, the floor was drenched.
She emerged from the water closet wrapped in a towel. She’d have opted for something far less risqué, but she’d discarded her disguises and had only the clothes on her back.
She caught his eyes lingering on her. He looked away, embarrassed. Sam could tell he hadn’t intended to ogle her. She could also tell he liked what he saw.
He showered. There was only one bed, not terribly large, and she climbed in.
Minutes later, Hayward walked to the far side of the bed and climbed in, taking pains not to let his eyes wander. “Night,” he said.
“Good night,” Sam replied.
Her mind churned, keeping her awake. What did the CIA and the Doberman group have in common? How did it relate to Hayward’s absurd ChemEspaña situation? And what the hell did any of it have to do with her? She needed sleep, but it wouldn’t come.
Frustrated, Sam got out of bed. She powered on her burner. A text message popped up from Dan. “Call immediately.”
Sam slipped on her clothes and slipped out of the room. She called Dan and was immediately sorry she did. “The situation here is getting really ugly, Sam,” Dan said.
“It was already really ugly,” Sam replied.
“Brock has been shipped home from his deployment to the Middle East under guard. They’re holding him as a material witness.”
Sam was incredulous. “What the fuck? Holding him where?”
“At a federal facility.”
“Goddammit, they put him in jail? What the hell do they think he witnessed?”
“I’m pretty sure they know he didn’t witness anything,” Dan said. “But they do know you pretty well.”
“I’m coming home.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s what they thought you would do.”
“And I’m going to give them something to arrest me for.”