FIFTY

This was where he was supposed to quit.

Back in the Ferrari, back out on the highway toward the District, Monk realized Philip Carter’s message couldn’t have been clearer. Go back to your cubbyhole, the NSA director was telling him. Go back to the SOG and forget this whole thing ever happened. Cash in your chips and get out of a game you’ve got no chance of winning.

Well, fuck that.

Monk stomped on the gas and the Ferrari seemed to come off the ground in its eagerness to run. And he felt the same way. He was tired of losing, and the best way to recover was to throw some more chips on the pile.

He grabbed his cell phone and asked for information, then got himself connected. “Tell him it’s the FBI,” he told the switchboard operator at the Global Panoptic Building when she answered. “Tell Franklin it’s Puller Monk.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Monk,” the woman told him. “The chairman’s in Gettysburg. He left strict instructions not to be—”

“I don’t give a damn what he said. If you have any hope of keeping your job, you’ll get him on the phone right now. You’ll put him on the line with me … or you’ll tell him to expect to see me as soon as I can get there.”

“One moment, please, Agent Monk. I’m sure he’d like to speak with you.”

“I had an idea he might.”

Monk’s fingers drummed the steering wheel while he waited.

“Monk?”

Franklin’s voice was clearly angry. “What the hell is the meaning of this? Do you have any idea what’s going on here tod—”

“Shut up, Franklin! I’m coming for Sung Kim.”

“For … What did you say? You’re coming for what?”

“Your art thief. Pyongyang’s assassin.”

“Pyongyang?” Silence. “I have no damned idea what you’re talking about, Monk, but I can’t see you today. I’m at the farm for the rest of the day.”

“And I’m on my way.”

A longer silence this time. “I’ve got people coming. Believe it or not, more important people than you.”

“I don’t care if the pope himself is on the way. You will be available for me when I get there. You’ll have the woman there, too. Or you can have your guests watch me drag you away in handcuffs.”

“Handcuffs? What the hell are you talking about?”

Monk said nothing, letting his bluff play out. Fifteen long seconds passed without a sound.

“Be at my building in an hour,” Franklin said at last. “I’ll send my helicopter for you.”

Monk spent a half hour calling the Metropolitan P.D. about Eleanor, and trying again without success to get hold of Lisa. When he got to the Global Panoptic Building, the red and white Sikorsky was ready for him. Stepping out of the elevator on the roof, he stiffened his body against the rotor wash from the helicopter sitting on the circular pad, and stiffened his mind against the prospect of yet another flight inside what wasn’t much more than a large tin can.

He saw that there was only one pilot this time. The dark blue helmet made it impossible to tell if it was one of the two who’d flown them to Battle Valley Farm the other day. The passenger door was open and the pilot raised a gloved hand without looking at him, motioning for Monk to get in. He did so, then climbed into the nearest of the six seats and forced himself to fasten the shoulder and lap belts, adding even further to his feeling of confinement. Jesus, Monk thought. When this was all over, he had to get some help for his claustrophobia.

The pilot said nothing before they lifted off. The Sikorsky climbed rapidly and Monk stared out the window, down at the District of Columbia as it passed underneath. Just as the other day, the traffic was horrific. The highways were crawling, the surface streets not moving at all. This way he’d be at the farm in twenty-five minutes. Monk glanced at the back of the pilot’s helmet, then began to prepare.

It didn’t take long.

All he knew for sure was that William Smith’s office was gone and that the director of NSA had done just as he promised and was disavowing any knowledge of their agreement. Philip Carter had decided the operation to catch Sung Kim was out of control, and the best thing to do was lay back and wait for another chance. A chance that didn’t involve the president’s closest buddy and the bureaucratic shit storm that would annihilate Carter should he fail.

Monk glanced at the back of the pilot’s helmet, wanting to call out, to urge more speed. Thomas Franklin had the answers. Every minute of delay in getting to him was another minute for the man to cover his tracks.

Meanwhile, he had to try Lisa again.

Maybe she was back in her office.

He reached for the sports jacket he kept in the Saab at all times, that he’d transferred to the Ferrari and then to the helicopter. He fumbled in the pocket for his cell phone, then remembered using it in the Ferrari and leaving it there. Damn it. He stared out the window, then realized there had to be a phone in the chopper.

He looked around, but couldn’t see one. He searched for the headset he’d used the other day with Franklin. He could ask the pilot where the phone was kept. He opened the console built into the armrest of his seat and found the headset. Pulling it out, he slipped the headphones over his ears just in time to hear a man’s voice.

“When?” the voice asked. It was Thomas Franklin, Monk realized. Franklin talking to the pilot. “And how soon can you get here?” Franklin was saying. “After … afterward, I mean.”

“I’m ten minutes from the farm,” the pilot answered. A woman’s voice. Hearing it, Monk frowned. “I’ll need about an hour,” the pilot said, then hesitated. “It’ll take me an hour to get to you.”

Monk stared at the back of the pilot’s helmet, then unbuckled his shoulder harness and moved up to the copilot’s seat. He was still wearing the headset when he got there, the microphone still in place in front of his mouth. Wraparound sunglasses hid the pilot’s eyes, but Monk didn’t have to see them to know who she was. He tried to keep the puzzlement out of his voice.

“What are you doing here, Bethany? What are you doing in this helicopter?”

Her voice was dead flat. “Sung Kim, Puller. My name is Sung Kim. And all I’m doing is my job.”

He stared at her. Sung Kim? Bethany Randall was Sung Kim? How could that be? He knew this woman. He’d known her five years ago. She was engaged to an NSA agent, for Christ’s sake. She and William had been about to get … Monk’s brain paused for an instant before he got it.

“You doubled William,” he said, “but now you’ve killed him.” There couldn’t be any other explanation for the office that disappeared. “Why would you do that? How often do you get a chance to penetrate NSA?”

“I didn’t double him. I realized I’d never be able to turn William.”

Monk’s mind filled with that night in the hot tub. “You thought you had a better chance with me? You thought that fucking me in the hot tub was all it would take?”

“A girl’s got to try.”

Monk’s tongue seemed to thicken in his mouth. He couldn’t make himself ask the next question, but she must have seen it in his eyes.

“She’s here, Puller. Lisa’s here with us.”

Monk turned in the seat, his eyes everywhere at the same time, but the chopper was small, hardly more than the six seats and pilot’s compartment. There was no room for anyone to be hidden.

“I said here … not in here.” Bethany glanced backward and down.

Following her gaze, Monk’s vision blurred as he realized what she was telling him. That Lisa was in the luggage compartment at the rear of the chopper. That Lisa’s body was … Monk shook his head.

“No way,” he said. “No way in hell she’d let you get close enough.”

Bethany shrugged. “Have it your way. Doesn’t make any difference to me what you think.”

Monk looked for a tell, desperate to see that she was lying, but he saw nothing. Lisa’s not dead, he told himself. She’s not in this chopper. She’s back in her office, getting ready to go home to the loft.

“She knows nothing, Bethany. Lisa thinks you and I are having an affair, but that’s it. She doesn’t have to die.”

“I can’t help that now.”

Monk’s hands began to flex as he fought the urge to leap across the seat and kill her. “What about the other night … our dinner at your house?” He shook his head. “Why try to seduce me like that? Why bother with a man you knew you were going to kill?”

“Orders. I was given one last chance to make you one of us.” She paused. “We could have had a lot more nights like that one in the hot tub.”

Monk stared at her. “You and me, Bethany … and Thomas Franklin.” He shook his head. “Surely you’re not that stupid.”

“Sung Kim,” she said. “I told you my name is Sung Kim.”

Monk turned away, his eyes searching out the luggage compartment again, but before he could turn back, he felt the chopper decelerate, then heard the suddenly much louder roar of the rotor blades. He spun around just in time to see Bethany sliding the door open, then reaching for a bright red knob in the control console between the seats, shoving the knob all the way to the firewall.

The engine roar died. The chopper seemed to come to a complete stop.

Bethany swung herself through the open door and dropped onto the landing skid below the door. Now Monk could see the small sport chute strapped to her back. He vaulted across the empty pilot’s seat in a futile attempt to grab her, to haul her back inside, but he was too late. He could only watch as Bethany gathered herself to jump from the skid.

Before he could think about what he was doing, Monk leaped after her.

His much heavier body caught her an instant after she hurled herself from the skid. He landed on her back and slid down to her waist as his desperate grip held fast.

As they tumbled together into the sky.