surface, her attachment to Jack—and to Annika—seemed to fly in the face of her detachment from everyone around her, but she knew better. Jack had saved her from Morgan Herr. More than that, though, he had believed in her when everyone else had given up on her, including her parents. And there was another aspect she could not discount: he was Emma’s dad. Their mutual sorrow at her death bound them more tightly than blood ever could.
“Where are we going?” Alli asked.
“To meet a man,” Caro said, her eyes glued to the road.
Alli, heart beating fast, leaned forward, her hands on the back of the front seat. “Does that mean you found who put up the rogue Web site?”
“We’re closer than we were yesterday.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Vera said.
“I’ll let the man we’re seeing explain.” If Caro was aware of Vera’s annoyance she gave no sign of it. “But you were right about one thing, Vera. This is a challenge.”
Alli wanted to ask so many more questions, but she could sense that it would be useless to ask. It was clear that Caro had said as much as she was going to on the subject. Reluctantly, Alli melted back into the backseat, brooding about this creature, her cousin, who had suddenly appeared from out of nowhere, who now seemed to have taken over the immediate trajectory of her life.
Fifteen minutes later, Caro pulled the Infiniti into a space on Ninth Street NW, between G and H. Out on the sidewalk, she led them into Spares’n’Strikes, one of those new-style bowling alleys with lounges and party spaces attached. Inside, the atmosphere was totally clublike—there were as many flat-screen TVs blasting a variety of sports matches and music videos as there were bowling lanes. In keeping with the place’s play-on-words name, the Stars and Stripes were the decor pattern of choice. All very psychedelic, in a postmodern kind of way.
“You guys go rent shoes and take a lane,” Caro said, “while I go take care of business.”
She was more enigmatic than the spies Alli knew. She and Vera got shoes that fit tolerably well, then took over Lane 13, which no one else seemed to want. Le Tigre was playing over the loudspeakers. Very retro-chic.
“When was the last time you bowled?” Alli asked as they set themselves up.
Vera laughed. “I know fuck-all about bowling.”
Alli showed her the essentials. As in everything, Vera was a quick study, and by the third frame she had gotten a spare to Alli’s two strikes and a missed spare. They were about to order Cokes when Caro appeared and sat down beside them.
“What did I miss?” she said, glancing at the score sheet.
“We talked about you incessantly, obsessively,” Vera said.
“Happy I didn’t hear any of it,” Caro said with the same degree of astringency. “And now,” she added without turning around, “my contact is about to arrive.”
“How very mysterioso!” Vera cried in mock excitement.
“None of that while he’s with us,” Caro said, all banter abruptly drained from her.
“Yes, ma’am,” Vera said, staring at her hands clasped demurely in her lap.
Caro snorted, and Alli, hearing a click-click-click approaching and thinking of Ahab walking the deck of the Pequod, turned her head to see a small man, so unprepossessing he might have been the dormouse at the Mad Hatter’s tea party, leaning on a hickory walking stick, making his way to their lane.
“Alli Carson,” Caro said, acting as MC, “this is Werner Waxman.”
* * *
A T THE top of the stairs they found the floor as silent as a library. Jack had expected a warren of executive offices, but instead was confronted by a cavernous space, divided only by two rows of thick fluted columns with Doric capitals. Instead of half walls and desks, there were bristling stands of electronic equipment, grouped like copses of trees. The space was so vast that its far end was shrouded in a kind of haze, caused by dusty sunlight lancing through small
“Where are we going?” Alli asked.
“To meet a man,” Caro said, her eyes glued to the road.
Alli, heart beating fast, leaned forward, her hands on the back of the front seat. “Does that mean you found who put up the rogue Web site?”
“We’re closer than we were yesterday.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Vera said.
“I’ll let the man we’re seeing explain.” If Caro was aware of Vera’s annoyance she gave no sign of it. “But you were right about one thing, Vera. This is a challenge.”
Alli wanted to ask so many more questions, but she could sense that it would be useless to ask. It was clear that Caro had said as much as she was going to on the subject. Reluctantly, Alli melted back into the backseat, brooding about this creature, her cousin, who had suddenly appeared from out of nowhere, who now seemed to have taken over the immediate trajectory of her life.
Fifteen minutes later, Caro pulled the Infiniti into a space on Ninth Street NW, between G and H. Out on the sidewalk, she led them into Spares’n’Strikes, one of those new-style bowling alleys with lounges and party spaces attached. Inside, the atmosphere was totally clublike—there were as many flat-screen TVs blasting a variety of sports matches and music videos as there were bowling lanes. In keeping with the place’s play-on-words name, the Stars and Stripes were the decor pattern of choice. All very psychedelic, in a postmodern kind of way.
“You guys go rent shoes and take a lane,” Caro said, “while I go take care of business.”
She was more enigmatic than the spies Alli knew. She and Vera got shoes that fit tolerably well, then took over Lane 13, which no one else seemed to want. Le Tigre was playing over the loudspeakers. Very retro-chic.
“When was the last time you bowled?” Alli asked as they set themselves up.
Vera laughed. “I know fuck-all about bowling.”
Alli showed her the essentials. As in everything, Vera was a quick study, and by the third frame she had gotten a spare to Alli’s two strikes and a missed spare. They were about to order Cokes when Caro appeared and sat down beside them.
“What did I miss?” she said, glancing at the score sheet.
“We talked about you incessantly, obsessively,” Vera said.
“Happy I didn’t hear any of it,” Caro said with the same degree of astringency. “And now,” she added without turning around, “my contact is about to arrive.”
“How very mysterioso!” Vera cried in mock excitement.
“None of that while he’s with us,” Caro said, all banter abruptly drained from her.
“Yes, ma’am,” Vera said, staring at her hands clasped demurely in her lap.
Caro snorted, and Alli, hearing a click-click-click approaching and thinking of Ahab walking the deck of the Pequod, turned her head to see a small man, so unprepossessing he might have been the dormouse at the Mad Hatter’s tea party, leaning on a hickory walking stick, making his way to their lane.
“Alli Carson,” Caro said, acting as MC, “this is Werner Waxman.”
* * *
A T THE top of the stairs they found the floor as silent as a library. Jack had expected a warren of executive offices, but instead was confronted by a cavernous space, divided only by two rows of thick fluted columns with Doric capitals. Instead of half walls and desks, there were bristling stands of electronic equipment, grouped like copses of trees. The space was so vast that its far end was shrouded in a kind of haze, caused by dusty sunlight lancing through small
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