Edge by Jeffery Deaver Page B

stimulus money into her accommodations. Like a SWAT officer Ryan opened doors to bathrooms and closets. Then he went to the window and carefully pulled back the curtain to look outside at a blank wall about thirty feet away—the side of the banquet hall. There was something defiant about this gesture, as if he half expected to see Loving on the other side of the glass.
    He seemed disappointed to find gray cinder block rather than a target he could gun down. Still, he said, “Good choice. Defensible.”
    I nodded.
    â€œOooh, can I have that room?” Maree asked, pointing to the larger. I shrugged. The rooms were just for showers and a nap, if they wanted. I wasn’t going to be using one. The others agreed and the young woman stepped toward it.
    I said, “The phones in there don’t work.”
    Her step slowed. I’d had a feeling that she’d wanted to have a longer, and private, conversation with her friend Andrew. But she gave an exaggerated pout and said, “Then you’ll have to arrange for my masseur, Mr. Tour Guide.” She winked and vanished.
    With a tired glance after his sister-in-law, Ryan lifted his cold phone. “My boss?”
    â€œSure. Just nothing about the location.”
    A nod. He took his backpack and stepped into the other bedroom, dialing. He swung the door closed with his foot.
    Leaving me in the living room of the suite with somber Joanne. She clicked the TV on, flipped through the channels. There was nothing about the assault on her home, only a report about the false alarm of a shooting at George Mason University.
    â€œHow did they keep it out of the news?” she asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” I told her.
    Though I did: Aaron Ellis, my boss. He had never been a shepherd, like me. His background was administration in federal security agencies and he was experienced at congressional liaisons, budgetaryinfighting . . . and media relations. When Abe Fallow died, six years ago, there was some talk of me taking over the organization; I was Abe’s protégé. But it would have meant less time in the field and I didn’t want that. So the powers that be shopped around and found Ellis, who’d been doing some good work at Langley.
    He didn’t completely get the subtleties of what shepherds did but when it came to gutting a news story that might work to our disadvantage, he was the man for the job. Though he couldn’t completely eradicate accounts of an assault in a quiet suburban neighborhood he could delay the report and turn it into something like a break-in gone bad.
    Of course, Ellis’s skills were as mysterious to me as mine were to him and I never quite figured out his magic. I supposed part of his talent was rooted in finding an edge too, the same sword that Henry Loving used. And I did that too, on occasion.
    As does nearly everyone, of course, from time to time.
    Joanne stared unseeing at the screen, her shoulders slumped. Her face was free of makeup. She wore only a watch and her wedding and engagement ring, while Maree, I recalled, was decked out in a flare of funky jewelry. Joanne examined one of her broken nails.
    I stepped to a window, gazed out through the curtain at the cinder blocks and placed a call to Aaron Ellis. I gave him an update on our progress, though I didn’t share with him where we were and which of the three or four dozen government safe houses in the area we were going to. That was need-to-know only. If a fellow shepherd or an agent fromFreddy’s office was providing backup or—as was about to happen—our transport man was bringing a new vehicle, I’d part with the information. But I always tried to minimize the number of people who knew where the principals were.
    It’s not that I didn’t trust colleagues but there was no doubt in my mind that if Henry Loving got to my boss, he’d do anything he could to find the location of my principals. Ellis had a